Chapter One: From Dusk to Dawn

The walls of Thomas Baker’s cottage were thin, and Verity, cleaning the breakfast service in the kitchen, could hear every word of her father’s conversation with the strange, distinguished guest, whose elegant carriage looked so out of place sitting out the front of their run-down home.

“My friend,” her father wheedled, in the way that always made Verity grit her teeth, “you understand that my circumstances are not what they used to be.”

“You are not my friend, Sir. And I do not care for your circumstances. I come only to tell you that I expect the debt to be paid by the end of the month.”

Verity curled her upper lip in an expression of disgust that transformed her cold, beautiful face into something suddenly hot, and animated, and ugly. More debt. She flung her wash cloth savagely into the sink and dried her hands on her stained brown dress. She was nineteen, and she had been wearing this dress since she was a child of twelve. It hung awkwardly several inches above her ankles, and had been let out around her bust and arms, pleated with pale blue cotton that was all too obviously a repair. It was not that Verity was vain, but she did feel the shame of being constantly underdressed. In the ordinary way of things, a girl of her birth did not wear hand-me-downs from the vicarage poor pile. In the ordinary way of things, a girl of her birth did not end up with a drunkard gambler for a father.

She moulded her bitter expression into a mask of cold superiority as her father called her from the next room.

“Verity, get us the brandy.”

“I’m coming.” She glanced at the visitor as she went to the sideboard, a cold, challenging glance, like a caged tiger might give a hunter. He was tall, and obviously wealthy, with his pale grey waistcoat and impeccably black cravat. The casual way he leaned against the fireplace suggested he owned it, and the shabby room it was in, and the people in it too. He met her glance out of amused grey eyes, and nodded slightly.

“Your kitchen maid is uncommonly beautiful, Mr Baker,” the visitor observed quietly and improperly, as Verity poured them thimbles of watered down brandy.

“I suppose so,” said Thomas Baker idly, giving Verity a glance that as usual didn’t seem to see her. He was far more interested in the glass of brandy. No sooner than Verity had placed it in front of him, he gulped it down. Then, he realized his visitor’s actual words. “Though it is my daughter you mean.”

The gentleman gave Verity another, longer, look, a strange, unpleasant smile rising on his face.

“Then why do you dress her in rags?”

Verity felt the heat of shame rise to her cheeks, and turned away to plug the decanter.

“As I said, Sir, my circumstances are not what they used to be.”

“You have come down in the world? I’ve only recently arrived in Houglen. I’m not yet aware of the stories of all its inhabitants.”

“Mine is a sad story to tell,” Mr Baker said, with a forced sigh, obviously seeing the chance to plea out of his debt to the visitor. Verity rolled her eyes at his back and went back to the kitchen to prepare a rabbit and mushroom pie for lunch. The rabbits had been poached from the Hough Woods, and the mushrooms found there too. It was one of those months where her father could not seem to keep enough money about even to buy himself soap and bread.

Through the open door, she heard her father tell the story she knew so well, suitably embellished for the illustrious guest’s ears.

Thomas Baker had been a ne’re-do-well from birth. A Londoner born and bred, he had made money in his early years through odd jobs and trickery. By twenty, he earned his bread through trickery alone. His main game was cards, and the way he talked about it you would think he was a benevolent trickster, not a common cardsharp.

At twenty-two, he happened by chance to cross paths with young Anne Duvalle, a debutante in London to find a husband. It was love at first sight, and, without the permission of her cantankerous parents, they eloped. The next few years were a period of domestic bliss and economic hardship. Baker was trying to go it straight, which is always hard for a man born crooked. Then Verity was born, and the Duvalles forgave their errant daughter long enough to set her and her husband up near them, in a little cottage in the country, on a small annuity.

“We could have lived like that, quiet, and poor, and happy,” Mr Baker said nobly, while Verity gritted her teeth kneading the dough in the kitchen. “For a short while, we did.”

“And then?”

“My wife… passed away.” Verity slammed the dough against the board, and hissed a word no lady ought to know. “Her parents of course would not continue to support me, but I had supposed they would help their grand daughter… unfortunately, they snubbed her. And I. We continue to live here, but times are no longer so generous. I do what I can to keep her happy, but…”

Mr Baker sighed. Verity stood heaving over her dough, the texture completely ruined by her brutal treatment of it.

“A very sad tale indeed.” Did she imagine that the visitor’s tone was slightly ironic? “And to support yourself and your daughter, you have returned to your old habits?”

“It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

“Then, I suppose, you must do it well enough to pay me back by the end of the month.” The irony in the visitor’s tone was clear now. Verity flushed with shame. How dare her father tell her past to some stranger, and how dare that stranger be so callous about it?

“I - I am sure I cannot, Good Sir. I beg of you, another chance to win back what I lost.”

“Men like you only waste their chances.” The visitor’s tone was suddenly very cold.

“I’ll do anything, Sir, but I cannot pay.”

“Anything?”

Verity slunk behind the door, listening very closely, her heart pounding hard. Her father was always, always , making things worse.

“Anything.”

The visitor laughed. “Would you send your beloved daughter to me for the night?”

“Yes.”

“No!”

Verity burst out of the kitchen, her hands covered in flour, her cheeks red with anger.

Her father and the visitor looked at her in surprise. The visitor narrowed his eyes, and looked very severe, with his dark, long brows pulled together in a frown. He looked almost, to Verity, like the devil.

“Father, you cannot!” Verity gave a strange, all body shudder. “I will not!”

“Come, child,” the visitor mocked. “It’s only one night. Don’t you want to sacrifice as much for your father as he has sacrificed for you?”

Again, the irony in his tone. Verity met his eyes, unable to look away, unaware how contorted with disgust her own face looked at that moment.

“Verity.” Her father was pleading with her. “I don’t have any money.”

And whose fault is that, she thought savagely.

“Just pass one night with me, Child, from dusk to dawn, and your father’s debt is forgiven. It does sound rather easy.”

Again, the mocking, ironic tone. Verity threw her gaze to the floor, to avoid looking at his smiling face. The floorboards were splintered, and stained with splashes of spilled whisky. “If that is all I have to do, I accept,” she said quietly. “I will pass one night with you.”

She looked up just in time to see the expression on her father’s guest’s face turn from amusement to surprise, and then to impassive superiority.

“Very well.” The irony was gone from his tone now.

“Where do you live? I shall be at your door at dusk.”

“Waverly Manor, in Greater Hough.”

Verity felt her stomach drop, and went pale. “Then you are Mr Armiger, who has recently taken residence there?”

“Yes. I am.”

She had heard the eager village gossip about Mr Armiger, who had just that summer bought, and moved into, the long abandoned Waverly Manor over in Greater Hough, the father-town of Verity’s little village. He was young, and handsome, and rich, and unmarried, and men like that always attract gossip, especially from single young country-women. How upset they will be when they discover his character, Verity thought snidely.

“Since my father has failed to introduce us, my name is Verity Baker. I have lived here all my life.” She curtsied, while meeting his eyes with a challenging glare. “I will be at your door at dusk, Sir.”

---

Neil Armiger did not expect her to come, but at five o clock, as the autumn sun was beginning to set, the bell rang angrily throughout his manor. It continued to ring, even as he went to the door. The butler was running, a polishing rag in his hand, but Neil waved him back.

“I’ll get this.”

The bell continued to ring, making his head ache. Stubborn, arrogant girl, he thought contemptuously. And then he opened the door.

She stood on the step, still attired in the ragged brown dress, her finger still upon the bell cord. Her curls had fallen out of their severe style, and she had clearly taken no steps to improve her appearance since he had seen her last. She looked more suitable to ringing at the servants’ entrance, and he caught a faint exclamation of shock from the butler behind him, but if she knew how poorly she looked, she showed no shame in it. There was only pride in her posture.

“It is dusk,” said Verity, as the sun met the horizon behind her. Suddenly, with the golden sunlight behind her, a halo of gold appeared around her dark curls, bringing out the copper tones in what he had thought was black hair, and casting her in the light of an angel.

Neil stepped back. “Come in,” he said faintly.

She stepped in, and with an insolent curiosity, cast her gaze around the hall. The floor was bedecked in marble, and the panels had been freshly polished, but white cloth hung over the stairs, as yet uncarpeted, and pictures rested on the floor against the walls, waiting to be hung.

“You are renovating.”

“It needed it.” He shut the front door. For a moment, he stared at her, and she stared at him. With the sunset halo gone, she was once more an ordinarily beautiful woman, and Neil regained his composure. “So do you. There is a woman in a bedroom above. She will dress you.”

“I am dressed.” Verity looked pointedly down at her dress, still stained with flour.

“No you’re not. Not what any civilized person would call dressed.”

She tossed her head, and scowled. “Very well. Where is your woman?”

“Upstairs, down the left. First room. I shall be in the library. Come down when you are done, and don’t trip on the stairs.”

Verity started up the stairs, but half-way she turned. “Are your servants here? Or have you sent them off? The house is very quiet.”

“They are here. They leave at ten every night. Their quarters are not yet ready for them.”

She seemed to consider it carefully. Perhaps she was reconsidering whatever rash impulse had caused her to take up his strange offer. Neil opened his mouth to explain that it had just been a poor joke, that he never meant for her father to take up on the offer, he had only meant to mock Mr Baker’s air of holy martyrdom, but before he could Miss Baker said, quietly and coldly, “Very well,” and turned and went up the stairs. He watched her, wondering just how ugly a soul her father must have, to accept such a proposition, and just how resigned to it she must be, to have come, on her own, without a fight, and not show any qualms.

Or perhaps, he thought coldly, she was not the angel she appeared, and this was not the first time she had cleaned up her father’s mess.

---

Author Note: This is a very loose historical fiction. It’s set in Regency England but it’s more about the flavour of history than it is the reality of history. Don’t expect all the details to be correct. They won’t be. This is just for fun, for me, not a serious project.

Also, I wrote very long chapters and split them into pieces for easy reading on Wattpad. If any of the breaks seem to come at strange points, it’s probably actually the middle of the chapter.

For now, I’ve put up the first full chapter in two pieces. I’ll be updating it in pieces though, probably one each week. Please let me know what you think! Every read is appreciated!

Chapter Two: A Strange Woman

Verity found that the upper halls were considerably better furnished than the lower halls. The carpet under her feet was fresh and deep, and there were paintings hung on the walls, mainly of hunts and mysterious hills and violent storms. One door was open to her left, and Verity slipped through. It was a bedroom, well-furnished, with a fire blazing in the hearth, even though it was only September. A woman was snoozing by the fireplace, and some dresses were spread out over the double bed, glimmering in the light. Verity examined them, heart thudding. They were far finer than anything she’d ever worn before, far finer than most of what she’d ever seen.

She turned back to the lady, who was grunting slightly in her sleep, and coughed.

The lady woke with a start. She was somewhere beyond middle-age and plumpness, but not quite arrived at elderly and fat. She was dressed in a severe black gown, but her face broke out in a strange smile when she saw Verity.

“So sorry, Child.” She bundled herself out of her chair and kissed Verity on the cheek with a familiarity that made Verity blush. “Now, you must take that awful thing off, and I’ll get you in something proper.”

“Are you Mr Armiger’s mother?” Verity queried, as she undid her dress.

“Oh, Lord no!” The woman chuckled. “I’m his old nursemaid. He keeps me around. My name is Mrs Roper. Didn’t he tell you nothing?”

“No.” Verity struggled out of her dress and let it fall to the floor with a sigh of relief. “Oh, what beautiful dresses.”

“You can try them all on, and then pick. I guess you don’t get much in the way of pretty dresses.”

“No.”

Verity spent some time trying on the dresses and prancing around in front of the mirror, aware that for the first time in her life she looked like the lady she was, and not a kitchen maid. When she finally chose a grey-green silk dress with silver and gold trim, Mrs Roper sat her down and undid her untidy braid, and combed and brushed and pinned up her hair. A few loose curls, those Verity could never tame, sprang out by the sides of her cheeks, and one at the nape of her neck.

“My Dear, you have such lovely hair.”

“Thank you.” Verity had never felt so beautiful. Staring at her reflection, she felt the agony of her missed position in life. My mother was a lady, she thought bitterly, and yet I spend most of my days in rags in a kitchen.

“You look like a princess, My Dear. But to be a princess… There is just one last touch.” Mrs Roper opened a box on the dresser, and pulled out a glittering necklace. “Here.”

“Oh!”

The necklace rested around her neck, all small bright diamonds, and one large topaz, resting heavily upon her breast.

“I’ve never worn anything so nice,” Verity whispered. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Mrs Roper squeezed her arm. “The Master can hardly dine with a woman who looks like a kitchen maid now.”

And Verity’s world came crashing down again, as she remembered exactly why she was here. She set her mouth in a grim line.

“Thank you, Mrs Roper, for making me look beautiful tonight.”

She left the room, trembling with anger. She found the library downstairs, and entered, to find Mr Armiger sitting on a couch with a book. He looked up when she entered, and a strange expression washed over his face, that he quickly controlled. He stood, and bowed.

“My Lady, you look… very beautiful.”

“Good evening, Mr Armiger,” Verity said stiffly.

“Are you hungry? There is dinner in the hall. It’s past eight.”

“Yes. I’m hungry.” She stared at the arm she offered him in distaste. “I can walk alone, Sir. I am no invalid.”

He let his arm fall to his side and smiled coldly. “I can see that.”

She followed him to the dining room, which like the hall was only half-renovated still. There were no curtains yet on the windows, and she could see right down through the darkness into the glowing lights of Greater Hough, all laid out like stars had fallen and come to rest in the valley.

A footman stepped forward from the wall. “Five more minutes, Sir.”

“Of course. Go see to it.”

The footman disappeared. Mr Armiger went to the sideboard. “Would you like wine, Miss Baker?”

“Please.” She stood against the windows, looking down into the town, and wondering what it would be like to truly live in a house like this, with a view, instead of a miserable, ramshackle cottage with draughts and mice.

Mr Armiger appeared at her side, and handed her a glass.

She sipped, the course of alcohol down her throat quelling her nerves. “Mr Armiger, whose dress am I wearing? Mrs Roper is too old, and, anyway, these are not servant’s gowns.”

“My wife’s.”

The wine was suddenly bitter in Verity’s mouth. She put the glass down on the table and left the room without a word.

“Miss Baker!” Armiger loped after her. “Verity!”

He took her arm, and she turned and slapped him. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the hall. He let her go, and she trembled, sure he would hit her next.

Instead he rubbed his cheek and winced. “Good God, you must have wrists of steel.”

“You, Sir, you are a disgrace to your class.” Verity’s voice shook with anger. “Where is your wife, that you come to this valley and pretend to be a bachelor to buy virgins from their fathers?”

Armiger’s expression went cold, and he stepped back, his cheek still red with the impact of Verity’s hand.

“She lying six feet under, in a grave two thousand miles from here, along with our infant son.”

Verity flushed, and then felt a chill sink through her soul. “I’m so very sorry,” she whispered.

“They died last winter, and that is why I returned to England.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Armiger.”

She examined him properly for the first time, and could see now that he was younger than she had first thought, perhaps twenty-eight, and that he was not the ogre she had in mind during the walk here. His hair was streaked with grey, like an old man’s, but the lines on his face, around his eyes and brow, were from worry, not age, and with his sharp, aggressive bones, and angular, strange black brows, and impervious grey eyes, he was very handsome, in a queer, almost frightening way. Looking at him reminded Verity of looking at a grand line of mountains, or down from a tall wall. It made her stomach swoop in a strange, pleasant fear.

“I do not blame you.”

“You do not – mind me wearing your wife’s dresses?”

“I mind far more than I thought I would.” He cracked a bitter smile. “But I have no other dresses, and you can hardly go naked, and I refuse to look any more upon that rag your father gave you.”

A gong sounded down the hall.

“Dinner is served.” Armiger offered his arm to Verity, and this time she took it. Perhaps he is just lonely, she thought desperately, filled both with pity and fear for this strange, handsome widower.

The meal was like none Verity had ever had. Course after course came through the doors, of exquisite delicacies as she had never before seen, and some she had never even heard of. Armiger talked about Italy, and Greece and France and London, and all these places Verity had never been and could not understand and never would. Nonetheless, she was enchanted with the world she had been born so close to, yet so far from.

By the time the dessert, three courses of miniature puddings served in thimble cups, had been disposed of, the clock said it was half-past-nine, and Verity was feeling warm and almost comfortable, and buzzing slightly with the effect of the dessert sherry.

“At this time, I normally retire to the library,” Mr Armiger said. “I like to read at night, but perhaps it would amuse you to play chess, or some music?”

“I am terrible at chess, and I know no instruments,” Verity confessed.

“Would you like to see over the manor then? It is mostly barren, of course, but I haven’t even explored it all myself.”

Verity hesitated a moment, but she was stuck in this man’s house regardless of his intent, and she was curious about the grand house, that had spent so many years empty on the hill above Greater Hough. “Yes, I would.”

Mr Armiger called for a lamp, and together they walked amongst the dark, abandoned halls and rooms. Verity was fascinated by the faded luxury of the old house. Some of the original wallpapers had gilt leaf, and the wooden panels were a world beyond the dirty limewash she was used to at home. Mr Armiger kept murmuring things like, “Oh, look at the bars on the window, I suppose this was a nursery,” and “The mother-in-law must have lived here. This room has a very grim feel.”

All of the rooms on the third floor, smaller, and darker and half-built into the roof, were as yet untouched by Mr Armiger or his tradesmen.

“I’m afraid this house is really too big for me,” he said, as he stooped into a room that ran right under the eaves.

“You could become an entertainer,” Verity suggested, stepping over some discarded curtains lying on the floor. “Look, the window is open. How careless.”

She crossed to the window and looked out over the roof, the cold wind blowing through and sending chills down her spine. This high up, she could see right over the valley, over the glowing town, over the shadows of the woods beyond the town, to the hills in the distance. The view made her gasp Mr Armiger joined her at the window, his presence somehow warm.

“Let’s go out on the roof,” he suggested. “It’s perfectly safe. I’ve had builders checking the tiles. They must have left the window like this.”

“Alright.” Verity felt somehow like she was in a dream.

Mr Armiger climbed up first, and then held his hand down to help her. It was much colder out on the rooftop, and Verity shivered as she carefully hobbled forward over the tiles. Mr Armiger moved like a cat, hunched slightly against the wind. He leaned against a chimney and looked out across the valley.

With the stars above and the town lights below, and the moon casting a cold clear light over everything, it looked like a fairy kingdom.

“The house may be a little large, but I am glad I bought it,” Mr Armiger called.

Verity crawled carefully over the tiles towards him. “You’ll have to fill it somehow.”

“I shall never remarry.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you would. You could have friends over, or family.”

“I’m afraid I have precious few of either of those.” Armiger gave her a smile that wasn’t as sad as it ought to have been, saying that. “Here, stand up.”

He pulled her to his feet and put his arm around her. He was very warm and solid against the cold, intangible night, and Verity shivered.

“Are you cold? Shall we go in?”

“No, I – “ she turned to say something and it was lost as he kissed her on the mouth. It was a cold, passionless kiss, and Mr Armiger withdrew quickly, as though he realized it was such. “If you kiss me again, I shall struggle, and we shall fall,” Verity threatened.

“I won’t.” Mr Armiger stared at her. There was something haunted about his gaze. “I should have burned my wife’s dresses.”

“Sir.”

Verity stared in surprise as Mr Armiger shook the tears from his eyes. One landed on her cheek and she wiped it away, surprised how hotly it burned against her skin.

“God dammit! Do you know what it’s like to lose someone you love, so dearly?” Armiger demanded, holding her close, like she was the anchor.

“No. Not at all.”

“It hurts.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“I thought perhaps, what I needed, was a woman in my arms, but in her dress…” He dashed away the tears in his eyes again. “God dammit, you’re wearing her dress!”

There was an unhidden agony in Armiger’s tone. Without saying a word, Verity unclasped the necklace from her neck, and handed it to him on the roof, there. Then she unpulled the ribbons and clasps at her waist and let the gown fall to the tiles at her feet, and stood there naked but for her drawers. Armiger stared. She bundled up the gown and shoved it at his chest. He grasped it awkwardly, and stared somewhere off to the left of her head, not quite knowing where to look.

“There. It’s off.” Verity tossed her head, and clutched her arms around her in the cold. “We must go inside now, though, or I shall catch my death of cold.”

“Yes, let’s get indoors, I’ll find something for you to wear.” Armiger’s voice was higher than normal. Verity led the way across the tiles, trying not to think of his eyes swallowing the appearance of her naked back, her unshifted and uncorseted waist and bust, and most embarrassingly of all, her own drawers, patched, and faded, and old. She jumped hastily back down in the room, and Armiger followed, the gown still wrapped in his arms.

“I’ll find something for you to wear.” His voice was back to normal. “Come with me.”

Down in the dark house, it was obvious the servants had left already. Armiger and Verity went in silence to his room, down the hall from hers and much larger. Embers slumbered in the grate, and the bed was luxuriously draped in thick green covers, and curtained in green gauze. Armiger laid the dress carefully over a chair, smoothing it out, and put the topaz necklace on top. Verity hovered in the doorway, unwilling to enter.

“I’ll find something for you to wear.” Armiger’s gaze upon her now was bold and unconstrained. He seemed not to notice her nakedness. Verity shivered.

He hunted through a closet in the back of the room, and returned with a bulky black velvet dressing gown. “It’s mine, I’m afraid, and too big for you, but it will do.”

When she took it from him, he did not quite let it go, and somehow his hands found hers through the fabric. She met his gaze, too afraid not to, somehow.

Armiger was leaning towards her, his hand upon her bare arm, dangerously close to her naked breasts. He ran his hand slowly up her arm to her shoulder, and played with a tendril of hair, come loose from the pins. His head tilted closer to her. She felt his breath upon her cheek.

“Mr Armiger,” Verity blurted, “there is something I must say, now. You promised to spare my father’s debt if I passed the night with you, and I shall, but I will not sleep with you, or kiss you. The terms of your agreement were not so specific as to that. If they were, I should never have come here tonight. You must have known that.”

Armiger stiffened, his touch suddenly cold. He let go, and she was left clutching the gown. For a moment, neither spoke, and then, hurriedly, Verity bundled herself into the gown, fighting the arms, which eluded her, and pulled it close around herself. Armiger was looking at her with a strange, painful expression on his face.

“You do realize that regardless of whether you do, or don’t, the people of your village, your father and his acquaintances, they will hear of this, and think that you have?”

“They shall think, and I shall know.” Verity felt hollow inside. Her reputation she could sacrifice — it had never meant much to her to begin with — but she still did not like the thought that people would think of her as a common slut. In her heart, she had always tried to be the lady her mother was, and the lady she should have been. She might dress in rags, and she might spend her days serving a drunken, ruined cardsharp, but class came from the body and soul, not its trappings.

“I think I will go to bed now,” Armiger said quietly, the indescribable emotion still etched on his face. “If you don’t mind, the room Mrs Roper was in shall work for you. She, too, has left the manor tonight.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The servants are gone, but I’m just down the hall if you need anything.” Mr Armiger hesitated, and then put his hand on the door, to shut it. “Good night, Verity. You are a very strange woman.”

Strange was not quite the word, Verity thought irritably, as she collapsed into bed. She did not know quite why she had thrown off the gown so boldly, and now, somehow, she did not know why she felt no shame at all for that, but she was not happy with Mr Armiger, or her father, and most of all she was not happy with herself.

*   *   *

Neil Armiger awoke slowly, just before dawn, to see a figure standing in his bedroom window, awkwardly wrapped in his dressing gown, too big for her.

“I’m coming, to see in the dawn with you,” she said quietly, “as I promised.”

He said nothing, but watched as she went to the window, to gaze out upon the lightening world, noting the way the dim light played upon her hair and face, and finding a strange sickness deep within him. She was truly beautiful, the masses of dark curls, like burned copper, the slim, muscular wrists, hands clutched against her white throat, and those large, sea-green eyes under their black, heavy lashes. She moved slightly, the light creeping in through the window and illuminating her cheek, and she looked to Neil like the visions of the Virgin Mary he had seen in the cathedrals in Italy, like an angel.

He felt ill with the pleasure of looking at her. Ill, too, with the knowledge that he had tried to make this angel a whore. Through blackmail, like a common rake. In punishing the man her father was, he had become such a man. And she had known, and come anyway, and calmly outlined his sins, as though she expected no better from mankind. Shame settled deep into his soul.

“Your duty is over. Your father’s debts forgiven. Please, Miss Baker, leave my house.”

“The sun is not quite - “

“Please, leave.”

She glared at him coldly, those large eyes hard in anger, suddenly more like a statue than an angel, tossed her head, and stalked from the room. At the door she turned.

“I may be a strange woman, but you, Sir, are an abomination of a man.”

The bitterness in her voice stung his soul. He waited until he heard the front door slam in the distance, and then buried his face in his pillow to groan.

Chapter Three: Unfortunate Beauty

Lady Duvalle, who always pretended to be above gossip, generally arrived late to it, and it wasn’t until a week later that she learned her unpleasant grand-daughter had spent the night in a man’s bed to pay for her unpleasant father’s debts. When she heard of it, her thin upper lip curled, and she thought again how lucky it was that she refused to have anything to do with the girl or her father. It was a pity, but every family had its rotten apples, and sometimes you had to trim the branches that bore them.

It was not until several days later that she learned the man in question was in fact Mr Neil Armiger, and when she heard of that, her ears pricked up and she began to reconsider matters with a more forgiving attitude. The Duvalle fortune was great, but could stand to be greater still, and rumour had it that Mr Armiger was a very rich man. The Waverly estate was one of the largest in the valley, and his butler had boasted to Lady Duvalle’s butler that the some of the letters Mr Armiger recieved were addressed to The Hon Neil Armiger. And since her grand-daughter was by blood a lady, it did not do for such a man to abuse her and then discard her.

So Lady Duvalle invited Mr Armiger to tea the next day.

When he came, she was pleasantly impressed by the fineness of his carriage, and the elegance of his dress. He was also very handsome, though rather younger than she had thought, and she regarded his grey hair with suspicion. It might speak of poor humours.

She poured the tea, and sent the maid away.

“This is not just a social engagement, Mr Armiger.” She smiled coldly, as she handed him his cup. “I am both curious about the newcomer to our neighbourhood, and… upset by certain rumours that have come my way.”

“Then I suppose you would like to get to know me.” Mr Armiger crossed his legs and sipped tea calmly, but the tone of his voice made Lady Diane Duvalle suspect that he did not like to know her .

“It would be nice. I have heard you have been on the continent.”

“It is the first time I have been in England in eight years.”

“And what caused you to leave it so long?” the lady inquired, breaking a biscuit into her tea.

“I always found the company wanting.”

There was no doubt, now, of the quiet animosity in his tone. Diane wondered irritably what had prejudiced him against her. No doubt some paltry village gossip. She had thought a peer’s son would be above such nonsense, but the village people always were vicious about her.

“It can be.” She ignored the slight. “But, oh, Mr Armiger, I have been given to understand that you found good company in my grand-daughter. And it’s such a shame, you see, but now I fear, the village, they are such backward folk here, and they do not like when a young lady lets herself be taken advantage of by a man.”

Mr Armiger raised one black eyebrow. “Then you are Miss Baker’s illustrious grandmother. I thought the story too farfetched to be true. What kind of woman would allow her grandchild to be brought up by a drunken weakling like Mr Baker? I can see, now, what kind of woman.”

The words stung Diane Duvalle to the quick. More so, because Mr Armiger was smiling a placid, bland smile, that like his words, said nothing, and like his words, felt like poison.

“It was difficult, to care for the child.” Diane put down her tea. “Mr Armiger, please, let me be honest with you, despite her father, I had always hoped that dear Verity would marry someone of a respectable station. And now, I find the village is burning with the gossip of my granddaughter spending the night in your manor, no, Sir, in your bed . She is disgraced. She is ruined.”

Armiger put down his tea, and shrugged. “If I may be honest with you, my lady, I suspect the girl was ruined years ago.”

“How dare you!” Diane faked an indignation she did not feel. “My granddaughter was a pure woman until she met you.”

“Well there are all kinds of women, and as to the purity of your grand-daughter…” Armiger smiled a strange smile, as though he was remembering something pleasant. “As far as I can tell, she is as pure as the driven snow. Utterly devoid of charm, rude, poorly socialized, poorly educated, and catastrophically beautiful. A tragedy of character.”

“Then you do not deny that she spent the night with you?” said Diane cunningly.

“I do and I do not. I dispute the definition of spend.”

“You call her pure, and beautiful.”

“And charmless and rude and unfortunate.”

“I think, Sir, that you have no choice, but to marry the unfortunate beauty.”

“And I think, my lady, that you are wrong.” Armiger nodded smilingly, chilly, and cold.

“The village will never forgive her for that night. She is tainted now. She might as well be a scarlet woman.”

“She is not in need of forgiveness.”

“No suitor shall ever believe that. Nor, for that matter, do I. There is nothing innocent that a girl can be up to, alone with a man for a night. I am an old woman. I know these things.”

Armiger stood up, and stretched out his long legs. “My lady, I can see now that this tea party was everything I expected it to be. I can tell you categorically that I will not be blackmailed into marrying your granddaughter. And furthermore, I doubt, if you deigned to ask her opinion on the matter, that she would marry me. She is a woman of her own ideas. She is not so easily ruined.”

“If you think that, Mr Armiger, you have been out of England far too long. But I can see we have nothing further to discuss. Good day.”

The dismissal was absolute, Armiger did not attempt to linger. Diane watched him stalk to his carriage on his long legs, sighing to herself. At least, if her granddaughter was not to bag that catch, then she could go on pretending the brat did not exist. The gossip would die down eventually, and then she could again forget about Verity all together. Besides, Diane thought, rich, handsome and ennobled he might be, but she was not sure even all that could entirely make up for Mr Armiger’s vast defects of character. Perhaps it was better not to let him into the family.

---

On weekday afternoons, Verity acted as companion to young Miss Abernathy at the vicarage. Miss Abernathy was several years younger, and in need of what the vicar considered genteel companionship. Verity might not have a genteel father, but the vicar had found that her mother’s blood showed through. Besides, with what pittance he paid the girl, he could be sure that she at least had money to make sure she ate, and perhaps enough to squirrel away too, for whatever necessities her father did not grant her. And Miss Abernathy seemed to admire Miss Baker, despite her patched clothes, and Miss Baker seemed to be a calming influence on Miss Abernathy, who was prone to tantrums and hysterics. To both the vicar and Verity, it was a convenient arrangement.

But this Wednesday, when Verity called at the vicarage in her best blue dress, which might just pass as a parlour maid’s weekly, she found the vicar met her red-faced at the front door, and that Miss Abernathy was nowhere to be seen.

“Is something wrong with Clare?” Verity inquired, in concern, upon seeing the vicar’s pained expression.

“Clare is well. She is in her room. It is you I must speak to, Miss Baker.”

The vicar was quiet, and now Verity could see his expression was as guilty as it was sad.

“I see,” she said quietly, knowing what was coming next. “You do not want me to speak with her today. You are worried I am a bad influence. I did not know vicars paid so much attention to gossip.”

“It is my job to pay attention to gossip,” the vicar protested quietly. “Oh, Miss Baker, I am so sorry, but…”

“I conduct myself according to the gospel, Mr Abernathy. I am not an unprincipled woman. Can you not trust me in this?”

“I do trust you,” the vicar lied, obviously and miserably, “but I can’t be seen having my daughter being chaperoned by a … by a woman who spends her nights as you do.”

“And how do I spend my nights?”

Mr Abernathy blushed a deeper shade of red, unbecoming on his plump face. “In men’s bedrooms,” he blurted.

“I do not.”

“But people think you do!”

“They think wrong.”

The vicar collapsed against the door frame with a groan. “Dear Miss Baker, I am so very sorry, but please, you can no longer spend time with my daughter.”

Verity stood still, outwardly calm and quiet, inwardly wondering desperately how she would pay for the bills waiting, without at least this small money to help her. Her father’s gambling, certainly, could not be relied upon. He had not admitted so much to her, since he had practically sold her to Lord Armiger, but she suspected he was once more in debt to other gamblers.

“Very well, Mr Abernathy. I must thank you for all the time you have given me over the years, and the support you have shown me. I greatly enjoyed being Clare’s companion.” Verity turned and left the vicarage, without another word. At the gate she looked back. A figure was looking out an upper window, and it waved sadly. Verity waved back, and then turned to hide her tears.

As she walked home, she was filled, again, with anger at her father, and Mr Armiger, and her distant grandmother, and the villagers, and the vicar, and as always herself. She was so stupid, and small, and powerless. A better woman would not allow herself to be treated so. A stronger woman would make her father pay his own debts.

But if she was good, she was not good enough, and she certainly was not strong.

By the time she reached her own house again, tears were streaming down her face, and she did not even see the man coming out of her gate, until she ran straight into him.

“Hup there,” he said crudely, picking her up off the ground. “Miss Verity, I trust?”

She wiped the tears out of her eyes and backed away. She did not recognize this man, with his curly flop of blonde curls and cunning, wide smile, but she knew that this too would be another of her father’s creditors.

“I apologize, Sir, I was not looking,” she said meekly, bowing her head.

“But it is Miss Verity, yes?” The man did not seem to even notice her apology.

“I am Miss Verity Baker. If you will please let me pass. I must go home.”

She pushed past him, but he grabbed her elbow. “Miss Verity, I’ve been feeling a little lonely, and I wonder if you might consider taking a walk with me.”

“No!” She jerked away from him. “I will not walk with you!”

The stranger backed away from her, and put up his hands in self defense. “Well that’s not the story I heard, see. I heard quite a different story, about you being friendly with lonely old gentlemen.”

Verity ran into her little cottage, and threw herself on her bed, and cried out all her tears into the pillow. If her father in the dining room heard it, he either did not care, or did not dare ask.

Chapter Four: Bad Fortune

It did not normally take so long for gossip of the strength of the night Verity spent at Mr Armiger’s to die out, but Me Armiger was new to the neighbourhood, and rich and handsome beside, so all the inhabitants of both town and village were eager to talk about him still, and Verity had always had an air of superiority about her that the villagers of Little Hough had disliked, so they in particular were keen to air her dirty laundry as often as possible. So even as autumn became winter, and the first gentle snows began to fall upon the country, Verity was still in disgrace, and Mr Armiger was still thought to be a devilish rake, which did little to detract from his charms in the eyes of eligible young ladies and their mothers. A husband was supposed to sow his wild oats before he settled down, after all.

This made Mr Armiger rather miserable. He had no intention of remarrying. Quite the opposite: he was determined to live the remainder of his life a bachelor. His first marriage had been made while he was very young, and still very naive, to a very beautiful Florentine girl of a poor but well-bred family. Somehow the stars had aligned and it had not been the disaster that young love often turned out to be, but rather six sweet, halcyon years, terminated brutally by a sudden sweeping fever, a fever that, in the end, had spared Mr Armiger his life, but taken that of his wife and child, and bleached his crow-black hair to an abnormal shade of grey. Still grieving, he was convinced that he could find no woman who could ever match the love he had found in Giulia Landolfi, and that it would be an insult to her memory to try.

Neil Armiger preferred to attempt a life of restrained bachelorhood, of books, and solitude, and long, lonely walks in the valley wilderness. It was an attempt only, as in Houglen perfect strangers seemed to believe themselves entitled to his company. They had so many rational excuses for public events, with so many coquettish virgins begging his attention at each of them.

It wasn’t that he felt he was distracted from his grief by the flirtatious young debutantes around him, but he did find them tiresome. They seemed to find his statement of intended bachelorhood more of a challenge than a deterrent, and though he found many of them to be pretty, he found none of them to be charming.

Occasionally he found himself wondering how Verity Baker might act, if she were invited to a ball, wherein the implicit challenge of the night was to seduce the stand-offish Mr Armiger, but even in the ordinary way of things, she was rather below the social circle he mingled with, and at a time like this, with gossip still circulating, she was very much a pariah.

He had not seen her since the night she spent under his roof, and heard little of her, as the gossip that surrounded her involved him too intimately for any but the most gauche of debutantes to mention it in his hearing. She remained only in his memory as a beautiful paradox: high-born, but poorly bred; intelligent, but uneducated; bold, but prudish. It was a paradox that made him curious, and a curiosity that social strictures prevented being satisfied, which in turn only made him more curious still, especially when the faintest whisper of her name in his presence was immediately followed by a hush of silence, and then a chorus of raised eyebrows and clicking tongues.

One day, in mid December, he found an opportunity to partially sate his curiosity. He was at a tea party in Mrs Stanley’s house. Mrs Stanley’s two eldest nieces were also in attendance, and in their best mood to flirt. It was to avoid them that he had hurried to make the acquaintance of the vicar’s daughter, Clare Abernathy. She was the youngest of the women there, little more than a child, and far too young to flirt. After trying to piggy-back his conversation with her for several minutes, the enterprising Miss Stanleys had transferred their attentions to the more likely Mr Bigham, who had recently come into a large enough fortune that any lady might be persuaded to overlook his paucity of chin and jaw.

Running out of ways to describe the weather, which was a light and pleasant snow, Neil began to discuss the paintings in Mrs Stanley’s drawing room. It was a topic that brought about some surprising animation in his companion. Clare began eagerly to talk about her own amateur drawings, and mentioned that Verity had been teaching her, and Neil latched onto that immediately.

“Verity? Miss Baker?” he said eagerly. “She is your tutor?”

“She was my companion.” Clare looked away sadly. “Father told her not to come back, when… there was some talk she did something she shouldn’t ought have done. She didn’t do it, I’m sure, but father said it was best if we didn’t meet anymore. She was so good at drawing, Sir, and she was my friend.”

There was a plaintive agony in the young woman’s voice. Neil felt a stab of guilt, knowing exactly what was the something that Clare was too polite or ignorant to mention.

“She did not do what they think, I can assure you,” he said quietly, and she blushed furiously at the hint of adult mysteries.

“If you tell everyone that, Sir, will my father let her come back?” Clare asked quietly.

“I doubt it very much. Some things can’t be unsaid.”

“Can you try?”

The devil of it all was that he had been trying. Whenever anyone made slight hints as to what had passed between him and Miss Baker that night, he had said blandly that Miss Baker was as pure as the day she was born, and of course no one had believed him. The more he protested her innocence, the more people believed her guilt.

So he had fallen back upon silence and aloofness.

“She was your paid companion, wasn’t she?” he said suddenly, realizing that he had dealt a blow to Miss Baker’s income as well as her reputation. How careless and stupid he had been. He cursed himself again for his stupid, cruel sense of humour.

“My father helped her a little. Her father is not so careful as he ought be, with his money.”

It was a very delicate way of putting it. Neil had found that Mr Baker had been over eager to play cards, and over eager to lose. The man might have boasted he had been a good card sharp in his younger days, but the cheats he had attempted upon Neil were clumsy, and even if successful would not have compensated for his bad luck and worse judgement.

“That is a pity,” Neil said softly.

When the party was over, he resolved to apologize to Miss Baker at the first opportunity. He would ride to her house, if he had to, and beg forgiveness for his stupidity. And if she would allow him to do anything more – if he could replace the stipend she had lost from the vicar – he would offer that too.

But he did not have to ride to her house. On the way home from the party, in his carriage, he met a sober looking Miss Baker on her sway-backed mare, walking slowly back to Little Hough.

“Miss Baker,” he called, opening the door of his carriage and jumping out while the driver was still slowing it. “Miss Baker, may I speak with you?”

“You may, Mr Armiger.”

Close up, in the cold, fading light of day, he saw a new kind of beauty in her. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her face was thinner. The light looked very sharp upon her cheekbones. She was no longer a Madonna. Her expression was that of a Judith.

“I…” He found himself stuck for words. His usual elegance of expression crumpled, and he blurted, clumsily, “I was at a party, just now, and I met young Miss Abernathy. You used to be her companion, and after the night you spent at my house – the rumours, I mean – her father no longer pays…” He saw two scarlet blooms stain Miss Baker’s white cheeks, her hands tighten on the reins, and stopped himself.

But she only shrugged, feigning an indifference her stiffness and redness belied. “I do not seek your charity, Mr Armiger.”

“I was not offering it.”

“Yes you were. And if you must know, I have been to beg the leavings of my grandmother. She was most…” Verity’s face grew grim, her lips tightening. “Ah, I will not starve today at any rate. You can calm your guilt. Keep your change.”

She made to move on, but Neil stopped her, clutching at the bridle of her elderly nag. “Wait. Please, Miss Baker, I have behaved abominably towards you, inconsiderately, cruelly, lustfully. And it is not just enough that I have done that. I have then destroyed your reputation through my carelessness. I have greatly, severely wronged you. Please, please allow me to apologise.”

Rather than anger or softness, either of which Neil expected, Verity threw back her head and laughed loudly. Her nag jostled uneasily beneath her, and she quietened and rubbed its neck. “Oh, Mr Armiger, these words you say, they may appease your conscience, but they don’t do much, do they?”

And she rode on into the gently falling snow, leaving him behind. The anger of rejection burned him, and he resentfully thought that there was not much point in the doing, if she would not accept it, and not much point in the saying, if it was not doing, so how could a man win then? But it wasn’t more than a moment before his shame washed out his anger, and he realized his words had probably hurt her more than they had helped. She was right. She had seen through him. He had apologized for his own conscience, not her comfort.

He wanted to call her back, to try it again, to explain that as well as apology, he owed her gratitude: the morning after she left, he had finally dared open all the cases of his wife’s things, brought back with him from Italy. Her letters, he had preserved in a mahogany cabinet. Her books, he had consigned to a special corner of his own library. Her portrait he had hung, and her ivory miniature he had finally dared wear on a locket beneath his shirt. Most of her clothing, he had wastefully burned.

He had found he could not, however, burn the green and silver gown. It was now no longer wholly his wife’s. It had lost the scent of her in its wearing. He felt as though it now belonged to Verity, and that to burn it would bring her bad fortune.

Though there was plenty of that already brought her.

Feeling guiltier than he had when he set out to apologise, Neil ordered his driver to change direction: he would be dropped at the nearest public house, have a few drinks, and walk home.

Author Note: I want to clarify some geography, because I find it confusing myself. Verity lives in Little Hough, which is a subsidiary village of a town, Greater Hough. Houglen is the name of the small valley the town and village are situated in.

Chapter Five: Broken China

In truth, Verity Baker had returned from her grandmother’s house with nothing but a cup of hot tea and some biscuits in her stomach. Her grandmother, unwilling as ever to have a relationship with her grand-daughter by elopement, had made Verity wait for several hours before sending her maid down with the message that Lady Duvalle was indisposed.

And now Verity made her way home, still hungry, still poor, and now cold and unsure of where her next meal was coming from. Her father had proved more unreliable than ever, and debts were coming up from all corners. He’d sold off whatever he didn’t need from the house already, and was even considering selling some of the things he did need, like the tired old mare. Verity was tempted, every night, to flee the village, and seek her fortune without her father’s mismanagement hanging like a lead weight around her neck. Of fortune, she had modest expectations: she would not turn down any honest work, no matter how low or unpleasant, as long as it paid enough to keep her in bread and under a roof. She even conceded that the bread could be stale, and the roof leaky. And every night, she found herself prevented by the sure knowledge that if she left her father alone, he would face an immediate and catastrophic ruin.

When she arrived home, it was snowing properly, and a closed coach resting out the front of her cottage was becoming banked in white. Her heart sunk upon recognizing its shabby design and the shivering horse still harnessed to it. Mr Harlan was here. It was he who had run into her outside the gate several months ago, and of all her father’s creditors, he was the most demanding and poisonous. To Verity, he paid an obsequious attention, until her coldness broke his mask, and he would raise his voice against her in curses. To her father, he never bothered with the obsequious manner, and was only ever violent.

Verity stabled her own mare, and threw a blanket over his horse, miserable in the snow. She crept through the back door into the kitchen, hung up her cloak noiselessly, and listened carefully to the conversation taking place on the other side of the dining room door.

“Please, Mr Harlan,” her father begged. “Please don’t.”

“Listen to me, Baker,” Harlan shouted greasily, “You can’t delay any longer. I need some payment.”

“I don’t have anything.” Her father was almost whimpering.

“You don’t have anything? What’s this, then?” A pause, and then the crash of china. “What’s this?” Another pause, and then the same.

Verity could listen no longer. She opened the door to find Mr Harlan holding a china plate hostage, high above his head, shattered triangles of other dishes at his feet. She recognized the broken spout of their only teapot. Mr Baker was reaching up for the plate that Mr Harlan held, but Mr Baker had never been tall, and Harlan was a decade younger, and athletic besides. He held her father away from him with one contemptuous hand twisting the collar of his dirty shirt.

When Harlan saw her, he put the china casually down on the sideboard, and pushed her father down into a chair.

“Good evening, my dear Miss Verity.”

She did not return his courtesy. Instead, she looked tellingly at the broken china on the floor. “If you continue to break our property, it is you who shall owe us, Sir.”

Harlan raised one amused eyebrow. “If I broke everything your father owned, I would not have damages to half what he owes. Not a quarter.”

A quarter, thought Verity, was a very generous estimate of their condition. She had some knowledge of the level of her father’s debt to Harlan. For months, Harlan had let that debt lie unpaid. He had even been most generous in allowing her father to wage more money at further games, given him so many honest chances to make it all back, sympathised so sincerely with his so many honest losses. And then, just as Mr Baker himself recognized the trap he had fallen into, Harlan had closed it, and demanded at once everything he had owed.

“Well,” Harlan said, pulling out a chair for her. “You are a lady and I am being uncivil. Pray sit down.”

“I shall not.” And she remained by the kitchen door.

“You should take your leave, Verity,” her father said weakly. “I will sort this out.”

“Will you?” Harlan leaned on the table, his form looming over her father’s diminutive slouch. “I’ve been thinking, you’re not much capable of sorting anything out. She’s the one that does the sorting. I can see that.”

“She’s a very clever girl,” her father agreed.

“I have no money of my own,” Verity warned.

“Well it wasn’t money I was thinking of.” The man twisted his head to give Verity one of his wide, unpleasant smiles, and, seeing that she was backing into the kitchen, pushed himself suddenly off the table and pulled closed the door behind her. It hit her in the heels, and she stumbled forward. Against the choice of falling into his chest, or to the floor, she landed on her knees in the shards of broken china.

He offered her a hand to help her up. “Miss Verity?”

She pushed herself to her feet, stumbled backwards away from him, until her back hit the wall, and she could retreat no further. To her right were the stairs, but they led only to the tiny attic bedroom. Harlan stood in front of the kitchen door, and following her gaze to the front door, and back again, took another step, until he was equally within reach of both of them.

She looked desperately to her father, who was looking at Harlan, a strange hope alight on his face.

“I know you’ve sorted things for him before,” Harlan said dangerously. “Arranged things, paid his debts, as you can.”

“You know wrong!”

But Harlan ignored Verity. He was eyeing Mr Baker instead.

“I’ll consider the debt half yours, and half hers, as she ought to have been better at keeping you out of trouble than she has been. And for your half, I can afford to wait until spring, but only if her half is paid in full, tonight. So how about you run along, and let her and me sort her half out.”

Verity felt fear drip like poison through her body. Her father, always a weak-willed man, began to get up from the table.

“I just need until spring,” he murmured weakly, “just until spring.”

“Father!”

He could not avoid her gaze when she called to him, but when their eyes met, his expression turned from an ugly mixture of shame and relief to a strange, haughty anger.

“Don’t look at me like that! You’re my daughter!”

And then he was gone, disappeared out the front door, and away into the snowy night. No doubt he would find, from somewhere, the money to buy himself a drink, or the gall to beg it from someone. Verity felt tears rise to her eyes. She considered the open front door, and the whirling snow beyond it. Harlan saw her. He did not slam the door, because there was no need for such violence. Not yet. He only closed it quietly with a smile, shutting out the cold and freedom. Verity darted madly for the kitchen, but he caught her in one stride, his arms closing tight around her waist.

“Now don’t be silly.”

“Don’t touch me!” Verity shrieked. “I won’t do this! I won’t!”

“Then what will you do,” he crooned in her ear, “When your father goes to a debtor’s prison, and you’re all alone, here, in a cottage, with rent to pay?” He pulled her backwards, close against his chest. He smelled like stale whiskey and sweat. “Do you think your landlord will be as kind as I am being?”

She broke away – later, she thought he must have let her, to give him some time to enjoy the chase – and made for the stairs. If she could get out the upstairs window, onto the roof…

Half-way up, he caught her by her ankles, but she kicked out and got him in the chin. He yelled a curse, and pulled her backwards, and they fell together down the narrow stairs, coming apart only when they hit the floor at the bottom. Lying on her belly amidst the broken china, it took her a moment to gather her breath and senses. He, recovering more quickly than she, and angered by the blow she had dealt him, was on top of her on his knees before she could move.

He grabbed her shoulders and threw her over on her back, her knee screaming in pain as it twisted. His former greasy persuasions were abandoned in his anger. He pulled her shoulders up again, just to slam her against the ground once more, knocking the breath from her. And then again, and again.

“Damn bitch! Damn whore!”

He stopped, hands clamped like steel vices to her shoulder, and heaved and seethed above her while she got her own breath back in strangled wheezes.

“Please!” gasped Verity. “Please – let me go!”

He did not let her go. He pinned her down with the weight of his body, one hand splayed over her chest, the other spidering lightly from her chin to her hips, and back again, like a child examining a Christmas present, trying to decide where, exactly, to start ripping it open. She grabbed his forearm, tried to push him off her, but his other hand slipped from her chin to her throat, squeezing until she slumped back on the floor.

After a moment, he let go, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her vision swam, and faded to blackness, though she did not lose consciousness. She heard him say, with grim triumph:

“Don’t make this difficult. You’ll enjoy it, once I get going.”

She felt him shift above her. He came down low over her and clamped his teeth into her breast, biting down through the rough linen of her dress, biting harder, drawing blood. She whimpered and her hands worked like crabs against the floor with the pain. Her fingers touched something cold and sharp.

A long, thin triangle of broken china, from his earlier destruction. She tightened her grasp around it, slicing her palm, with a clean, revitalizing pain. Her mind cleared. Her vision returned. She saw the cracked, damp-stained plaster of the ceiling, his greasy yellow forelock dangling over his forehead. He was moving, rising. No, he must not! She put her left hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“That’s it,” he purred, and bit her again, no less savagely.

She raised her right hand, holding the china. She heard the plip as a droplet of blood fell from her hand and landed on the floor. He did not.

She plunged the shattered piece of china into his neck.

By luck, more than direction, it landed in the soft, recipient flesh between the side of his neck and the collar bone. He reared away from her, and for a moment his face and shirt were very white, and then she had the fearful relief of watching his face flood rapidly whiter, his shirt, rapidly redder.

“Bitch,” he muttered, “you stabbed me.”

Then he slumped forwards. He sprawled, unconscious, over her. His body was heavy, and she was weak through shock. It took some minutes before she could throw him off, and struggle out from under him. She limped for the kitchen door, fell against it, and it opened.

Then, shaking, she stopped, and looked back.

He was quite still on the floor, and the pool of blood was slowing its flood. Was he dead? Had she killed him?

But he made a sound, shifted slightly.

She fled into the night.

I have written and rewritten this chapter to make it as non-violent as possible. It’s still pretty violent. But it’s the only violent chapter in the book, so don’t run away if you think this is gonna become one of those gross abuse/love stories. It’s NOT.

Chapter Six: Home

Neil Armiger was on his third glass of whiskey at the public house when an excited youth ran in and shouted over the crowd,

“You’ll never guess what that Baker’s daughter did this time! She’s killed a man!”

Within an instant, a crowd surrounded the youth, demanding more. It turned out the youth didn’t know more. He’d been sent to find men to form a search party for Miss Baker: she’d run away after killing this man, and the local constable wanted to find her, before she either disappeared to France, or fell into a drift.

Neil found himself suddenly sober, and full of a strange fear.

“Where’s this search party starting from?” he demanded.

“Village green, in half an hour,” the youth shouted, before wheeling to answer another question.

Neil hurried to the village green, which was covered in snow. A crowd of cloaked men were already waiting there.

“Did Miss Baker truly kill a man?” Neil asked quietly, to the constable, who was stamping his boots in the cold. The constable stared at him coldly a moment.

“Aye, or nearly. She stabbed him in her home, and he managed to crawl out down the street. He’s with the surgeon now.”

“And why did she stab him?”

“He says because her father owed him debts he couldn’t pay. Good enough reason as any.”

“Perhaps.”

Neil was beginning to imagine more detailed circumstances. He did not think – no, he was certain – that Miss Baker would need a better reason to stab a man than because she owed him money, and his cynical mind leapt immediately to rape. But it was not the immediate problem. It was the first true fall of the winter, and the snow did not look to abate all night.

“Then, Miss Baker ran away, in this?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s what Mr Harlan says anyway. Says she was gone from the house when he could move, and we looked, and she is. Are you joining our search party, Mr Armiger? You know her, don’t you?”

“I know she would not stab a man without excellent reason. But I will not join your search. I must go to bed.”

But Neil did not go to bed. Instead, he walked briskly towards Little Hough, to the Baker cottage. Urgency compelled him to break into a trot at intervals, but it was some two miles, and with the snow piling higher on the ground, he could not move fast. He had time to think through the events as he knew them, and come up with all the possible reasons Verity might stab a man and then flee. None seemed to him so likely as rape, and a guilt colder than the snow began to seep through his body.

He arrived at her house almost running. There was an empty carriage out the front, covered in snow, the shafts empty. In fact, the constable had taken pity upon the freezing horse and stabled it with Verity’s own skinny mare immediately. Neil did not know that, and only checked the carriage in case Verity had crept inside to hide. She had not, and it was empty. He went into the house, and stumbled through all three shabby, miserable rooms, calling her name, in case the constable had missed her hiding. China tinkled under his boots in the dining room, and he felt the sticky grip of half-dried blood under his feet, and knew that this was where the incident had occurred.

She was not there. But then, where had she gone?

He examined the view through the front door, the narrow street, the abandoned carriage. He went to the kitchen, and looked out the back door, facing towards grey-white fields, and then a loom of dark woods. He felt at the lump of shadow on the door hook. Her cloak, still damp from snow.

“Oh, that poor girl,” he said to himself, thinking of the ragged thinness of her dress.

With the snow piling higher on the ground, Neil examined the situation carefully. Where would she have run? Scared, frightened, whose help would she seek?

No one’s.

Verity had no one.

His eyes lit again upon the woods in the distance. He was two steps towards it when he had a better idea, and returned to the kitchen to feel for a lamp, and matches. It took some fumbling, and he burned a finger, but after a minute he had a light. It lit up the shabby room in a fragile, orange glow. He winced at the sight of the crooked, empty shelves, the dirty, crumbling walls. He strode out the door, leaving it eagerly behind him.

He crossed the fields, climbing the fences, calling her name. Snow whirled around him, and his progress was slow against the rising drifts. He gave up and headed steadily for the shelter of the woods. She could not have stayed in the open.

There was less snow on the ground, in the woods, and it was very cold, and very dark, and very quiet. Everything felt muffled and strange, like a dream.

“Verity!” called Neil softly, and then louder, he shouted, “Verity!”

No one answered him. Perhaps she wasn’t here. But the woods were not very large, and she could not have gone far from home so quickly, on her feet, in the snow. Surely she was here. Somewhere. He continued, calling her name, and listening desperately for any reply. After a little while, the woods began to fade away into farmland again, and he walked out into the open and stared over the silent dark countryside. A mile away, across an expanse of fields, he could see the shadow of a tall building, a few windows lit up within it. Lady Duvalle’s manor.

He started towards it, thinking Verity might have headed there, but he had no gone more than a few feet when he saw the black shadow on the road ahead. It was not moving, and more snow was falling, and covering it from view.

He ran towards it.

Verity lay, half-buried in snow, face to the sky, her eyes shut and her face pale and strangely still.

“Verity!” He picked her up in his arms and shook her, patting her cheeks with his hands. “Verity!”

She made strange sounds, not words, but not a moan, simply an incomprehensible chatter.

“Verity, it’s me. It’s alright now.” He was pulling off his cloak, and wrapping it around her, wet and sodden as she was with snow. “Verity, wake up. You need to get out of here. You’ll be very ill.”

And suddenly her eyes opened and she stared at him in numb confusion.

“Verity, I’m going to take you home.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, sounding suddenly lucid. “I don’t have a home.”

But she did, thought Neil, lumping her over one shoulder and staggering towards the lights in the distance. She had a home, though it was not a particularly pleasant one. And it was, at least, nearby.

---

Diane Duvalle was in her dressing gown in the library drinking a night time chocolate and reading a novel when the doorbell clanged aggressively throughout the manor. She put down her book, and strode furiously to the hall.

“Find out who on earth that is, and get them to go away,” she demanded of her butler, running through the hall.

Ten minutes later, though, he was back and knocking apologetically at her door. “Madam, I think you must come. There is an emergency.”

Diane put down her book again and sighed. “What is it?” she demanded crossly.

“Your grand-daughter. She is very ill, and the man with her says she has stabbed a man.”

“Stabbed a man!? Oh, I knew Baker’s blood would out.”

“He said the man well-deserved it. Said Mr Armiger.”

“Mr Armiger?” Diane tightened her gown around her shoulders like a warrior tightening his cloak for battle. “I will not abide that man in my house.”

“He says, you must come and speak to him. He is very upset, madam. Your grand-daughter is being given a hot bath, and the physician has been sent for.”

“Where is he? I shall come,” Diane said grimly.

He was in the dining room, holding a steaming cup in his hands, but not drinking, and leaning warily against the fireplace. A blanket was draped around his shoulders, and the snow in his hair was quickly melting in the heat.

“I hope you know how impertinent it is for you to come here, with my granddaughter, at this time of night,” Diane snapped.

Mr Armiger looked up with narrowed eyes, his normal air of placid animosity replaced by a cold and pointed anger.

“Lady Duvalle, this is not a social call. Your granddaughter is in great trouble.”

“Miss Baker has been in great trouble since she was born. I have given up on her.”

“She is currently in a warm bath being sweated back to life after being fallen in the snow in nothing but a gown for near two hours. Before then, she stabbed a man who assaulted her…” Mr Armiger’s voice faltered a moment. He swallowed, as though the words tasted foul in his mouth. “I assume he raped her.”

“Rape?” Diane took a seat on one of the chairs. “I am a little surprised you would come here and condemn another man so strongly for that action. It was you who took my granddaughter’s honour.”

“I have never laid a hand on your granddaughter.” His gaze faltered too and he looked down into his cocoa. “Oh, I tried – but she would not let me and I am no rapist, Lady Duvalle.”

Diane considered that more closely than she had the rest of Mr Armiger’s unpleasant news. She had assumed, until that point, that Mr Armiger had seduced her granddaughter, despite his protestations to the contrary. But it was clear to her that he was not lying now. The gears in her cold, methodical mind began to turn. After a few minutes’ silence, she said, distantly:

“Is the man dead, or merely stabbed?”

“He is still alive, I gather.”

“Then I think you will find he did not rape her. No, if he had, she would have made sure she had killed him.”

“But why else, then, would she have stabbed him!?”

“Because he was trying to do so. There are other horrific damages a man can inflict upon a woman, yes, but Verity’s reputation as a whore does make her particularly vulnerable to being treated like one.”

Armiger flinched, as Diane had intended him too. She stretched out her long white hands over the dining table, like a cat stretching its claws. Before she could sink them in though, the doorbell rang.

“That will be the physician,” said Mr Armiger, visibly relieved.

They both went to meet the door, but it was not just the physician. Diane recognized also the constable, Greene, standing with him on the portico.

“We were searching for young Miss Baker, when we met the doctor, and he told us he was coming here to her,” Mr Greene said ominously.

“Yes, Greene,” said Diane. “Mr Armiger found my granddaughter lying in the snow, and brought her here to be tended to. She is very ill and cannot see you. Mr Layton, my butler will take you to her.”

Diane stood aside and let the physician by, but did not invite the constable in. She was irritatingly aware of Mr Armiger hovering by her elbow, still huddled in the blanket her servants had given him. He ruined the impact of her blood-red silk dressing gown.

“Mr Armiger has explained to me some of what happened tonight.” She tried to pretend he wasn’t there. “I would appreciate the other half of the story. Why are you hunting my grand-daughter, and why was she in the snow?”

“Mr Harlan came staggering down main street with a shard of porcelain in his neck earlier this night. He managed to tell someone that Miss Baker had done it to him, before he fainted. I called out a search for her when she wasn’t in her home. Thought she might have tried to run off.”

“You missed her. She was lying in the snow in – where was it, Mr Armiger?”

“Just outside that little wood on the hill, perhaps five miles from her home. She was injured and unconscious.”

“I thought you told me you didn’t want to search for the girl,” Greene said quizzically. “Changed your mind?”

“Mr Armiger is not on trial here,” said Diane. “Incidentally, I suppose the man is not likely to die?”

Greene shrugged. “Surgeon patched him up. He went home, not to church, so I guess he thinks he’ll live.”

“You have told me all I need to hear. If you wish, Greene, you may wait in the morning room until Mr Layton has attended her, and ask him what he thinks of her condition, but I will not let you speak to her tonight.”

“She has committed a crime, my lady, it is important I speak to her.”

“Tomorrow. Shall you wait for the doctor?”

Greene hesitated. “Yes, yes I will, thank you, my lady.”

She allowed him inside, and slammed the door against the cold. The butler appeared out of nowhere, and took Greene to the morning room.

Mr Armiger was creeping away with them, but Diane stopped him by raising one fine white finger and her arch, imperious voice:

“No, no, Mr Armiger. I am not finished with you yet.”

Chapter Seven: For the Best

Neil Armiger followed Lady Duvalle to her library, irritated by her imperious manner, and irritated further still that she intimidated him.

“It is very late,” he fumbled, “and perhaps now that you have your granddaughter and the physician here, I should leave. I have played my part.”

“You have not finished it.” Duvalle gave him a very cold, calculating smile. She stood by her globe, idly spinning it. “Tell me, Mr Armiger, did my servants stable your horse when you arrived?”

The change of topic caught him off guard, and he answered automatically.

“I did not ride here. I walked.”

“Oh?” Lady Duvalle raised her fine black brows and left the globe to crook aside the curtains. “Carrying Verity in your arms, I suppose, and on a night like this too.”

Too late, Neil saw the trap she had set for him. He shrugged, and tried to back out of it.

“I could not leave her lying there.”

“But nor were you bound to go looking in the first place.” Lady Duvalle let the curtain fall and returned to the globe, hardly bothering to glance at him. “Mr Armiger, it seems to me that you care very greatly for my granddaughter. More than a stranger should.”

“I have met her three times in my life. Two of those times, we hardly said more than a handful of words to each other. It would not be right to say I care for her.”

“But you do, or you would not have tramped through the snow to find her, and then carried her here, in your arms.”

“Any good man would have done so.”

“You are not a good man.”

Exhausted, and chilled to the bone, despite the warm fire, Neil had neither the energy nor the patience to match wits with Lady Duvalle tonight. He flushed, abandoned diplomacy, and snapped:

“Lady Duvalle, I have told you before that I shall not be blackmailed into marrying your granddaughter. Do not try it! Frankly, I resent that you see your granddaughter as nothing more than the bait to tie my name and wealth to your family. Nothing more than that. What a callous woman you are.”

“You resent that, and not that I see you as nothing more than wealth and a name?” Duvalle smiled ironically. “You do care for her, I can see that.”

“I pity her. I pity her because she’s a good woman, and she’s surrounded by bad people.”

Duvalle’s face fell slightly. “I’m not the monster you imagine, Mr Armiger.”

“The trouble is that you can’t see what kind of a monster you are.” His moment of anger passed quickly, and he was back to his usual cold manner. He door a deep breath, and turned the fire. “A monster like you thinks it’s only my idea of marriage that matters. A monster like you wouldn’t consider that Verity, too, has to agree to a marriage, and that she will not. She does not love me.”

“She needs you.” The words were harsh, the voice rasping. Lady Duvalle’s mask was also slipping – or she was pretending it was. “Even if this Mr Harlan survives his injuries, even if he admits to raping her, she will forever be a murderess in the eyes of the village. And what honour do they think she was defending? You’ve already taken that, Mr Armiger. You could have spent the night reading bible verses to each other, but in the eyes of the village that girl was a whore the moment she walked into your house that night. Whores have no honour to defend. She will be shunned, abandoned. I doubt even her father will care to defend her. I could house her, but under my roof she would die a bitter spinster, a social leper, her honour still tarred. You took her honour from her, Mr Armiger, and you are the only person who can return it.”

“By marrying her.” Neil laughed bitterly. Her words had made concrete all the uneasy, nameless emotions he had felt ever since he’d met Verity. Oh yes, he had feelings for her. He admired her, for refusing to be the woman he had asked her to be. He hated her, for reminding him of the kind of man he was capable of being.

His flash of anger faded as quickly as it had come. As readily perceptive of his own faults, as other people’s, he knew that was not fair. It was not Verity who deserved hatred for his cruelty and callousness.

But it was not in his nature to hate himself either. With a snarl of frustration, he wheeled away from the fire, and threw himself onto a settee. He leaned over his knees and put his head in his hands. After a moment, he heard the creak of the mattress, felt the balance of the couch shift. Lady Duvalle had sat down beside him. She said nothing.

Several minutes later, he sat up and opened his eyes and looked at her. “Will it make that much of a difference, in their eyes?”

“Yes.” Lady Duvalle’s thin, bony hands were clasped earnestly in her lap. “By marrying the man she gave herself to, she redeems her honour. A woman with honour is right to defend it. The village will see it as a love match and forgive her impetuosity in love. I doubt very much Mr Harlan will die from his injuries, and it is he who will leave the village a pariah when he recovers. A man who tries to make an honest woman dishonest is as shameful as a dishonest woman.”

That was not true, Neil knew, for he had tried to make Verity dishonest and no one had censured him for it. But the rest of it might be. If he married her, the village would no longer shun her for her perceived indiscretion with him, and her raised position in society would be armour against the accusations of even a gentleman, which Neil was sure Mr Harlan was not.

He stared into the fire, thinking of Italy, and the sun, and his wife. When Giulia had died, he had found his heart – gone. Not broken, just not there anymore. There was no longer his old anger, his old grudges; no longer his newfound love, his newfound kindness. There was nothing left to him but his human shell, and the petty, bodily wants associated with it. He would never be able to love again. He had nothing more to lose.

Did Verity?

He could not answer that. He sighed, and turned back to Lady Duvalle, who was waiting with a curious and unusual patience.

“Ask her,” he said faintly. “Ask her, and if she wishes, fine, I will marry her. God knows I have done her wrong, and if she believes marriage will make it right, I will do it.”

Lady Duvalle smiled coldly at him. “I shall hold you to that.”

---

Verity woke the next morning with a headache, feeling cold inside, and achey outside. She tested the plushness of her blankets, and the softness of her mattress with quiet wonder. Outside her window, the grounds were blanketed in white. It looked very much like how the inside of her head felt. Empty, and cold.

The door opened, and a maid bearing a tray and her grandmother entered. Her grandmother had a peculiar smile on her face, which made Verity feel somehow even colder.

“Mr Layton instructed you to stay in bed today. So you shall stay here.”

“Thank you, Maman,” Verity said quietly, unused to the strange kindness in her grandmother’s tone, and wary of it.

The maid bustled about making tea and giving Verity toast. She picked at the bread, not hungry.

“You may leave, Mary,” Lady Duvalle said, and sat down on the chair by the bed. “Now, Verity, you are perhaps wondering what has happened since last night. I have received word that the disreputable Mr Harlan will recover his injuries.”

Verity flushed. She was somehow relieved, and yet angry that the man survived. “Am I in great trouble for that?”

“A little. But there is a way to make it go away.” Her grandmother’s smile was wolf-like. “Do you remember who rescued you last night? It was Mr Armiger. He went looking for you.”

And Verity did remember, vaguely, after her panicked flight from the cottage, and her exhausted, despairing collapse in the snow, the kind arms that held her, the voice that called her name, the lips that pressed urgently to her brow.

“Perhaps,” she said uneasily.

“He has agreed that it would be best for all parties if you were married.”

“To Mr Harlan!?” Verity cried in horror. “No!”

“To Mr Armiger, you silly girl,” Duvalle said crossly. “He has agreed that he will marry you, and redeem your honour. In doing so, of course, that awful Mr Harlan appears for what he is: a rapist of honourable women. Then this scandal becomes not about a slut stabbing a paramour, but a woman defending her honour against a dishonourable man, and then your reputation is saved. Mr Armiger has agreed that it is quite the right thing to do. After all, if it weren’t for his stupid agreement with your father, you would never be in this mess in the first place.”

Then, Verity thought, he had been guilted into doing this. It would be a marriage of shame, of all things.

“The word, of course, needs to go out before Mr Harlan attempts to press charges against you. The full word. The village shall have to know both that you are affianced to Mr Armiger, and that Mr Harlan tried, and failed, to rape you.”

“But what if I don’t want to marry Mr Armiger?” Verity asked miserably.

“Then the village will forever believe you a whore and a murderer. You may not like the man, Verity, but you can hardly refuse him your hand. And he has agreed to take it.”

Verity lay back amongst the snow-white blankets, and stared out the window in despair. She felt relieved that there was a way out, disgusted by the way out, and powerless not to take it.

“He is waiting below, to ask you for your hand. He has already received permission from your father.”

“Please, send him up, and leave us alone together.” Verity laughed suddenly, and then coughed, her lungs aching with the effort. “You need not worry about my reputation , Maman, he cannot ruin it further.”

“Very well. I shall send him.” Diane rose, and Verity sighed with relief as she left the room. Her grandmother always made her feel tight and uncomfortable inside.

She pushed away her tray, toast untouched, tea unsipped, and waited. A few moments later, Mr Armiger appeared nervously at the door.

“Are you alright, Miss Baker?”

“Please, come in, and shut the door.”

He did so, hesitantly. She could see that his dress looked hasty, and there was a deep crease between his eyebrows. The way he moved was stiff and jerky, and his expression and posture was guilty.

The poor man, she thought pityingly, he has done nothing wrong, not much anyway, not enough to deserve marrying me, and yet he is made to feel guilty for it.

“Miss Baker, are you alright?”

“I…” She looked down at her lap and then burst into tears. “Please don’t leave, Mr Armiger,” she sobbed. “Just. Give me a minute. I’m sorry.”

“Shall I fetch someone? The physician?” He hovered anxiously by her side, a foot from the bed.

“No!” She dried her eyes furiously on the sleeve of her borrowed nightgown, far finer than any other she had ever worn. “Mr Armiger, I am… don’t ask if I am alright, again.”

Because it was the first time anyone had ever asked her that, and somehow that kindness made her feel sadder than anything else.

“Then, my dear Miss Baker, may I ask you to marry me?” He knelt by the bed, and laid a hand on her own.

There was something hollow and dead to his touch and voice. She swallowed. “Must we do so?”

He patted her hand. “I believe it is for the best for both of us.”

For the best. It was hardly a romantic proposal. No. It was guilt, and shame, and a lack of options.

“Oh, alright,” Verity tiredly. Suddenly she felt very weak, and very aware that she was ill. And if a man did, graciously, guiltily, offer her shelter in a storm, who was she to refuse it, out of honour or pride? Honour, she had none. Pride, she had too much. “Let us get married, Mr Armiger.”

End of Part One

Chapter Eight: Like Cinderella

Lady Duvalle had not been wrong. Quickly, as news of the upcoming marriage circulated, the tide of gossip turned away from Verity, and turned its full force instead against Mr Harlan, who recovered from his wound far more easily than Verity recovered from her night in the snow. Several other village girls decried him as a rake, and accused him of pressing his unwanted advances upon them. Events emerged from his past, of blackmail, of deception, perhaps true, perhaps not. The rumour mill took in Mr Harlan, and spat him back out a ruined man. He left Houglen in a cloud of ugly rumours, shortly before the New Year.

Verity knew little of the matter, except that he was gone, and that chapter of unpleasantness was over. She was kept in bed for weeks, recovering from a painful cough that had settled in her lungs, and had no attention or energy to spare on deliberating Harlan’s downfall.

As she recovered her illness, she enjoyed a short and gentle, though never intimate, courtship. In February, the banns were read, and on a Wednesday morning in early March, she was married to Mr Armiger.

After they had signed the register, under the adoring gaze of thirty or forty people Verity hardly knew, and yet knew better than her husband, the new couple led their way in their ivory-painted carriage to Lady Duvalle’s manor for the wedding breakfast.

Verity sat next to Armiger at her grandmother’s largest table, and allowed people to talk around her, and at her, and smiled numbly at them without saying more than the barest civility in reply. She nibbled at food and sipped at champagne whenever her husband reminded her to do so, but for the most part sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap, looking bewilderingly at everybody else, and then darting small, cautious glances at the man next to her.

After the first shock of her engagement had faded, she had begun to analyze the whys and wherefores of it all, with her cynical, practical mind. Lying ill in bed, she had little better to do. The realization had come to her, stained with shame and furtive relief, that, like Cinderella, she was no more to waste her life a serving maid, but be raised to princess, and live, if not happily ever after, certainly in circumstances far above the misery she had previously known. She had considered, even if she grew to despise Mr Armiger, even if he had been ugly, and stupid, and cruel, that there was no possible way for her misery as his wife to come close to her misery as Thomas Baker’s daughter: she could never despise any man more poisonously than she despised her father, and certainly Mr Armiger was neither as ugly nor as stupid, though she allowed that he had a streak of cruelty, but not as deep a streak as she could not manage.

Had she been asked, again, every day of her life until the wedding if she wouldn’t reconsider, she would have said no every time. She could not reconsider. Mr Armiger was her only hope. Not even of happily ever after – she did not believe in it – nor of love, or even fondness – she did not dare dream so high – but of any escape at all from a life of constant poverty and misery and fear.

But she did wonder, watching her husband’s steady hands break his bread, what he hoped to gain from it all. He had first accepted the match in a fever of extreme guilt; the fever had passed, and yet, he approached their marriage with placid, smiling calmness. She had expected him to express second thoughts.

He noticed her watching him. “Is something wrong?”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

“You are hardly eating. Please, you must eat something. We’ve a long way to go after.”

After, they were taking their coach to Blackpool, and then a ship to Brest, where they were to stay with a friend of his for their honeymoon. Verity had never before, in her life, left the parish.

She nervously swallowed some champagne, growing flat. Surprisingly, his hand reached out and closed over her own, on the stem of the glass.

“That is not eating.” Did she imagine the note of amusement in his tone?

She wrested her hand from his and attacked the chicken on her plate with a fork. She tweezed apart the strings of flesh, pressing and spearing and pulling until it was nothing more than an unappetizing mince on her plate.

Silently, he handed her a bread roll.

She tore it to quarters, threw three on her plate, and swallowed the forth without tasting it. Then she put her hands firmly back in her lap, and looked defiantly out at each one of the guests.

Her cousin, Maria, and her husband, George, laughing about something together. God knows they had never so much as smiled at Verity. Her fat, ugly aunt Anne, married to Lady Duvalle’s eldest son, and so complacent about her title, but so peeved one of her daughters had not managed to snag Mr Armiger. The three eldest of her daughters, all looking pinched with jealousy, despite their plumpness. Mr Westin, a distant relation through marriage, a closer relation through his constant insinuation in her grandmother’s affairs. Her grandmother, benevolently chuckling at him, not in the mood to be tired of his obsequiousness today, not with all her plans brought to fruition and Verity getting married. Mr Duvalle, an uncle, red-faced, too fond of champagne, but rather kindly anyway. And Clare, little Clare Abernathy, not knowing quite who to talk to or how to, but invited to the wedding breakfast as thanks for her being Verity’s bridesmaid. It had been the one detail about her wedding Verity had insisted upon. More relatives continued down the table, on the other side of Clare, each more unpleasant than the last.

Verity turned away, back to her plate.

“Keep eating,” her husband prompted.

She stuffed another lump of bread in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed suddenly as a thought occurred to her.

“Your family did not come to the wedding, Mr Armiger.” She spoke undertone, leaning into his ear, so her unpleasant spectators would not hear, and gossip of it. But they were watching. She saw her jealous cousin Helen’s face grow pale at the legal intimacy. Lady Anne scowled.

“No,” Armiger said flatly, forking some ham onto her plate. “I have little of that.”

It was not entirely true, and she knew it. She had looked him up, one night, in her grandmother’s copy of Burke’s Peerage. She knew he had an elder brother, heir to the title, and that his father was the Earl of Albroke. There had been a younger brother who died in childhood, and then a sister who was married and by now probably had children of her own; the publication was out of date. Cousins, yes, plenty of cousins, and aunts and uncles, and other – she looked calculatingly around the room – unpleasant things. He had family, certainly. But she was sure they had not been invited. Perhaps he had even ordered Lady Duvalle not to, because Verity knew her grandmother was pleased by the connection.

“Do they know?” she asked quietly, between bites of ham.

He was silent a moment. “I don’t suppose so.”

It would have disconcerted Lady Duvalle. It did not disconcert Verity, who had such tenuous relations with her own family. Rather, she caught the note of resigned sorrow in his tone, and thought she understood.

When the wedding breakfast was finally over, when all the relations had been kissed, all the dishes eaten, all the cake cut, all the congratulations given, and all the guests thanked for them, Verity and Armiger went to the hall to await their carriage, and all the guests went to see them off.

They milled around, with the wide front doors open to the grey afternoon. A gentle mizzle, the very British stage of weather between a mist and drizzle, had descended upon the country while they were eating, and Verity was rubbing her arms through the lace and satin sleeves of her gown, to ease the chill.

“A cloak for Mrs Armiger,” Uncle George cried. “A cloak! A cloak!”

Mrs Armiger. Verity tasted it uneasily as Mr Armiger found her travelling cloak and helped her into it. She smiled her thanks to him, but was unable to meet his eyes.

“It should be sunny,” Clare said disapprovingly, standing in the doorway and peering out with her lips pursed.

“It’s only March,” said Verity.

“That’s not what I mean. It’s so perfect, all of it, except the weather. Don’t you think it’s not fair that the weather’s holding out on you?”

There was a murmur of assent from the guests.

“The perfect fairy tale wedding,” Mr Westin gushed. “The perfect fairy tale bride, the perfect fairy tale groom, all you need is for your carriage to be a pumpkin, and your horses to be mice. And then I wouldn’t be surprised if you sailed off into… into elf land.”

“Elf land!” Cousin Maria repeated mockingly.

“But not in this weather, perhaps,” Mr Westin agreed. “It’s the one flaw in my vision. I should have been an artist. Perhaps I will hire an artist to paint the scene…”

But Verity wasn’t listening to them. While stepping out on the threshold to check for the coach, she had caught sight of a figure lurching down the side of the house towards them. The figure had also caught sight of Verity – but he’d been coming to see her anyway. He stumbled closer, and began to yell.

“Veridy! Veridy, my love, whad’re you doing? Where you going?”

Her father. Her veins turned to ice. The guests behind her heard the shouting, and crowded the doorway in time to see Mr Baker confusing his feet on the bottom of the manor steps, and landing on his hands and knees. With a curse, he began to crawl up them.

“Veridy, Veridy,” he whined. “You can’t leave me! You can’t!”

“Oh Dear! He’s drunk!”

“Couldn’t they keep him out?”

Shuddering, Verity went to the top of the stairs. She heard some curious guests follow her out. Others, more sensitive, retreated inside to peer through the windows. Her anger fought a battle with her pride, and pride won out. He must be sent away, as quickly and quietly as possible.

“Father – Father, I’m glad you could make it,” she said, in a low, controlled voice, her cheeks flushed red. “You’re a little late but we saved you some cake.”

“Cake! I don’t want cake!” He stopped crawling, and sat on his heels to raise a plaintive face towards her. “Why’re you going to leave me, Veridy? Why’re you leaving me alone… just like your mother, abandoning me…”

Tears began to bubble in his eyes, and seep out down his cheeks.

“Quiet down.” Verity turned with relief at her husband’s placid voice. He went right down the steps to squat down in front of her father. “Quiet, Mr Baker. Let’s not make a scene. How about we take you indoors and find you some supper?”

But that was enough for her father to start on Neil too. The drunk put his hands suppliantly on Mr Armiger’s collar, and when Armiger stood up and backed away, her father came with him, clinging like a newborn to her husband’s wedding shirt, toes dragging on the steps.

“Mr Armiger, Sir, why you gotta take my daughder away? Yer stealing ’er away… after all I did… I feel sick thinking about it. Give her back to me. Lemme take ’er back. I’m all alone.”

“I’ll come back, Father,” Verity said. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m just getting married. Everyone’s got to do that.”

The coach had finally appeared, at a trot from the stables. The driver was leering goggle eyed at the scene before him. Somebody had called Lady Duvalle’s butler, who was marching down the steps, a stout, iron-armed cook behind him.

“Now you come with me, Mr Baker,” the butler said firmly, “And I’ll fix you up some dinner in the hall. We’ve got plenty of ham left. White soup.”

Mr Baker might have demurred, but the iron-armed cook took one arm, and the butler took the other, and listing off every item on the wedding breakfast menu, they frog-marched him up the steps and through the front door. After a moment, the guests who had fled indoors came peering out again.

“We’re going to be quite late,” Mr Armiger said mildly, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “We’ll have to say our goodbyes and be off.”

“Oh yes. Please, let’s go,” Verity said faintly.

Then all the guests came out on the threshold, and clapped and waved as Mr Armiger took Verity’s arm and led her to the carriage, and opened the door and helped her in. But it was subdued clapping, and relieved waving, as though they, too, couldn’t wait to see the end of it.

“Smile and wave goodbye,” he reminded her, at the bottom of the steps.

She managed to wave, but could not smile.

As soon as the coach door was shut, she put her head in her hands, and burst into tears.

This chapter marks the beginning of Part Two. There are about six parts to the story.

Chapter Nine: In the Bones

Verity cried until they were well out of Houglen, and rolling fast down the country highways to Blackpool. At first, she cried deep, shuddering sobs of embarrassment and shame. Very soon they dissolved into silent, fast-flowing tears of self-pity, a feeling intensified by the sight of her husband calmly reading a book in the opposite seat. From there, she began to get angry, at her husband, at her grandmother, at her father, at the general world, and finally herself. She wiped her cheeks dry with furious, angry jerks of her wrist, and loud sniffs and swallows, only to get angrier on discovering more tears inexplicably falling. But at last they were exhausted, and with it her emotions – all of them, except a strange, painful relief, vibrating through her body and soul. Never again. Never again.

She lay back against the coach seat, her fingers trembling where they touched the cold glass of the coach window. She did not recognize the countryside. They had left the valley.

She gave a full body shudder, and let out a banshee sigh that fluttered the pages of her husband’s book, and caused him to look up in alarm.

“Are you hysterical?”

“No.” She swallowed. Her throat ached. “Not anymore. I’m all cried out.”

The tears were beginning to dry on her face, leaving her cheeks swollen and sensitive to every brush of air against them. She patted at them tentatively with her sleeve. Her husband shifted in the seat across from her. He folded his book, with a finger in it to mark his place.

“You - You don’t need to be afraid,” he said awkwardly.

“I know,” said Verity.

They lapsed into silence. She listened numbly to the repetitive rumble of the wheels against the road. It soothed her, and she felt her heart slow in her chest, her breathing coming deeper and easier. She should speak to him, yes, she should make conversation. He seemed to expect it of her, for his book remained folded on his lap. But she spoke only with herself. She discussed. She theorized. She argued. What was the proper topic of conversation, in the circumstances? What could she say? It was a deep philosophical debate and was slow in coming to a conclusion. The very moment she arrived at it, Mr Armiger opened his book again.

“That’s the problem,” Verity said, hastily, before he could begin to read. His lip quirked, in what she did not think was a smile, and he put the book down again. This time, he did not keep his thumb to mark his place.

“What is?”

“That I know I don’t need to be afraid. I’m going to have to explain it or you’ll think me weak and stupid, because I cried so much. But I’ve been afraid all my life. I was afraid of hunger. I was afraid of money, of not having it, and needing it. I was afraid people, already thinking badly of me, would begin to think worse. I was afraid of my father… not of what he might do to me, but what he might do to himself. And now…” She shrugged. “Well it’s all happened, hasn’t it? All my fears have come to pass, and even some things I had been too blind to fear.”

Her voice rose, rang shrilly in the confined space of the coach, and she controlled it by force, swallowing her anger. She said, very quietly, very bitterly,

“So you see, I don’t have anything left to be afraid of. The worst has happened, and now I am quite safe in the knowledge it will never happen again.”

He considered her, the way she had seen him consider a chess board or a hand of cards, as a puzzle to be solved.

“ That’s the problem?“

“Oh yes.” She broke out in a laugh that surprised herself. “Because, you see, I’m still afraid. I’m terrified. It’s in my bones. It’s in deep. How do you learn happiness? I know I’m happy, or as close to it as I can be, but I can’t feel it. It’s like an amputated limb. Oh god, I’m – I’m babbling. Please don’t think me stupid. I tried – I tried to explain myself to explain why I’m not stupid and now I sound worse!”

He smiled, and it broke out into a laugh. “Perhaps, you shouldn’t have tried. I would have accepted an enigma.”

She laughed helplessly, and shook her head. “I’m not stupid.”

“I know.” The smile was still on his face, even as he said, “But I’m afraid I can’t much teach you happiness either. I don’t know it myself. I did once, and then I lost it… I don’t think I will ever find it again. It’s gone. So there. You know what’s in my bones, and I know what’s in yours. We’re a matching pair of deficient human souls. We’re perfect for each other.”

Some of the old irony had returned to his tone. Verity had not heard him speak like that since the night she had first met him. All through their courtship period at her grandmother’s house, he had treated her with a distant, and well-mannered politeness. Now, here was a difference: a gentle, mocking irony. But was it a step closer to him, or a step further away?

She shyly drew her gaze back to the window, fearing the former. After a long moment of silence, she heard the rustle of paper: he had taken up his book again, and was trying to find his place.

It wasn’t until the sky was very dark that they rolled into Blackpool, streets glowing golden where the light spilled out from doorways and windows. Verity had never before been so far away from home, and at an ordinary time, might have found it fascinating to see the tall, leering houses and bustling streets. But after the long journey, and the emotional battering of the day, she had no energy left to be fascinated by anything or anyone. The sailors making their way from pub doors and the women who trotted on their arms only made her feel a vague disgust at humanity.

They were staying at a hotel near the wharfs. Armiger’s coachman deposited them in the yard, and hoisted the bags to the pavement for them. Two large trunks had been sent ahead to the ship already, and only their overnight cases were coming with them now. Verity was still in her wedding dress and slippers. She picked her skirts up to avoid dirtying them in the mud, and Armiger took the bags after flipping a coin to his coachman.

“Take a few days’ holiday, if you like,” he said easily. “I won’t need you until we’re back, and Martins said he can handle the stables by himself for a while.”

“Thank you, Sir.” The coachman bowed to them both. “All the best on your honeymoon.”

They went inside the inn. Verity’s stomach tingled. Their honeymoon.

After a talk with the innkeeper, a boy appeared to take their bags, and they were taken to a quiet, solitary dining room away from the main hall of the hotel, choked with guests this time of night, and loud with chatter. It might have been intimate, with the softly closed curtains and dimly lit candles, and the table set just for two, but their conversation was not. Armiger seemed tired too. He remarked dully that the wine was not very good, before he’d even drunk it. But perhaps men just knew those things. And Verity made the attempt to comment on the olive wall paper, and he agreed it was rather nice, which it wasn’t really.

They did not finish their lavish meal, which had been prepared in advance by the hotel. They left the carcass of the quails, and most of the salad, and the sweets and lamb almost untouched. Armiger drank only a few sips of wine. Nervously, Verity gulped down a glass, only for it to settle uneasily in her stomach, as she was not used to drinking.

And then they went to their room.

Verity stopped still as she entered it, and Armiger ran into her.

“Is there something wrong?” the manageress asked anxiously. She was already nervous about their unfinished meal downstairs, despite Armiger’s protestations that it was all lovely.

“No – no I just… didn’t think it would be so big.”

The room was rather large. There were two big beds against the wall, with ample room to walk around them too, and then a low table with two arm chairs by it in a corner, and a wash basin and closet in another corner.

Armiger seemed to understand her hesitation.

“I’ll leave you to see to your toilette, Verity. I’m going to run back downstairs and look at that little library in the dining hall.”

He was making excuses for her, to be alone. Or giving her time to prepare, perhaps. When the door was shut, Verity paced the room for a moment. He hadn’t said anything about it. Did he expect her to give herself to him that night? It was true, he had kissed her several times since their engagement, but they had been lustless and polite, a far cry from how he had treated her the first night he had met her, and more frequently landed on the hand or the cheek than the lips.

And if he did… would she accede?

Thinking on it, she carefully got herself out of the contraption of her wedding dress, and folded it away in her bag. Then, too, she stripped her undergarments, piece by piece, and folded them away, feeling wobbly and unrestrained without them. She got into the new nightgown her grandmother had had made for her, all soft gauzy cotton, and into the white dressing gown to go over it, and keep her warm, for the fire in the grate was low. She had washed her face and was working on the braids in her hair when Armiger came back.

She looked up at him. He was carrying a book, but he set it down on the low table when he came in, and she didn’t think he ever intended to read it.

He lowered himself into one of the armchairs, and took off his shoes, and undid his tie and cufflinks, and the top buttons of his shirt. The last of those actions made her uneasy. She returned her attentions to her hair.

“You were surprised when you saw we shared a room,” he said matter-of-factly, breaking the silence.

“Yes. I’m still not used to things.” She wrestled with a particularly stubborn hair pin, that wouldn’t seem to want to come out.

“I won’t make love to you until you’re ready. You needn’t worry about that.”

The hairpin came out, taking two black strands of hair with it, and causing her to open her mouth in a silent Oh of pain. So he did intend. He intended to make love to her, within the bounds of a marriage that had nothing to do with love. What a strange intention.

“I’m ready.” She searched her hair for more pins. It was half untangled around her neck, and half done up. The process had taken an hour to complete. It wasn’t surprising it would take nearly as long to uncomplete. “Or I will be once I get my hair down.”

“Are you?”

He came to stand in front of her, and she looked up. His lips were moving in and out, as though he was speaking silently to himself. A hand reached out from a gaping sleeve, and drew gently across her brow, and down her cheek to her lips. If he had been looking for a reaction, of lust or of fear, he didn’t find it. She stared woodenly up at him.

“I know… what happened to you… what Harlan… tried… it can’t be easy, and I don’t want to rush you, or frighten you.”

She’d almost forgotten the moment that had brought them here, until now. But even the memory seemed distant and untouchable. Harlan was gone – so quietly and quickly she suspected money had changed hands — and Armiger was definitely not like Harlan. She already once said no to him, and he had accepted it. She was not scared, after that, to say yes.

“I’m not frightened. I thought perhaps you intended to house me as a sister or a nun, the marriage little but pretext for that action, but if you are prepared to take me as a wife, then I’m ready.”

He dropped to sit on the other bed, facing her. Their knees almost touched.

“I’ve always admired you,” he admitted, in a low, shy voice. “I do want you.”

She wanted to say something clever or bold, but nothing came to her. She just shyly smiled back and nodded. “You should get— prepare for bed. I have my hair to unpin.”

She avoided watching him while he did so, too shy to see something so intimate. When she was done unpinning and unbraiding her hair, he had changed into pyjamas and a black dressing gown, but was washing his face at the stand. She brushed the scattered hairs and pins off her bed and deposited it on the low table, still not looking at him. He was brushing his hair now.

She lay down on her bed, on her side, and waited for him. There came the sound of the brush set down on the stand, the creaking of the night bag, as he put something in it, his footsteps across the room…

“Verity?”

She opened her eyes dimly, not knowing when she had shut them, and raised herself on an elbow. He was standing by her bed. She sat up.

“Then…it’s time?”

“Hmm,” he grunted. He kept his gaze steady on hers, frowning. After a moment, he seemed to come to a decision. “No. It’s not.”

He turned, pulled back the sheets of the other bed, and beat at the pillows.

“But I thought you wanted—”

“Oh, I do want you. Don’t think I don’t.” He twisted his head and grinned at her, an expression that lit up his face with a satyric mischief that made him look years younger, made him look his age. “But it’s not some chore to get over and done with like that, not when you’re half-asleep, not any time.”

“Oh.”

He moved again, and she thought he was, at the very least, going to kiss her, but he didn’t, not even on the cheek. Instead he passed her, and went to douse the lamps on the walls.

“Besides,” he said, as the room dimmed, flame by flame, “I’m tired too. We have all the time in the world for this – but tonight, we should sleep.”

The room was murky now, but by the gentle glow of the fire, she could still see his shape as he moved towards the other bed. Then he was nothing but a lump, and the sound of the mattress creaking and feathers shifting, as he tried to make himself comfortable.

After a moment, Verity did the same, and though she expected her mind to race ahead and keep her from sleep, it was only the novelty of another human’s regular breathing that distracted her from sleep, and that only for a few minutes before she was dead to the world.

Hi guys!!! So sorry about the delay in updates! Holidays, and then work. This is a busy time of year. I’ll be back to schedule with another update tomorrow.

Man, this chapter is long and went through so much editing. Mostly, rewriting and trying to get the emotions a bit more realistic. A few paragraphs are entirely new tonight, so please forgive if a typo slipped through here or there.

Chapter Ten: Women Know

Jane Walthrope paced the deck of the Princess Anne like a tiger pacing a cage. She liked to travel, and she didn’t mind ships, but after three days of sharing the company of her middle-aged sister-in-law in the narrow quarters of the French-bound liner, she was beginning to feel intellectually and socially cramped. It had been a charitable impulse of hers to take her spinsterly, impoverished sister-in-law to Paris for a month. She was quickly realizing how much that charity truly cost – not the money, she had enough of that – but, oh, what a chore to have to keep biting your tongue when you think of something clever and cruel to say, for Elise Walthrope would be so distressed to hear it, and what a pain to have to avoid flirting with all the charming, gentlemanly strangers you might meet, for Elise Walthrope would be so horrified by your impropriety.

Jane scowled to herself and leaned her back against the railing and examined the other passengers and crew on the deck. Elise was a good woman, but she was a very boring one, and Jane found nothing more painful than boredom. But at last she had left her sister-in-law in her cabin for the afternoon, and was free of that oppressive, moralistic presence. Free, indeed, through a piece of immoral trickery. Jane had deliberately torn a seam in one of her morning dresses, and Elise, being so good and servile and grateful, had insisted on mending it, as Jane knew she would. It would take her all afternoon.

Her temper relaxing quickly, for Jane was sanguine in temperament and never remained angry long, she began to run her clever eyes over the crew members and passengers. None of them, however, pleased her overly much. Was she then destined to spend the rest of the journey to Brest in solitude, or a companionship so dowdy it made solitude seem preferable?

But no. A new man appeared on the deck, coming down the steps from the stern, with a faint, attractive limp in his step, and his hair, more grey than black, tossed by the wind into a charming mess on top of his head.

Jane watched him thoughtfully. She had not seen him before, in the dining hall or any other room on board. He walked towards her, and she boldly kept her gaze on him, but he walked past seemingly without seeing her at all. It irked her, as she dressed to be seen, and with admiration. She kept watching him, as he walked down the deck, and then turned and walked back, the wind pulling his hair first to one side of his head, and then to the other, wondering how she would conquer his attention – for Jane’s relationships with men were always battles, and she always the victor.

But as he came closer again, a strange feeling of recognition came to her – was it, no – it couldn’t be!?

“Neil?”

He walked on by her again, head bowed, frowning, but she definitely recognized him now, though it had been thirteen years since she had last laid eyes on him. How many times had she seen that worried expression!

“Neil! Mr Armiger!” she called, pushing away from the railing and following him. At the third time, he turned in surprise. “Really, Neil!” she said severely. “Are you deaf?”

He stared at her, blank confusion on his face, and she laughed at his surprise.

“Or are just old, and forgotten me? I know I haven’t changed that much, surely.”

Slowly, the confusion on his face morphed into realization. The frown on his face disappeared, and became a wide, incredulous smile. “…Jane? Jane Gardiner!? Why – you have changed! When I last saw you…”

She gasped in mock horror. “No! No if I have changed do not mention it! I will not have you mention it!”

He laughed. “When I last saw you, we were both children! Of course you’ve changed! How could you not?”

But he was the one who had changed, to her eyes. He had been such an awkward, ungainly boy, with too much hair, and nose, and limb. Somehow, he had emerged from the ugly chrysalis of adolescence as a handsome and elegant male creature, well worthy of her attentions.

She held out a hand for him to kiss, but instead, he took it in both of his and squeezed tightly.

“Jane Gardiner.”

She laughed merrily. “It’s Jane Walthrope now. Didn’t you hear?”

“No! Then you are married.”

“I was.” She didn’t bother to hide her smile. “My husband died several years ago, leaving me a widow at the ripe old age of – oh, but I shouldn’t say. And, you, Neil?” She had taken his arm proprietorially, and was steering him down the deck. Good. He had muscles, despite his thinness.

“We’re in similar circumstances. My wife died the winter before this last.”

“I am sorry.” And she was. So more hurt had come to Neil. He of all people did not deserve it. “Perhaps we can console each other.”

“Console?” His muscles tensed beneath her grip. “If you mean…”

“I’m not proposing marriage to you,” she said reassuringly. “Not yet, anyway.”

The muscles remained tense. Then, suddenly, he relaxed.

“I’m afraid you’re too late, by a matter of days. I married again just three days ago.”

It was her turn to tense. Married! Newly married! She couldn’t get involved in that. She wouldn’t. Not with Neil. She drew away from him, floated down onto a bench, and patted the space beside her invitingly.

“Then I must commiserate you first, and congratulate you second. Tell me all about it. Is she here? Shall I meet her in the dining room later?”

He lowered himself less gracefully down next to her. “She is here, yes. But she’s plagued by sea sickness and has not come out since we boarded.”

Then that was the reason for his worried frown. He always was one to worry about a woman, even if she didn’t deserve it, or need it. She felt a pang of surprisingly deep affection and pity for him.

“That poor child,” she murmured. Then, her usual spirit returned. “But I am assuming. You may have married someone as old and grey as yourself.”

“I did not.” He patted his hair with mock vanity. “And I’ll thank you not to mention my deformity, Mrs Walthrope.”

“Then I shall not, and you shall tell me about her. Is she pretty? Is she as pretty as I am?” she said flippantly.

“Prettier.”

“I don’t believe it. I’ve been told I have very good looks. I should. I spend a lot of time and money on them. Did you know there is an unguent called Crème des Dieux? You can only buy it in Paris. It’s half the reason for my journey. They say it can quite – ah, but I’ve gone off the topic, and that is a very intimate discussion. Tell me more. How old is she, and what is her name?”

“She is twenty, and her name is Verity.”

“And do you love her very much?”

His hands, resting on the lats of the bench, twitched slightly. “I’m quite – fond of her.”

“Fond of her. Well, naturally.” She looked inquisitively at him, suspicion growing within her. “Do you not love her?”

He didn’t answer her. He just looked out at the blue, endless ocean.

“If you don’t love her, then why on earth did you marry her, Neil? Don’t tell me you wanted to – not you, not for an insipid fondness. You – but perhaps I don’t know you so well after all.”

That was her little trick. Men hated being asked to explain themselves, but they hated even more when a woman didn’t even care to hear them explained. She waited in silence as it did its work, eventually, slowly, he began to speak, and she listened.

She heard with hidden surprise of his winning at cards against an unpleasant stranger; with hidden amusement of his jest when the man could not pay the debt; with hidden scorn of how the girl had arrived at his house to pay the debt, but not the price; and with unhidden anger of how the rumors that followed, and the social pressure of the small minded village, had driven him eventually to marry the girl and restore her fortune.

She knew he was leaving out some of the story, of course. She suspected him of greater lust that he admitted, and was correct in it. She did not, and could not, suspect the incident with Harlan. He had left that out of his telling, to protect Verity’s pride. And so, when he finished, she was almost furious with how she thought he had been treated, and angry even with him for being so weak as to bow so easily to mere social pressure. But, being Jane, her anger was lukewarm and quiet, and easily covered with a smile, or in this case, a frown.

“Entrapment,” she pronounced. “And you didn’t even get the fun of taking the bait in the trap, only the pain of the cage door closing.”

“No. No it’s not like that,” Neil protested. “It was not entrapment – there is something else, but it does not do to speak of it. And I swear she was more reluctant than I to marry.”

“Then why did you not give her a sum of money, and send her away to a distant relative? That would be more kindness than needed.”

“I considered it — but I know she would not accept. She is too proud.”

“And silly! Silly to marry a man out of pride, if she does not love you. I gather she does not.”

“I think not. She is well-disposed to me, now, but she does not love me.”

“Rash foolishness itself!” She considered things. She suspected Neil had been manipulated, and couldn’t see it. She doubted that Verity could be as innocent as he protested. But she knew it would only anger him to cast aspersions on his new wife, unloved as she might be, and decided to pretend to take his point of view, for the moment, at least. “What will you do if you fall in love again, or if she does? You are both young still.”

“I shall not love again. Giulia – my first wife – she was everything. And I cannot think Verity susceptible to the disease. She is very cold, and very proud, and does not know what to do with kindness, when she meets it. Women like that do not fall into love so easily.”

“No,” she said drily. “There’s nothing easy about it, for a woman like that, which is why it’s so catastrophic when it does happen, and it does. It might.”

A faint flash of horror passed over his features. “I’m sure – I’m sure it is not likely. I don’t believe she is even capable of such a feeling.”

“Invite her to dinner with me, and you, and my sister-in-law tonight, if she is well enough,” Jane suggested. “I’ll tell you if I think it’s likely.”

“How could you know! You hardly know anything about her.”

“Well I am a woman, Neil.” Jane gave him a smile, her best, most intriguing smile. She was curious about his new wife, and determined to meet her before the ship docked and they parted ways. And curious about Neil too, who had changed so much, and yet, stayed the same. “Women know these things . “

Introducing a new character. I LOVE character introductions. They are so fun to write. This chapter was first written from Verity’s point of view (boring, she was stuck inside a cabin puking all the time) and then from Lord Armiger’s , which just didn’t quite fit, even though I liked the dialogue, so I rewrote it all from Jane’s POV, and I think it works better this way.

Chapter Eleven: When She Falls

Neil knocked on the door of Verity’s cabin shortly before seven o’clock. After a moment, she answered sleepily, “Yes?”

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

“Oh – yes, come.”

He entered, and she was sitting up in her bed, tugging the neckline of her nightdress higher over her bust. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and her face looked thinner and paler within its masses. He sat down at the edge of her mattress, as the only chair was occupied by a tray of cold tea and stale toast. The mattress sunk under his weight, and his thigh came to rest against hers. She shifted away slightly, but not uneasily; it was the normal British desire to maintain a polite distance. Not normal, between husband and wife, perhaps, but then nor were their circumstances. Still, it bit him.

He had hoped that the isolation and strangeness of the ship would allow some measure of intimacy to develop between him and his wife. It had been impossible during their courtship. There had always been somebody just around the corner, or behind the door – a servant polishing brass, or a maid shuttling a tray. On one occasion, when he had kissed Verity on the lips on parting in the hall, he had distinctly heard a whispered “Oh! He never !” from the top of the stairs. He suspected Lady Duvalle had put them up to it, for Lady Duvalle herself was always cheerfully content to let the young lovers, as she called them, alone – too cheerfully content for Armiger’s cynical appraisal of her character to believe. But whatever the cause, his constant audience had made him self-conscious, and he had been too polite, and talked too much of the weather, and kept his hands almost entirely to himself.

But it was equally impossible, of course, to attempt intimacy with a woman who had her head buried in a bucket. And her illness had made her embarrassed, and she had refused to let him nurse her, and spent most of her time locked away alone in her cabin.

Casually, deliberately, he laid a hand on her leg, just above her knee, reclaiming the space she had taken. He wanted to see what she would do, but the idea had only come to him to test her reaction by his awareness of his own impulse to take the action in the first place.

She looked down at his hand, and then up at him, her eyebrows raised slightly, questioningly. The non-reaction was almost more disappointing to him than rejection. He squeezed slightly, to indulge his impulse, and then let his hand rest there.

“How do you feel?”

“I’m not so bad as I was.” She was certainly no longer green, but she was still very white.

“Well enough to come to the dining hall with me tonight?”

“I…you could eat here with me, couldn’t you?”

“I could. But I learned an old friend of mine is on the boat. She asked me to bring you to dinner with her. But you don’t look well still.”

Verity frowned. “I thought you didn’t have friends.”

“A few, but I’ve been out of the country for eight years. My relationships have waned. In fact, I haven’t seen her for thirteen years.”

The memory came to him, suddenly, of the very last time he had seen Jane. She,  running in her bare feet down the steps of his father’s manor, nightdress pulled up above her knees, continuing at a breakneck speed down the drive, until she was suddenly, irretrievably, gone. Her father and his, shouting after her from the front door, calling her name over and over, until she disappeared. He and his brother, leaning out the library window, their tutor pretending to haul them back, as a pretext to watch the scene himself. What a summer that had been.

“We were both children, then,” he added wistfully.

Verity’s frown disappeared. She slid her legs up to her chest, out of the blanket and his grasp. He appreciated the sudden view of her white ankles and calves as she scooted around to plant her feet flat on the floor. Slowly she stood up, balancing herself with one hand on the wall. He rose with her, seeing how unsteady her legs were, but she refused his arm, and cautiously paced around the narrow cabin.

“I might leave early. Is that alright?”

“Then you’ll come? But are you sure you’re well enough?”

“No. But I am very curious to meet your old friend. I’ll leave, if I get to feeling poorly.”

“Hmm.” He picked up a piece of stale toast on her tray, and then dropped it again. “Well, if you come, you must eat something. I insist on it. Here, or in the dining hall, you must eat.”

“I’ll try.”

“ Try? Look at you! You’re skin and bone.“ He smiled, to take the edge off his words. “I’ve only just married you and already you’re threatening to leave me a widower again. No. Don’t smile at me like that. It’s not funny.”

But she was smiling, a strange little grin that he’d never seen on her face before. It gave him another kind of impulse, and he obeyed it, crossing the cabin floor in two steps to take her face in his hands and kiss her on the mouth.

When he released her, she wasn’t smiling anymore, but she wasn’t frowning either. She was staring at him with wide open eyes, and pink cheeks. His gaze went unbidden down the contours of her body, undisguised by her lack of corsets and the thinness of her nightgown. He came back to meet her eyes, still wide, still surprised.

Testing the waters, he took a step closer again, raised his hand to run up her bare arm, and then hover, barely touching, at her shoulder. For a moment, she froze, then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned towards him.

He breathed out slowly. It was the first sign she’d given him that she might have wantingness buried deep somewhere within her, and not just apathetic willingness. So he kissed her once more, more lingeringly this time, allowing his hands the indulgence to creep up behind her head and tangle with her hair, and then drew back.

She stood before him in her nightgown, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Her hands moved towards him unconsciously, but she caught the movement, and drew them back to her breast.

“You will eat.”

“Yes.” Her lips were trembling. He forcibly stopped himself from closing the distance between them again; it would be too much, too soon. Instead, he went to the door.

“Very well. You should get dressed. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

---

Verity entered the dining room of the ship for the first time she had boarded, her husband by her side. It was not grand, for the ship did not take long journeys or many passengers, but it was decked out very well in burgundy drapes and pale cream wall paper. A band was playing in one corner, and Armiger brought her to a table at which two women were already seated.

The younger one, about thirty, but still full of animated youth, stood up immediately to take Armiger’s hands, and then Verity’s, a move which also showed off the attractive line of her figure, and the ostentatious spleandour of her blood-red silk skirts.

“Mrs Jane Walthrope,” Armiger said. “My wife, Verity.”

Jane Waltrhope’s eyes were so very blue, and her hair so very gold, and her manner so very charming and welcoming as she cooed her greetings that Verity hardly noticed the other woman at the table until she sat down.

This one was older, between forty and fifty, and looked it, with her hair graying and faded, and her eyes under their sagging lids, and the weary, drooping lines around her mouth and cheeks. She smiled sweetly at Verity, however.

“Your companion?” Armiger suggested to Mrs Walthrope, who was chattering to him about the menu.

“Oh! Of course!” Mrs Walthrope sat down, her skirts spreading like a peacock’s tail. “I was carried away by myself! My sister-in-law, Elise Walthrope. Elise, this is my dear friend Mr Armiger, and his new wife, Mrs Armiger.”

More greetings were murmured. A footman appeared and offered a wheeled tray of food. The food was arranged on plates, wine was poured. There was no wine for Verity, but she felt a rising tide of nausea even from the scent of Armiger’s glass next to her, and turned away to breathe.

When she was recovered, Mrs Walthrope was saying between sips of wine and bird-like pecks at her bread:

“We’re going to Paris, of course. Miss Walthrope has never been and I thought that was a great tragedy and we must remedy it.”

“Paris will be so lovely, I am sure,” Miss Walthrope added wistfully. “Have you ever been, Mrs Armiger?”

“No.” Verity didn’t want to admit, in front of the cultured and beautiful and confident Mrs Walthrope that she had never before left the country, never left her home shire of Houglen.

“Oh, but you must go!” Mrs Walthrope insisted. “Do take her, Neil. You must take her!”

Neil, Verity thought in surprise. She hadn’t called her husband by his name yet. And here this woman, who hadn’t seen him for thirteen years, did it so naturally.

“I’m not sure we’ll have the time,” Armiger said. “And Paris is not so fair this time of year anyway. We’re staying with Mr Prothero near Brest – have you met him?”

“I was at his wedding! Four years, no five, it is. Such a lovely little wife he found, and children, too, now, I believe. It’s a wonder you didn’t go.”

“I was in Florence. The invitation got there in a round-about-way, about six months after the fact. There’s things you miss out, living away from England.”

“And many things more, I gather, that you weren’t upset to miss,” Mrs Walthrope hinted.

At least, Verity thought it was a hint, because there was a sudden devilish glint in the woman’s angelic face, but if it was, Armiger ignored it, and only ate his sirloin. Between a bite, he turned to Verity.

“Do eat.”

She nibbled at a chicken wing, cautiously waiting for any sense of motion in her stomach. For a moment, the conversation ceased. They all ate, even Verity, whose appetite was beginning to awaken after several days of barely eating, and to whom the chicken seemed to hold no danger. She took also some slices of bread, but didn’t dare attack the richer items on the table. The butter on the bread was not so kind to Verity, however, and with a faint clamping in her throat, she put it back on her plate.

Instead, she attempted to gain Mrs Walthrope’s attention, which was less on the food than the company. She had to eat lightly, Verity supposed, to maintain her figure, which was fashionably slim, except for the few places women were allowed some plumpness.

“Mr Armiger said you were children together?” Verity began, when the other’s eyes met hers.

“Oh we’re old friends, yes – we were quite children when we last met. But we must have known each other nearly since we were born. My father was his father’s lawyer, and his father didn’t object to keeping the servants around, and their appendages, so we grew to be quite friends.”

“There was nothing to object to,” Armiger protested, “You were very pleasant company. I have many fond memories of our adventures.”

Verity smiled, and forked again some chicken. “Do tell me something about them,” she said, to both Armiger and Mrs Walthrope, before taking a bite.

“Well,” Mrs Walthrope said consideringly, while Verity chewed. “Old Lord Armiger – Neil’s father, the Earl – he-”

“Let’s not talk of the earl,” Armiger said. He didn’t speak quickly, and he didn’t speak loudly, but the statement was undoubtedly an order, not a suggestion. There was an ugliness to his tone that sent a shiver down Verity’s spine.

Mrs Walthrope did not flush, or stutter, or start. She said, lazily, “Oh, I suppose that’s not so amusing after all. For the most part, we had the usual childish adventures – tree climbing, apple stealing, horse riding, and all that. Young, innocent criminals we were, like all children. I think your story is more interesting than ours. How did the two of you meet? Such a sudden affair, I believe?”

That wasn’t the direction Verity wanted the conversation to go in. His family’s absence from their wedding, coupled now with her husband’s flat refusal to allow talk of them, had piqued her usually incurious soul to a sudden hungry interest in the man she had married. The kiss she had experienced earlier may also have had some influence: her heart was still beating a little fast, and the left side of her body, to which Armiger sat, was strangely sensitive to the touch of the air that lay between them.

“He moved into a house in my shire, not six miles from my own,” she said, watching Armiger from beneath her lashes. “What kind of-”

“But I have neighbors two miles from me who I have never talked to! How did you find each other?” Mrs Walthrope interrupted her.

“Houglen is a small shire. It’s almost impossible not to know one’s neighbors there. When you-”

“But I’m a sucker for romance,” Mrs Walthrope gushed unhearingly. “Tell me your story – your love story – do you think him very handsome?”

“Of course,” Verity said impatiently. “B-”

“You do?” Mrs Walthrope pressed. “I used to fancy him a little as a child, myself, but he’s grown much handsomer than I ever expected, and I must say, if I didn’t get him, I can’t spare you any jealousy over it, because you’re so pretty too. I couldn’t bear it if he’d married a homely woman.”

“It’s I who would have to bear it, Jane, not you,” Armiger said, with a trace of amusement in his voice. “Though I’m pleased to know you approve my wife.”

“Her looks, at the very least,” Mrs Walthrope said complacently. “But, Verity – you don’t mind I call you Verity? – you still haven’t told me how you met – the first time. Was it a ball? He is a fantastic dancer. No? A picnic?”

In her own determined pursuit for information, Verity had lost some of her usual guarded reserve, and answered the stranger’s questions unthinkingly. But now she suddenly realised that Mrs Walthrope’s careless, unceasing prattle was not so careless after all. The innocently lowered lashes and the light, airy voice were not the signs of a careless blatherer, but a practiced, and cunning, gossip. Mrs Walthrope, too, was pursuing information, and with more success than Verity.

“It was my father’s house, actually, in his parlour. No party or dinner, either. Mr Armiger visited on my father that day, and I happened to be home too.” Her voice was steady as steel.

“So casual a meeting? Such a great thing to come out of so humble one.”

“They often do.” Verity tried again at some buttered bread. With her stomach half-full now, it was not so bad, and she managed to get it down.

“From the way he talked of you,” Mrs Walthrope said, “I thought you would be very different.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know me as well he thinks,” Verity suggested. “Or more likely, you don’t know me as well you think. We have only just met, after all. Would it surprise you to be wrong about a woman?”

“Yes,” Mrs Walthrope said decisively. “Greatly.”

“It only takes Mrs Walthrope a minute or two to get hold of someone,” the quiet Miss Walthrope agreed, “And when she does, she’s got hold of them for life. An amazing, feminine intuition she has.”

The corner of Verity’s mouth curled unattractively upwards, but she said nothing. Mrs Walthrope, who hadn’t missed the expression, gave Verity a calculating sort of leer, and returned to her plate.

It was Armiger who resuscitated the conversation.

“But Miss Walthrope, your wine has gone, and I fear you are not interested in a stranger’s staid love affair. Let’s talk of Paris. The shopping, I’m sure, but you must find it in you to visit the north bank of the Seine. Do you like art?”

Miss Walthrope, with the attention of a handsome and proper young man upon her, proved to be a fairer conversant than she looked. She loved art. She was fond of painting herself. She hoped she might buy something for her parlour at home – a view of the Seine, perhaps. Mrs Walthrope tried to persuade her that there were no truly nice views of the Seine, that it was very ugly, all of Paris was ugly at heart, but Miss Walthrope persisted, saying that even in ugliness there could be interest, and that held a higher worth to her than beauty.

But Verity had finished eating, the conversation had no place for her input now, and the smell of the wine on her full belly was decidedly making her feel ill again. She leaned in to Armiger.

“Might I go?”

“Of course. Do you feel bad? No? I’ll come and see you after dinner if you’re awake.”

She rose, and excused herself. Mrs Walthrope gushed about how pleased she was to meet her, and to see that Neil was happy again. Verity did not smile at her as she left, because Verity was not the type to smile, unless she meant it.

---

Neil twisted in his chair to watch Verity leave the room. He wondered if he should have walked her back to her cabin. She was walking rather unsteadily. But she reached the door, and a servant opened it for her, and she was gone. He turned back to his fellow diners. Jane leaned over the table towards him.

“Ice!” she said meaningfully. “Ice, ice!”

“She’s just shy, poor child,” Miss Walthrope chided. “I was once a shy young girl too, I remember…”

Neil looked uncomfortably at Jane.

“When she falls,” Jane warned, pointing a spoonful of blancmange fiercely at him, “she will fall hard.” The blancmange wobbled on her spoon, and slid off and splatted back on her plate. She patted a napkin to her breast composedly, where some had splashed. “Just like that,” she added.

This is a long chapter! It’s also the first one with a real kiss scene. But only a very short one, lol. I had to rewrite it half a dozen times before I thought it was okay.

Chapter Twelve: Lesson One

They were let down onto a crowded dock at Brest the next afternoon. On land, Verity felt much better, taking deep breaths as she walked up and down the street, waiting for Mr Armiger to finish directing a man with the luggage. She watched people, wide-eyed, enchanted by hectic confusion of the wharf and the delightful foreignness of everything. She spoke not a word of French, which made everything seem twice as foreign and wonderful.

Mr Armiger joined her. It was past four, but warm still, and they decided to walk to the hotel. It gave Verity a chance to look at the town, and get her legs used to walking on hard ground again. Outside the hotel, they were stopped by a white hand waving at them from a carriage window, and Mrs Walthrope jumped down without waiting for her driver’s hand.

“Are we staying at the same hotel then? How lovely! I will get to know you better. We must dine together. We must .”

“Oh yes,” Miss Walthrope added with a quieter eagerness, clambering down from the carriage. “Oh yes, we must!”

Verity was faintly curious, and faintly annoyed. She distrusted Mrs Walthrope’s prying friendliness, but she wondered what it was about Mr Armiger’s father that made him so opaquely determined to avoid the subject. Surely it could be no more horrible than having a weak, drunken, traitorous cardsharp for a father?

Mr Armiger looked at Verity questioningly. “It is our honeymoon,” he demurred. “Perhaps another time.”

“Oh, don’t refuse on my account,” Verity protested, her curiosity outweighing her annoyance. “It’s only one meal! I can share your company for that long at least.”

“In that case,” said Armiger, “I’ll gratefully accept, and see you both in the dining room at eight.”

However, when they were away in their hotel bedroom, she sorting clothes that needed washing, and he finding his shaving implements, he was half in the mind to send Mrs Walthrope an apology and a refusal.

“With the wedding, and the sea sickness, and all the travel, I feel like I’ve hardly had a chance to treat you like a bride. I should have told her to give me her address instead. It’s not fair to you to have to put up with Jane – I mean she’s very charming, but she does make one put up with her. She enjoys it.”

“I don’t mind,” Verity said, shooting him a glance from the corner of her eye to make sure he wasn’t watching her while she bundled her soiled underclothes into a pile. He wasn’t. He was carefully spreading shaving cream on his jaw at the washbowl. She watched, fascinated, as he opened his razor with a flick of the wrist, and began to scrape down his jaw.

She had never yet seen him do this. Of course it was only natural that a man had to shave, or else tolerate whiskers, but it was the first time she had seen him do it. She bundled her underclothes away in a soiled dress, and shoved them in a corner of her day bag, out of sight, and turned to watch him properly.

One cheek was done. He scraped carefully at his throat, tipping his head backwards and exposing the line of his neck, and the angular bulge of his Adam’s apple. It was a delicate operation. His wrist turned this way and that, to get at the little hollows beneath his jaw. Done.

He moved to his right cheek, his head tipping down again. He caught sight of her in the mirror, and his hand slipped, and he cursed. A tiny bloom of blood appeared on his chin.

“Are you hurt?” Verity asked, coming to him. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yes.” He dabbed at his chin with his handkerchief. “It’s just a little nick. Don’t worry. You scared me, watching like that.”

It felt like an accusation, and she blushed. “I have never seen you shave before.”

“No?” He almost smiled at her. He threw down his handkerchief and began to shave the last of his cheek. This stopped him talking a moment, but when he was done, he added, “The novelty will wear off, I hope.”

“Naturally.” Verity was cold as he washed his face. She felt that it bothered him, and wasn’t sure why that bothered her. “I expect I’ll get used to all your manly behaviours in time. But for now, I’m not used to manly behaviours from anybody at all, so you’ll forgive me if they make me stare. I am simply not accustomed.”

For some reason, that made him laugh, his shoulders shaking, into his towel. He threw his cloth down on the table and pulled her suddenly close against him, arms around her shoulders. He smelled like soap, and his cheeks were slightly damp against her own as he laughed into her hair. He kissed her cheek, still laughing, and then pulled back far enough to kiss her on the lips. It was a kiss with some hunger in it, and she had to clutch at his waist to steady herself, finding it taut and warm beneath the fabric of his shirt.

He withdrew, but kept his hands at her shoulders, tangled in her hair.

“What manly behaviours do you mean?” he teased, looking down at her. “That?”

“Oh, that.” Verity looked shyly down into his shirt, and saw her hands were still at his waist, but somehow lacked the energy to move them. “Yes, that. And others. Shaving. Swearing. Trousers. Cravats. Soap – yours smells different from mine. All of these things. I’m just not used to them yet.”

“And how long do you think it will take?” He dropped his head so that his lips brushed her forehead when he spoke. “It might be sad if you ever got too used to the kisses.” And he dropped another on her forehead.

She didn’t think, in that moment, that she would ever get used to them. Her stomach was full of a very strange sort of cold fire, and her hands at his waist were shaking.

“I – I must wash.” She got her hands off his waist, and pulled away from him.

“Verity?”

She ignored him, and went to find her toilette things.

“Verity.” He followed her across the room and she stopped still, remembering the soiled underwear in her bag, and not daring to open it.

“It’s not fair to me either, you know,” he said, speaking from behind her. “I like Jane, but I had plans for tonight. I had planned to dine with you in private and quiet, and to talk with you, and just you, and flirt with you, and just you, and then to take advantage of the splendour and privacy of our bedroom suite.”

“And how…would you take advantage of it?”

“Oh,” he said blandly, “I’d get a full nine hours sleep in the softest bed in the world, and wake to the smell of French chocolate brought by a French maid.”

She turned with her mouth open in surprise, and his eyes went up and down her figure with a strange little half-smile on his face, before he met her gaze, and the smile became a full one, and he stretched out a hand to take her own.

“I’ll confess, I had planned to seduce you tonight. My plans are awry. And I am peeved.”

She felt the strength in the bones of his fingers, the warmth in his flesh. She felt light headed, light stomached, light bodied, like only his hold of her hand kept her from floating away.

“It’s only… a meal… It won’t take all night.”

“But it might take all night for me to get you to like me, see? I might need that hour.” He pulled her hand to his and kissed her fingertips one by one. Each kiss left the same cold fire in the veins of her hands.

“I… don’t think it will take that long,” Verity said faintly, as his kisses began to climb the inside of her wrist, until they were stopped at the cuff off her sleeve.

He held her hand in his a moment, staring at it, as though perplexed by the preventative sleeve. Then he raised his eyes curiously to her face, and she found herself tilting her head upwards for him to kiss again, and he did. After another two or three kisses, she had her hands once more at his waist, squeezing slightly against the firm flesh, and then exploring upwards, to the warmth and strength of his back, feeling the muscles shift under her hands. Her closed eyes saw only phantom starlight.

“Mmmph,” she said.

“Mmm?” He released her lips but kept his face close to her own so his breath brushed her cheek. “Verity?”

She flushed, her breathing coming fast. No words came to mind. In their absence, she could think of no answer but kiss him inexpertly on the lips. He responded in kind.

A few moments later, his hands found her buttocks, and then her thighs, and she gave a shriek as he jolted her suddenly up into his arms. Now the phantom starlight was everywhere in her body, blooming out from her legs, splayed about his warm, athletic waist.

“Oh!” She balanced herself awkwardly about him, holding to his neck and shoulders. “Oh! Am I not too heavy?”

“No.” He kissed her collar bone. “No, but I am being too hasty. Forgive me.” He walked awkwardly to the couch and sat down in it, in a rush, still carrying her. “Now, you should probably close your legs, my dear, and allow my attention to be devoted to your mouth. That is where the lesson of love making begins. I was hasty. I skipped some chapters, and we must return to them, in order.”

She giggled. Despite the solemnity of his words, he had no poise or grandeur. His unsteady breathing interrupted every few words, his face was flushed, and his hair was deranged about his forehead. She kissed a loose, grey-black curl, and scrambled around, with his hands aiding her, until she was sitting in one corner of the couch, her legs across his knees.

His lips dropped to hers. The lesson resumed.

Some time later, in the distance, a clock chimed seven. Verity pushed herself away from her husband, startled.

“Oh! I must get washed! And dressed!”

“Must you?” said Mr Armiger sadly, pulling her closer again. “Must you?”

“Yes!”

He let her go with a sigh, and she whirled about the room to find her clothes. Helpfully, Armiger offered if she needed help to undress, but did not move from his position on the couch, watching her gather her things.

She gave a nervous glance at the dressing screen in the corner, and he must have seen it, for he added,

“But I’m being too hasty again.”

When she was standing naked behind the dressing screen, she remembered the feel of the phantom starlight his touch caused inside her, and her heart beat faster. Her nudity and her blush hidden by the screen, she called:

“But you must - must – continue the lesson after dinner. There’s still some things I don’t understand.”

More kissing! I get self-conscious writing kissing scenes. There’s not much you can really say about kissing beyond ‘He kissed her’ and ‘It felt good’. But that’s not exactly suitable for this kind of story, is it? Thanks for all the support, guys, all the reads, and votes, and comments <333

Chapter Thirteen: Entrapment

The hotel was larger and more extravagant than the one they had stayed in in Blackpool, and the dining room attracted many fantastic visitors. Verity saw a man wearing a giant blue feather in his hair, and a woman in a dress made of so fine a fabric it was almost transparent – no, she saw, it was definitely transparent.

“Do all the French dress like this?” she whispered to her husband.

“I think you’ll find that was an Englishwoman,” he replied, scanning the room for the Walthropes. But Verity saw them first. They were at a quiet table in a corner, away from the crowds, half-enclosed by a drape coming from the wall. She got the feeling, suddenly, that Mrs Walthrope was the kind of woman who always managed to make sure things were arranged to her liking.

Armiger saw them too, and they went over.

“Are you quite well now?” Miss Walthrope asked solicitously as Armiger pulled out a chair for Verity.

“Much better, thank you. It was just sea-sickness.”

“I never can handle the first day at sea myself,” Miss Walthrope admitted. “Well, I say, never, but that was the first real sea journey I’ve ever been on. I was quite all right after the first day though.”

Miss Walthrope was awkward, and pleasant despite it. Mrs Walthrope, sitting next to Armiger, had dressed extremely well in a pale green chiffon gown with dark green satin ribbon details. It set off her cream complexion very well, and she seemed to glow with more youth and energy than Verity. She was neither as awkward nor pleasant as her sister-in-law.

“Now,” Mrs Walthrope said, sensing Verity examining her, “You must tell me more about yourself. I must know you.”

There was a strange intensity, emphasis to almost every second word. Mrs Walthrope’s blue eyes were fixed brightly on Verity’s, and there was a half-hidden curve of her lips that made Verity sure she was laughing at her.

“I’m not in the habit of knowing myself to strangers,” said Verity. “What should I say?”

“Well,” said Mrs Walthrope, “You can begin with what you think of your husband. Is he not terribly unfeeling at times?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Verity said, and focused her attentions on a bread roll. Suddenly, she realized how hungry she was, having spent the past few days hardly eating. She ate it in two bites, and was swallowing when Mr Armiger said warningly,

“Really, Jane, you’re teasing. I won’t begin to ask what you think of your husband.”

Mrs Walthrope shrugged. “He was fat. He was not handsome. His face was very red, like a brick, especially when I made him angry, and I did that frequently, didn’t I Elise?”

Miss Walthrope assented. “Oh yes, you can be so trying, dear. I suppose it’s your mind. You didn’t ask for a sharp mind, but you’ve got one, and it makes your tongue sharp too.”

“But now you know what I think of my husband,” Jane said brightly, “So why don’t you tell me what you think of yours?”

Verity had finished her roll and was looking to see when they would be served the entree. She was annoyed that Mrs Walthrope was still prying, especially when she herself was curious to have her questions about Armiger answered. So she only said, with a passable attempt at amusement,

“You can see yourself, he’s slender and handsome and pale, and not angry. But that’s not how you get to know a person anyway. Why don’t you ask me about…” She paused. “Oh, Food.” The footman was bringing a tray over.

For several minutes, the table was silent but for the scrape of forks against ceramic. Verity busied herself with the beef sirloin, and the kidney pie.

Armiger, when conversation could be attempted again, began to talk about the music that was playing. Verity and Miss Walthrope agreed with his sentiment, without understanding it; Mrs Walthrope had an argument. Listening to them, Verity felt very uneducated. Miss Walthrope leaned towards her.

“Jane is such a clever woman. I can never keep up with what she’s saying.”

“I suppose she was educated highly.”

“Not very. Her father was only a lawyer. He could not afford much. My father had me to private governesses all my childhood – and yet I can hardly remember any French, and even though I have quite a passable ability with music, I don’t know who these composers are, that they talk of. I like Chopin. Who is Sarque?”

“I have no idea. I’m more poorly educated than either of you, I’m afraid.”

Miss Walthrope’s mouth opened in a little O of surprise. “But you!? I was sure, from what Jane said of him, that Mr Armiger would only marry a very well educated woman. He is very intelligent, she tells me.”

“It’s a deficiency in me, yes.” Verity did not wish to explain why she was so poorly educated. She noticed that Mrs Walthrope’s eyes were once more upon her. “I like to think my own native intelligence compensates for it. But I don’t know who Sarque is.”

“Sarque,” Mrs Walthrope cut in, “is the head-chef of this establishment. You have him to thank for this meal.”

“And I thought he was a composer,” Miss Walthrope said sadly.

“He must be quite the genius,” Verity said. “The food is very good.”

“We English have a lot to learn from the French cuisine.”

There followed another argument there. Mr Armiger defended British cuisine. Mrs Walthrope attacked it. The continent was far superior. The British, as a species, were too fond of cucumbers to ever develop a worthwhile cuisine.

After dinner, Mrs Walthrope asked if Mr Armiger and his wife would not be dancing, and Verity said that she did not, which was a chance for Armiger to offer Mrs Walthrope his hand. She accepted, and they were off. Verity was left with Miss Walthrope at their table.

Miss Walthrope sighed. “Your really are very lucky to have married him, Mrs Armiger.”

The address caught Verity off guard, as it had every time someone had called her by her new name. The content of it more so. She blushed, and then, remembering the tantalizing feel of his waist beneath her hand, blushed deeper.

“I don’t know what to say – do I agree? Do I thank you? I think – I think my luck very strange, in this matter.”

Miss Walthrope laughed. “Don’t be shy. You can say what you will to me.”

“Well, I think –” Too delicate to say the truth about their meeting, but full of the memories of it now, Verity faltered. Trying to come up with something to say, she blurted, “You know, when I first met him, I didn’t like him at all. I thought he looked like a devil.”

“I can’t imagine!”

“Oh, yes – but he was quite unpleased at that time. It’s very different when he smiles. His entire face changes. I do like his smile.”

Her tone was almost dispassionate, for she was not the kind to wear her heart on her sleeve, even if she had had one for him, but Miss Walthrope, older, and far more romantic, gave a wistful sigh that disturbed the napkins on the table.

“And you look well together – both so dark, and tall.”

“Thank you.”

The dancers came back. Mrs Walthrope was flushed with exertion, her eyes sparkling.

“I could dance all night,” she declared, throwing herself down in her chair. “Don’t you think, Neil?”

“I’ve known you to do so.” His lips quirked in a smile. “Perhaps now you are too old though.”

“Insult!” she drew herself up in mock offense. “Rein in your husband, Mrs Armiger, he is too bold.”

“He is capable of reining in himself,” Verity said, a little coldly, disliking the flirtatiousness of Mrs Walthrope’s tone.

“Then you are the one of the pair to be tamed, and he the one to do the taming! I see it now! It’s always that way – one to give, and one to receive.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate of marriage.”

“Oh it is! I assure you it is! And the very best marriages…” Mrs Walthrope’s eyes sparkled. “The very best marriages are those formed when the one to be tamed offers some fight – you must offer him fight, Mrs Armiger! He does not like a meek woman. I know that.”

“Mrs Armiger is most certainly not meek,” Armiger said laughingly. “No, you have misread her.”

“Well I hope she’s not, for your sake,” Mrs Walthrope said, fanning her face with a silk trinket with storks on it.“You never could stand it in a woman.”

“Oh, couldn’t I? I’m beginning to think you’ve misread me as well, Mrs Walthrope.” Armiger did not sit down, but offered his hand to Miss Walthrope, waiting. “But won’t you dance with me, Miss Walthrope? We can leave these two to squabble over meekness.”

It was not just for politeness’s sake that he asked the middle-aged spinster to dance. Verity was beginning to see and appreciate her husband’s kindness, beginning, too, to understand it. He was as kind to those he pitied as he was smug to those he disliked. And to Mrs Walthrope, who he did not pity or dislike, he was not kind, but something else, something better.

Slightly jealously, as she knew herself pitied by her husband, and thus held in some lower position of regard, Verity faced the older woman, who was continuing to fan her face, watching the dancers.

“How long have you known my husband?” she asked quietly. “You seem to know him very well. Much better than I.”

Mrs Walthrope put her fan down and smiled at Verity. “Jealous?”

“No! Just curious.”

“Oh, well I suppose I do know him well.” Mrs Walthrope stared off in the distance, as though remembering. “Since I was a child of eight or so. I haven’t seen him for twelve or more years, of course, but the character is set when you are a child, and I can tell you his character as I saw it.”

“Please. I would like to know how you see him.”

“Very well.” Mrs Walthrope picked at a bread crumb. “He’s cold. He’s all cold on the outside, and all hot within – when you see him in a temper – but you won’t. He never shows his temper. He never shows his passions. He hides them all – love, hate, anger… but they’re there, simmering below the surface. Sometimes he says or does things that are quite incomprehensible, because he’s feeling something he never let you know he feels. I’m sure he didn’t exactly sweep you off your feet, with the proposal now? But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t feeling it. Though it doesn’t mean he was either. You can’t tell with Neil. Was he feeling it, do you think?”

Verity looked down at her dirty plate, remembering the pale penitence on Mr Armiger’s face when he kneeled down beside her bed to ask for her hand. “He was rather more emotional that day, than normal,” she said guardedly. “Perhaps his character has changed, since you knew him. He may have become more open.”

Mrs Walthrope laughed, and continued laughing, long after it seemed proper. Verity waited nervously. Finally Mrs Walthrope leaned over the table, her big blue eyes open and whispered:

“I thought I might get it from you, but I can see I won’t. He did tell me, you know, how you came to be married.”

Verity’s stomach seemed to turn over on itself.

“Entrapment!” whispered Mrs Walthrope. “Really! I must congratulate you for it. Upon meeting you, I couldn’t quite see how you had it in you – but oh you’ve got boldness alright, and a different kind from mine. I do admire a woman who chooses her path, and then tramples all over those who stand in her way of it. I really do.”

Verity stared at the other woman. Now her hands were shaking out of shock, a strange venom of emotion seeping through her veins. He had told her!

Mrs Walthrope’s eyes were large and blue and bold.

“How do you think he feels about you?” she asked innocently. “It’s so hard to tell with him.

Verity could stand it no longer.

She stood, pushing her chair back from the table. She tried to say goodnight, but the words would not come. A smile was playing across Mrs Walthrope’s lips. It taunted her. She left without a word.

*  *  *

Fifteen minutes later, Neil pushed open the door of their room. As soon as he returned from the dance to find Verity gone, he had made his excuses and left also, remembering how social expectations had interrupted him from her warm kisses and quivering touch before dinner. But the room was dark, bar for one lamp still lit on the wall, barely showing her huddled lump in her bed.

“Verity?”

After a long moment, her voice, thin and cold, answered him.

“Yes.”

Silence.

“You’re well awake?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

He came and sat down on the side of her bed. The bed sheets rustled in alarm. She sat up.

“What are you—?”

There was just enough light for him to see her face. Her eyes were dark and wide, not frightened, but surprised.

“Verity.”

He caught her chin, and raised her face to meet his, but she received his kiss with a stiff unpleasedness completely out of sorts with her warmth only an hour earlier. He pulled back.

“What’s wrong?”

She turned her head away.

“Verity, please, have I done something wrong? Why won’t you talk to me?” He ran his mind over the events of the past hour, and came to the conclusion too quickly. “What did Jane say to you? She must have said something – oh, she’s a devil when she wants to be! But it can’t have been true, whatever it was!”

“She said nothing untrue. I am tired and going to sleep.”

The bed clothes rustled. Verity lay back down and turned away from him. He put out a hand to grasp her shoulder, to stroke her cheek, but pulled it back before it could reach. No. Better not. Right now, it would only anger her, and make her retreat back into her haughty, proud shell.

He stood, and undressed in the semi-dark. Only when he was in bed, the light vanquished, preparing to sleep, did she speak, one cold sentence:

“Why did you tell Mrs Walthrope how we came to be married?”

He breathed out, slowly. So Jane had told her that and certainly that was true. But Verity was silly to be angered over it.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the darkness. “I should not have done so. She will not repeat it to others.” And then, after a silence. “She sensed it was not a love match. She pressed me. I could not lie to her.”

“You could have said nothing of it.”

Could he? It had been easy to agree to marry Verity, so easy, but with every passing day of winter, the consequences of that choice had become harder for him to bear. He had needed to confess to someone his doubts, and Jane had been his only someone. He had felt so much lighter after speaking to her.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

There was a much longer silence this time. He was almost asleep when she said, in a very low voice:

“Did you call it an entrapment, or was that her term?”

“That was her term,” he mumbled. “Not mine.”

But he didn’t disclaim it this time. Half-way, he thought tiredly and pettishly, it was true.

Yay! Arguments! Drama! Anguish!

Chapter Fourteen: Eighth Night

Neil had thought Verity’s coldness would pass as quickly as it had come. It did not. The morning after, she rebuffed his apologetic kisses, turned away from his prying fingers, and ignored his sweet nothings, for the nothings they were. That night, arrived in his friend’s manor in the countryside, there was still nothing more than cold civility between them. She condescended to let him kiss her cheek good night, and he felt it for the condescension it was, and burned.

His pride stung, he turned cold too. He left her alone in the rambling French manor and spent several days exclusively in the company of his old friend Prothero, catching up on the years. They had met on the tour, in Italy, as boys of seventeen. As men of the same class and creed tend to do in a foreign place, they had bonded, despite their differences of temperament, or perhaps because of them. Prothero was care-free, hedonistic, and extroverted, the sort of young man who it seemed inevitable would grow into one of those fat, jovial, red-faced old men who demand the descriptor “Jolly.” And, with the extra pounds he had put on in the past six or so years, it seemed to Neil that Prothero was doing all he could to hasten the transition.

After the first wave of acute nostalgia passed, and there was nothing more of the past to talk about, Neil turned his attention back to the future, to Verity. By then, the bruise to his pride had faded, and he could hardly remember what they had argued about, or why. Therefore, he wasn’t expecting her to stare coldly at him, when he entered the drawing room to look for her that evening, and to say, in response to his gentle greeting,

“What do you want?”

It wasn’t a grunt, or a growl, or a slur. It was worse than that, because there was no emotion in it at all, except a cold, snake-like distrust. He drew back, almost flinching, and then came in and shut the door behind him. No one else was around, and Verity was apparently amusing herself with embroidery by the light of a lamp.

“Oh, Verity, I’ve been neglecting you,” he began sheepishly. He knew he had intended to be cruel, but only now did he realize how cruel it really had been: Verity spoke no French, and the only people who spoke English in the manor were he, Mr Prothero, and Mr Prothero’s wife, who was mostly too busy with her new baby to pay her husband’s visitors any attention.

“Yes,” Verity said sharply. “So why speak to me now?”

He sat down on the settee next to her. “Please let me apologize,” he begged.

“I can’t stop you.” She stabbed her needle through the cloth savagely. It was a silk handkerchief, and she was embroidering tiny pale pink roses along its edge. She was really very good at it – or had been until he had come in. Her stitches were now coming too rough and fast: the silk warped under her careless touch.

“I’m so sorry, my darling, I just – I had to catch up with an old friend, you must understand me.”

“I do. Perfectly well.” Her needle went savagely onward, and she would not look at him. “God knows I haven’t heard a thousand untrue apologies before – God knows my father hasn’t called me “My darling” a thousand times, in supplication – but he’s a drunk. They’re supposed to be abominable.“

“Verity, no! That’s not true – I really, I haven’t been good to you and I want-”

“You’re sliming ,” she said icily. “I loathe a man who slimes .”

“No!” His cheeks burned. “I don’t slime!”

She pulled her needle so violently through the cloth that the thread snapped, and she sat with it dumbly between her fingers.

“Verity,” he said pleadingly.

She put the handkerchief down on the arm of the settee and went over to the table, to rummage through her workbasket.

He got up, and followed her.

“Verity.”

Still, she wouldn’t look at him. She found her thread, went back to the settee, and held it up to the light to thread it through the needle.

He came back, sat down beside her once more, and said casually,

“Are you going to ignore me forever?”

If he had continued in that way, he might have won her back that night, because there was no slime in voice now. Rather, he was beginning to goad her, with his clever little words and cold, ironic tone. He didn’t know that, even though she didn’t like him that way, she did find him amusing that way, and that she would probably have enjoyed that kind of verbal fight. But, remembering that he had come to apologize, not to fight, he controlled his tongue. He reached out and put a gently pleading hand on her knee.

She stabbed him with the needle.

He shrieked, and jumped up and backwards, holding his hand out in front of him. The needle glinted where it stuck up at a right angle from the soft flesh between the tendons of his first and second finger. A dark bead of blood swelled up around its base.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. Her embroidery things scattered around her as she jumped up towards him. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to –” There were tears in her eyes, bright and glittering under the lamplight. She reached out her hands towards him. “Oh, I’m so sorry, does it hurt?”

He backed away, until he came against the glass side cabinet, his hand held out in front of him, the bead of blood trickling down the back of his palm. The first overwhelming waves of pain had subsided, and now his hand throbbed sharply. “ Does it hurt!? God, woman, is it a rite of passage, with you, to stab your lovers?“

Her soft touch, having found his hand, to gently probe the wound, froze. The door opened, and Mrs Prothero looked in, her forehead twisted in worry.

“Someting is wrrrong?”

Verity turned her face to the door, eyes large and dark with unspoken horror.

“Acceedent?” Mrs Prothero said, seeing the blood drip from Armiger’s wrist. “ Ah! Mon tapis persan! “

She came forward, crying about the blood on her carpets, and Neil twisted his hand to try to keep the blood from spilling. Verity, as though a spell had suddenly broken, whirled away from Neil, and through the door Mrs Prothero had vacated.

“It was just an accident,” Neil protested later, while Mrs Prothero cleaned and bound his hand for him, chattering angrily at him in French all the while. “She didn’t mean to do it.”

“So you say!” Her charming, tired face flamed red. “Men like you give women many good reasons to stab a man, I’ve no doubt! But if you’re going to do any stabbing, you’ll not do it on my best carpet! You must tell her, if she kills you, she must do it outside, like any good guest would. What the English think of hospitality!”

At another time, Neil might have taken the chance to have a friendly argument about French hospitality laws, but he was worried, more about Verity than his hand, and as soon as Mrs Prothero had finished binding it, he thanked her and went upstairs to find Verity, though everybody else was beginning to sit down for supper.

She wasn’t in their room. She wasn’t in their small washroom either.

He explored every place he thought she might be, and even went out to look through the grounds, missing supper. She wasn’t anywhere. After supper, he had a quiet word to Prothero, and servants were sent out with torches, to search the vineries, the outhouses, and the entire grounds. Someone found her – where, he never learned – but she came back, trailing miserably through the entrance hall.

“Verity,” Neil said, in relief. “Are you alright?” He stretched his bandaged hand out to take hers.

“Don’t touch me,” she said quietly. The French servants could not understand the words, but they knew her tone. Anyone in any language would. His hand fell to his side, and all the servants looked on, with their faces alight with the thrill of a scene.

But he wasn’t going to make one, and nor was Verity. She approached Mr Prothero anxiously.

“I’m so sorry about the fuss, Mr Prothero,” she said. “I just – I just went for a walk. I’m so sorry about it. There was really no need to bother with me.”

“There’s no harm done. You’re not cold? Hungry? There’s some supper left over for you.”

“Thank you – I’m starving.”

Neil was starving too, having also missed supper, but no one seemed to remember it, and he wasn’t going to remind them. The idea of having to sit at the little table in the kitchen, with Verity, while the gossipy cook looked on, was intolerable.

He went to bed.

An hour or so later, Verity came up. She slipped silently into the room and shut the door. He had left the two wall lamps lit, and sat up when she came in. He hadn’t been able to sleep, and hadn’t intended to. He had just needed to be alone in his shame.

“Please can we talk?” He was desperate to apologize to her – for real, this time. She had been right in seeing that his earlier apologies were not entirely true.

“Fine.” She was white-faced, and refused to look at him.

But now, he didn’t know what to say. He stuttered, and ummed and ahhed. She got out her bed-things, and disappeared behind the screen. A moment later she reappeared in her nightgown. She doused the candles, and went to the bed. There was only one large double bed for them, and it had never been used for anything other than sleeping, so far. He didn’t hold any hope that tonight would be any different, and nor did he care. He wanted only to make sure that the hurt he had caused her wouldn’t – linger.

She climbed in bed with him. She had nowhere else to sleep. But he noted how stiff she was, and how close to the edge she lay.

“Verity, I should never have said that,” he whispered. “I just – I was mad with pain and I – I didn’t mean it. And I know you didn’t mean to do it – I could see that but I just…”

In the darkness, a half-swallowed sob escaped her throat. He ached to pull her close and comfort her – but what good would that do, to be embraced by the thornbush that had wounded you?

“I know you’re not – you’re not violent or anything. I just – I was…”

“It’s not that! It’s that- that one word… if you didn’t mean it – isn’t that worse? Because it’s what you think, beneath what you mean… you called… you said, ‘to stab your lovers’ – my lovers – As though – that man – was my… that’s what you think deep down.” She buried her face in her pillow and unleashed a strange, shrieking cry into it.

“No, no, Verity, I – I was absolutely livid with pain and I – I didn’t mean it that way. I’m not – I know who you are, and what kind of man – he was. Please, I never meant- I really, really didn’t.”

He was in as much an agony of shame as she was an agony of sorrow. He dug a finger into the throbbing wound of his hand, angry with himself, until the pain bloomed again and he had to grit his teeth against it.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You should just forget it,” she said drearily, emerging from the pillow, her voice thin, and threatening to collapse in on itself. “Just… forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

She may have slept, after that. He didn’t know. He lay awake for a long time, listening to her breathing.

It was the eighth night of their marriage, and so far, the longest.

Whew. Dah-rah-mah. Two things you should know:

1. I don’t speak French. There are a few French phrases in upcoming chapters, and of course this one. If they’re wrong, please correct me.

2. I started this story a year and a half ago, wrote the first part, and then got stuck and abandoned it. Then, about six months ago I solved my problems and started writing it again, with a solid plotting outline to help me. But at this point, much of what I’m publishing on Wattpad is fairly recently written, and maybe isn’t as strong as what was in Part One, which had more rigorous editing.

Chapter Fifteen: An Air of Abandonment and Waiting

A spell of bad weather kept everybody indoors for a week. Despite that, Verity managed to avoid Armiger so well that she wasn’t entirely sure if he wasn’t also trying to avoid her. They hardly ever seemed to be in the same room of the house at the same time. And if they were, it was never alone, except for the one time she had come into the library and found him asleep on the couch, a book fallen to the floor beside him.

She watched him in silence. His chest rose and fell with his sleeping breath, the buttons of his shirt pulling against the fabric, and then falling slack again. One of his hands was lying over his belly, the same hand she had stabbed with the needle. The bandage was gone now, and the wound was so small as to be invisible.

She hadn’t really meant to do it. It had been a reflex, more than a reaction, and as soon as she had done it, she had been filled with an all-consuming, painful remorse. Even now, she felt guilty for it. But her guilt couldn’t compare to her sense of betrayal.

He had sworn to her, in the early days of their courtship, that he believed implicitly in her honour. Now that one word – lovers – spoken in the heat of the moment seemed to prove to her that deep down, he didn’t. Deep down, beneath what he believed he thought, there was something he felt: doubt. And she realized, now, that she could never prove it to him, that Harlan had not taken her chastity, or, worse, that she had not given it to him. And she burned with the indignity of needing proof at all. She had thought he had some faint measure of faith in her. He did not.

His hand moved, his eyelids fluttered, he woke, and looked sleepily up at her.

“Verity.” His hand pulled coaxingly at her skirt, inviting her down to the couch with him.

“I only came to get my book,” she said, and swept away, without it.

The atmosphere of the house was oppressive. Outside, rain fell in sheets upon the mud-browned lawns. Indoors, Mrs Prothero’s baby kept everyone up at night with its colic, and Mrs Prothero’s mother and sister bickered ceaselessly in French.

One merely damp morning at the breakfast table, an argument between the two reached new heights of temper and volume. Verity stared at her plate and tried to pretend she wasn’t there. Armiger buried himself in an apparently fascinating letter.

“ Vous n’êtes pas ma mère! “ The daughter shrieked across the breakfast service. “

Vous ne l’ êtes pas! Vous ne l’ êtes pas! “

Chair legs screeched backwards against the terracotta floor. Something crashed against a far wall.

“ Ça suffit! “ Prothero shouted.

He was standing up. It was he who had thrown the coffee cup against the wall, where it had shattered, and sent an ugly brown splatter over the pale yellow wall paper. Slowly, droplets of coffee began to ooze down the wall.

Verity froze in her chair. She had never known the amiable Englishman to shout, let alone to be so angry. Everybody was silent, even the old Madame Gagnon and her daughter.

Prothero wiped his hand over his face. He shrugged, and said something in rapid French. Mrs Prothero protested, Armiger interjected. There was a discussion that Verity could take no part in. Eventually, something was decided. Mrs Prothero and her sister swept from the room. A maid wiped the coffee stains off the wall, and picked up the pieces of broken cup.

Verity looked anxiously around her, wondering what was going on.

“We’re going on a picnic,” Armiger said, seeing the question in her eyes.

She looked doubtfully out the window, at the iron grey skies.

“It’ll clear up,” Prothero said forcefully. “Sun’ll come out. March weather always changes quickly.”

He was right, as it turned out. By the time the seven of them (for the three-year-old Henry was also invited) climbed into Prothero’s two coaches, a pale sunlight was peering curiously through the clouds. When they arrived at Bastien’s Castle, in the middle of the forest, the sun had climbed out fully, and the world, though still damp, seemed infinitely more cheerful for it.

Bastien’s Castle, Mr Prothero explained to Verity on the way there, wasn’t a castle at all, but a tiny little stone hovel in the middle of the forest. In the eight century, a peasant had insurrected against his lord, Duke Corentin, and proclaimed himself King Bastien of the forest. If he had had any followers, his revolution would have been swiftly put down. As it was, everybody looked upon him as a crazy fool, and Duke Corentin tolerated King Bastien with amusement, even encouraged him. King Bastien began to build his castle in the forest, from local stones and mud and branches. For a moat, he diverted water from a nearby stream, and managed to make a muddy puddle around his castle. In wet springs, it had been known to grow as deep as two feet. In dry summers, it was often nothing more than baked mud. The castle itself never expanded more than the one low stone room, which still stood today, forlornly, in the middle of its moat.

King Bastien’s tale ended sadly, said Prothero. It occurred to King Bastien that every king needed a queen, and the only woman of high birth from thereabouts was Lady Rozenn, Duke Corentin’s daughter. What had amused the duke until the day King Bastien stole off with his daughter amused him no longer. King Bastien was slain by the duke’s own blade.

Scores of local legends remained about the place. Some said King Bastien haunted it, and that on moonlit nights you might come across him, and be granted your deepest desire. Darker legends suggested you really didn’t want to.

Either way, it was a pleasant picnic spot, in daylight at least. The moat was silver and sparkling in the pale sunlight, surrounded by pleasant grasses. Weeping willows overlooked the stream, and the forest around the castle had been cleared into a sweet, grassy little meadow, across which butterflies flitted and blue-bells nested. The building itself seemed to be held together by moss and lichen, and was reached by a charming wooden fretwork bridge that someone had put up in more recent years.

Inside, Verity found it less charming. There were no windows, and the only light came through the open doorway, and the mossed-over smoke hole. She had to stoop not to bang her head on the ceiling, and the floor was an unpleasant, tacky mud, that smelled like rotten fish and mould. A pile of stones in one corner suggested what might have been a throne, at one time. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the smoke hole and across the seat, warming it for a king who hadn’t sat there in a thousand years. The entire place had a forlorn air of abandonment and waiting.

“Not the most pleasant home,” Mr Prothero admitted, entering after her. “Look, someone’s been lighting fires. I suppose the local children play here. I can’t imagine how anyone ever lived here though. It’s miserable.”

“Yes. Miserable’s the word for it.” For a moment, she could almost see Bastien, as he had been, cross-legged on his ramshackle throne, lording it over his imaginary domain and stolen queen. “What happened to Lady Rozenn?”

Prothero hesitated moment, before answering, “She took her own life. She drowned herself.”

“Gruesome.” Verity shuddered. Suddenly, the atmosphere of the hut was too much for her, and she went gladly back into the sunlight outside.

They ate lunch in the meadow, on the grass, and when they were finished, walked up and down the shore of the stream, or into the gentle green woods. Baby Henry splashed his toes in the water of the moat, and screamed when he discovered how cold it was. Mrs Prothero rushed to comfort him. Verity skipped stones in the stream, but never managed more than three skips before they sunk. There were not enough rocks around to discover any really smooth and flat, for skipping. Then Baby Henry decided he want to do it too, only for Baby Henry it meant slamming the largest rocks he could into the moat, and dodging the splashes (he had already forgotten the cold).

Verity distracted him, and took him up to the meadow to pick bluebells, and chase butterflies. He cried out in delight and chattered to her in French she could not understand. She talked back to him in equally incomprehensible English, and when he was tired sat him down to braid his golden hair.

Mrs Prothero came to sit by them. She smiled charmingly at Verity. She had forgiven her already for the carpet, because she was never a woman to hold a grudge.

“You like cheeldren? You want to have a chay-ald? A babee?” There was genuine interest there.

“Well, I – I don’t know… I haven’t really thought about it.” She had vaguely supposed that sooner or later there would be a child, at least since the night Armiger admitted he wanted her as a woman, as well as a wife. But she thought now that he might have changed his mind about that, and she was no longer so sure about even her own mind.

Mrs Prothero laughed. “You’re married! You must tink about it! But, maybe…. already? It’s too quick, to know…”

Verity flushed. She couldn’t answer that, in English or any other language. She handed the boy to his mother, and muttered she needed to stretch her legs.

She strolled off at random down a little forest path. There was no fear of getting lost here, because the forest was not deep, really, more of a wood, and the paths well made if a little overgrown at this time of year.

Even in early spring, perhaps, particularly in early spring, the forest was beautiful and welcoming. Daffodils were poking up from cold pockets of moss, and little green leaves were budding out along every grey, spidery branch. She meandered through rabbit trails, and at intervals dived off the path to examine a bird’s nest in a tree, or chase a weasel or a rabbit.

She enjoyed it, but a distracted part of her mind was concentrated on the idea of children, and the longer she walked, the more the distracted part took over, until she was hardly seeing the forest at all. The truth was, she had always longed to be a mother. Perhaps, for the wrong reasons. As a child, her own mother dead, her father useless and unnurturing, she had marked up the scores of grievances life had dealt against her, and determined that she would protect her own child from them. She was sure she would have one. She needed a daughter, to give her the things that she had missed, as a daughter. And now, thinking about it, the agony of that perverted childhood dream came back to her, and she wondered if perhaps, for that reason alone, she would make a terrible mother. She would be one of those mothers, she thought, who wanted everything to be about themselves. She would be selfish.

And Armiger – what kind of father would be make? She knew he had had a son, who had died. But he never talked about his son, or his first wife, and Verity had never dared ask. She didn’t even know if he wanted a child, or how he would treat one. Perhaps he was the sort of man who believed children should be raised by hired nursemaids, and only seen at appropriate moments, like christenings and funerals.

“I should have asked him all this before I married him,” she said aloud, to a blackberry bush. “Why didn’t I ask him ?”

But she hadn’t, and now it seemed impossible to do so. She could hardly bring herself to ask him to pass the butter at breakfast, let alone a question so vital as this.

It was in that unpleasant mood that the first drop of rain fell on her cheek. She raised her head to the sky, and saw the fragile sun had been once more conquered by clouds.

“Oh dammit!”

She was at least a mile from the others by now, a mile from shelter – perhaps more, she had lost track of time. She turned back, and hurried down the path, looking anxiously up at the sky. Another rain drop fell down between the branches, then another and another. Then the drops became a shower, and the shower became rain, and then there was a sudden roll of thunder, and the rain became a pouring flood.

She took shelter under the branches of an oak tree, shivering. There was nothing for it but to wait out the storm. Uncomfortable drips of water ferreted their way down between the leaves to strike her on the head. In the distance, there was another roll of thunder.

She shifted under a broader branch. Thankfully, her clothing was warm, and she wore a stout coat over her linen dress and petticoat. To be sure, the rain had invaded through her collar, and the mud at her ankles, but a storm so fierce could not last long, and when it had ceased, she would be back to the clearing, and off with the others, to home, where there was warmth, and fires, and hot tea.

She was right, in the very least, about the storm. It blew itself out to a thin pattering rain within a quarter of an hour, and the thunder moved off to the distant eastern hills. She shook herself out, stamped her feet, and made the dreary walk back to the clearing in the drizzle. The sky was now slate-grey above her, though it could not be past four o’clock.

She got back to Bastien’s Castle a short while later, shivering, and acutely conscious of just how unpleasant it was to have damp stockings in muddy boots.

For a moment, she stood still, in bewilderment and shock. Huge changes had passed since she had been here two hours ago. The silver moat had swelled to be five feet broad, and brown with mud. The carpet of bluebells was flattened and bruised by wind and rain.

And the two coaches, and everyone who had arrived in them, were gone.

I think everyone in the world has been forgotten some place at least once, especially as a child. It’s not a nice feeling.

Chapter Sixteen: Her Inattentive Prince

What had happened, though Verity didn’t know it, was that shortly after she had left on her walk, Baby Henry had thrown himself in the stream.

Why he did it no one knew, except Baby Henry, and he never told. But he did do it. And it was Neil who had jumped in after him for his rescue. The stream was fast-flowing, faster still for the week of rain, and both boy and man were exhausted and wet when Neil finally managed to clamber back up the slippery bank to land, with the struggling toddler under one arm.

“ Mouillé, mouillé ,“ Baby Henry cried plaintively. “ Mouillé. “

“ Oui, tu es mouillé, “ Mrs Prothero snapped at him. She looked around for Mr Prothero, but he and her mother-in-law had gone for a walk in the forest, and were too far away to have heard her screams. Only her younger sister remained in the meadow, hovering anxiously at her elbow to see if she could help.

She could not. There was no help to be had but a hot bath and dry clothes, and they were only to be had some ten miles away.

“We’re going home,” Mrs Prothero told her in French. “Tell George that we’ve gone home in the black carriage, to get dry.”

Her sister promised to pass on the message, and, seeing she could do no more, returned to the picnic rug to re-read a letter she had received that morning, analyzing it for any possible hidden messages. A few minutes later, she distantly registered the sound of horses’ hooves, but did not look up to the road to see the carriage go.

As the carriage rolled away, with Neil and Mrs Prothero and Henry inside, Neil couldn’t help but suspect that Baby Henry, though weeping angelically, was secretly pleased with himself. Neil wasn’t in the mood to blame him, for Neil was also secretly pleased with Henry. It had occurred to him, once he was back on the bank with Henry in his arms, that he had been quite the hero to rescue him, and though he had noted Verity was not around to see it, he thought hopefully that she might be impressed when she heard of it.

At four o’clock, when the storm had started up again, Mr Prothero and his mother- and sister-in-law had packed up the picnic things and decamped in the second coach.

“Where is the English man’s little wife?” Prothero’s mother-in-law asked him, as he took her hand to help her into the carriage.

“She went back with him, Mama,” his sister-in-law said tetchily, from her seat. “She is his wife .” For the main argument between the two women was that the sixteen-year-old girl wished to make a match of it with a man her mother thought quite unsuitable.

The girl spoke with such conviction that neither Prothero nor her mother considered for a moment that it might be assumption, not fact. And as for the driver of the carriage, who might otherwise have been trusted to count heads, he had been seeing double all afternoon. It came upon him, sometimes, this strange and wonderful affliction, and he was very quiet as his two masters directed him to start the drive home, lest he betray it to either of them.

His affliction was also responsible for the little accident the company experienced on the road home, doubling the length of their journey by the dreary wait under a drizzling awning in the village while two men, who were not seeing double, fixed the dislocated wheel.

It was grey, chilly dusk when the second carriage finally arrived at the manor, driven by Prothero, who had fired his drunken carriage man. Neil went down to the front door to meet it, attired in silk robes and slippers, as befitted a hero of his standing.

His smile faded as Prothero opened the carriage door, and only two ladies descended from it.

“Where’s Verity?”

•       *       *

At that moment, Verity was huddled on the stone throne of Bastien’s castle, damp in body and damp in spirit. She had waited some time for the carriages to return, and just as she had decided to walk the ten foreign miles back home, the drizzle had intensified once more to rain, leaving her with no option but to take shelter, and wait to be rescued.

Now, in the last, fading light of the fragile day, the rain stopped, this time, with an air of finality. The forest began to drip dry, and marsh frogs, in this new silence, began to croak and cackle to one another.

Verity shifted in her position, the stone grinding under her boot sole. One of her legs had gone numb. She was cold from her toes to little white ears, a cold that seemed to sink bone deep. She was no longer scared, or angry. She was only miserable, and resigned to her misery. She wanted, more than anything, to sink into the soft plushness of her bed, and draw the warm quilts over her body. But bed was hours and miles away yet. And the softest pillow she had for her head was her knees, clutched up against her chest.

Night fell. Outside, the dark clouds thinned, and a faint moonlight shone down through the smoke hole, reflecting in glimmers across patches of mired floor, and casting just enough light to make the darkness seem deeper. Still, the frogs croaked, and somewhere an owl screamed.

Eventually, by increments of worry and distrust, Verity became sure that no one was coming to rescue her tonight. She had been there hours, and now it was dark, and surely no one would come for her in the dark.

She left the hut, and stared upwards forlornly at the sky. The clouds still blocked the stars, but they were thinner now, and seemed to hold no threat of rain. It was that, coupled with her conviction of abandonment, that made her decide to walk back, late and dark and cold though it was.

Besides, she reasoned, as she walked briskly down the road, I’ll die of cold if I stay there all night. I need to walk, to warm myself up.

At first, the black forest seemed by comparison a more pleasant place than the gloomy little hut. But during the intervals when the moonlight was snuffed by a patch of thick cloud, it was very black indeed, and the strange rustlings from the undergrowth, or cries of distant foxes, seemed sinister, and awakened within Verity a sort of animal caution. A falling leaf from a tree, brushing wetly past her cheek, made her jump and scream, and when a beech marten ran suddenly past her feet in pursuit of a mouse, she was panicked enough to take flight, and run.

It was possibly during that run, or possibly during one of the times when the moon was behind thick clouds, that Verity took the wrong fork in the road.

She didn’t realize she had done so until it was far too late. She hadn’t even realized there was more than one real road through the forest, when she had ridden throuh it in the carriage earlier that day. And she was half right. The road she was on was not a real road, as it terminated suddenly at a broken wooden bridge. Water rushed blackly in the gully beneath, and she shuddered as she realized that, had it not been for the faint light of the reappearing moon, she might have walked straight off the bridge and plunged into it. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she backed off the wooden bridge, and the sound made her remember that the bridge she had crossed in the carriage earlier that day had been made of stone.

She sat down on the road in the dark for some moments, resting, and trying to think what to do. To walk all the way back, and find where she had gone wrong, seemed impossible. Her legs ached with exhaustion, and she had blisters on both heels. It was equally impossible, and furthermore pointless, to return to the stone hut, and her miserable waiting. But to stay here, to fall down in exhaustion at the end of the useless road with its broken bridge, and sleep in the dirt, was a defeat Verity’s pride could not bear. She had amused herself, on her long walk, by imagining the look on Mr Armiger’s face when she presented herself at the front door of the manor at midnight, like a Cinderella who had not bothered to wait for her inattentive Prince. After that pleasant image, she could not bear to think of his look of pity if he or a search party found her forlorn in the dirt.

No. She would keep going. Besides, she could not be far from the little French village now, for the stone bridge that crossed the river led nearly right onto the high street, and the stone bridge could not be far from this wooden one. All she had to do was follow the river until she met it.

She stood up, and began to clamber through the undergrowth, sending nocturnal forest creatures fleeing from her crashing footsteps. She made sure to keep the river within earshot on her right, for her journey was not easy. Every few feet she had to duck under a branch, or divert around a tree trunk or bush. Thorns scratched at her bare hands and face, while weeds tangled graspingly at her ankles.

Soon, she thought to herself, soon I’ll be at the bridge – and out of this damned forest!

But soon never came. The stone bridge did not eventuate, not after ten minutes, nor twenty, nor thirty.

She had almost decided to give up and turn back when suddenly she put her foot down in an awkward hollow beneath a tree root, and twisted it. She fell to the ground, grating her hands against a tree trunk as she tried to catch herself, and sat there some time, clutching herself, and rocking with pain. When it subsided enough for her to attempt walking again, she found she could barely limp, and certainly could not push on over the uneven ground and clawing undergrowth.

Tired, frustrated, and near tears, Verity crawled to the same roots that had cruelly tripped her. There was a sort of depression beneath the tree, that was not quite so cold, nor quite so damp, as the stones of the miserable castle, and she curled herself up in it, and waited for the awful night to be over.

Eventually, she fell into a shallow sleep, full of unfriendly, fragmented dreams. The cold kept waking her from it, and showing her glimpses of the night sky above her, through trees – now cloudy, now clearing, now full of stars – and now, light!

Dawn.

Verity gasped in pain as she sat up, for her back was cramped, and her legs stiff, after the damp night in her uncomfortable bed. But with the return of light, the forest and her predicament could not seem so unconquerable. She shook the dew off her skirts, and levered herself to her feet, leaning heavily upon the low branches of the tree.

Just ahead of her, down the hill a short way, she could see that the forest was thinning to an opening of some kind: patches of bare sky showed through gaps between the trunks of trees.

Gingerly, she tested her weight on her ankle. It held, but it hurt. She limped forward, her hip bones aching in their sockets, her knees protesting. A few minutes later, she emerged from the trees and saw before her a valley scored with vineyards, and at the far end of it, a farmhouse manor, rooves glowing gold in the early morning light.

She cried out and then laughed in frustration and relief.

They were Prothero’s vineyards, and it was Prothero’s house.

Late update, because I accidentally deleted all my progress on this chapter, and then had to rewrite it, and it took me about five rewrites before I finally got it right again. The next five or so chapters have been written for a week or two though, it was only this one that’s been troubling me.

Chapter Seventeen: The Woman Who Could Return

The great doors were open when Verity limped up the front steps of the manor, and she entered into the silent hall feeling unsure and vaguely unwelcome.

“Mr Prothero?” she called, seeing no servants. “Mr Armiger?”

There were footsteps from above. A maid put her head over the banister of the mezzanine, saw Verity, gave a shriek, and ran off crying something in French. A moment later, Mrs Prothero came to the mezzanine, saw Verity, and came trotting down the stairs with a cry.

“ Ma petite enfant! “ she cried, taking Verity’s arms. “You are safe! The men go to look for you – but you are safe! Come!”

She gave a directive to the maid in French, and dragged Verity off with her to the kitchen. Within minutes, she had Verity safely rested on a kitchen chair, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of mulled wine in her hands, and was assuring her that a hot bath would be on the way in her room.

Warm and comfortable at last, Verity suddenly felt the overwhelming emotions of the situation hit her, and tears began to roll hotly down her cheeks. Until now, she had not cried once – not when she had first realized she had been left behind, not in the long dreary wait in the rain, nor even in that terrifying walk through the woods – but now she cried, as though her heart would break.

Mrs Prothero patted her shoulder delicately. “You are home now, home now,” she said kindly. “You are safe.”

Shakingly, Verity swallowed her wine, which was too hot and strong, and burned her throat and made her head swim. She wiped the tears from her eyes with muddy fingers, and looked sadly at Mrs Prothero.

She wanted to ask how she had come to be left in the forest, but she could think of no way to frame it that wasn’t an accusation. Perhaps Mrs Prothero understood though. She launched into a broken explanation of the fact:

“It was because Henry falls in the water,” she said. “He falls in the water, and Mr Armiger rescues him. We go home, Henry, Lord Armiger, I. Cloe, Mama, George, stay in the forest. They think you go with us. We think you go with them. When they come back, Mr Armiger says, ‘Where’s Verity?’ and no one knows.”

After some parsing, Verity understood, in a basic manner, what had happened. It hadn’t been on purpose, she realized. Of course not. She had known that. Unfeeling logic had told her that people do not deliberately abandon guests in rainy forests, even if the people are French and the guests are English. But her feeling heart had not quite believed that logic.

“Are they looking for me now? Is Mr Armiger gone with them?” she asked.

“Yes, yes,” Mrs Prothero reassured her. “They go. I send Cloe for them, to bring them back. Soon, soon, Mr Armiger returns.”

She patted Verity’s hand, and Verity gave her a watery smile. Not too soon, she hoped. She did not want him to see her like this: wet, and miserable, and dirty.

“He goes to look for you last night, and does not find you,” Mrs Prothero added, sensing some reservation and mistaking the cause of it. “Where were you?”

“I – I got lost.” Verity drank the last of her wine, and let its heady strength get to her head. “He came for me?”

“He goes as soon as George returns, and comes back at midnight, alone.”

Verity put her head in her hands, and began to laugh, her entire, exhausted body shaking. He must have just missed her, somewhere on that dark road – and she had been too proud and unfaithful to wait!

“What is wrong?” Mrs Prothero asked. “What is wrong?”

“Oh. Oh, it doesn’t matter.” She rolled her head up to look at Mrs Prothero. “But I’m dirty – I don’t want him to see me all dirty like this, when he comes back. Is the bath ready?”

The bath was not quite ready, but she went to her room, and undressed, and had the maid take her dirty clothes, and sank down into the water in relief. The maid remained to keep topping up the bath with more hot water, and Verity scrubbed the mud and grime from her skin and hair. The water stung the scratches of her face and ankles and hands, but she continued heedless of the pain. She had caught sight of her face in the hallway mirror as she came upstairs, and it had been an awful, tired, muddy, bloody thing. She was determined not to appear before her husband until she was pretty again. She felt stupid and small and was conscious that if she had waited just a little longer, had just a little more faith, she would not be scratched and limping and dirty now. It was a consciousness that made her feel stupider and smaller, and she scrubbed harder at her skin as though she could scrub the shame away with the mud.

Her bath was done, the water black and tepid. She dried herself, and the maid helped bundle her up and put her to bed, where another cup of mulled wine was brought for her, to warm her insides.

Slightly drunk, and very exhausted, it wasn’t long before she fell into a dreamless sleep. She half-woke at one point to a touch at her face, and opened her eyes.

“Go back to sleep,” Mr Armiger said softly. It was he who had touched her face, he who stood by the side of the bed. But he removed his hand now, and receded from her sight.

When she awoke again, it was noon, and she thought she might have dreamed it.

She sat up. Mr Armiger was sleeping in buckskins and waistcoat, on the settee by the wall. A maid was setting a tray on the little table by the window. She looked up as Verity began to untangle herself confusedly from the blankets, nodded, and pointed to the tray.

“ Déjeuner, Mademoiselle. “

But Verity understood the smell of the coffee and warm bread more than anything else. She got her feet to the floor as the maid left the room, and, wincing as her ankle ached anew from the weight upon it, limped to the settee and bent to shake Armiger’s shoulder. The warmth of his flesh radiated through the thin muslin of his shirt, and he smelled like the almond-scented soap Mr Prothero supplied to his guests.

His eyes opened. There were dark shadows beneath them, particularly apparent in his strangely pallid face, and pinched creases at either side of his mouth.

“Shall you eat?” asked Verity.

“Mmmph,” he grunted.

She turned away, and limped to the table. When she was pouring the coffee, he joined her, and sat down.

“You’re limping. Are you hurt?”

“I sprained my ankle a little. It’s not so bad.” She poured his coffee. “A few days of rest, and I’ll be fine.”

“And the scratches?” His hand came to her face, and brushed gently below one of the deeper and more painful scratches. So it had not been a dream, she realized. He had touched her like this when she was sleeping.

“They’ll heal too.” She ripped into a bread roll, ravenous.

He must have been hungry as well, and for some time there was no conversation to be had. When they were done, and she pushed her empty cup and plate away, Mr Armiger stood and said,

“Sit down with me. I want to talk to you.”

She went with him to the little settee, and curled on one end of it, while he sat down at the other, and rested his arm along the seat-back.

“I was so worried,” he murmured, looking at her. “So damn worried – and I come back, and you’re fast asleep, in bed, safe.”

“I’m sorry.” She put her own arm across the back of the settee, so she could briefly touch his hand. “I didn’t think you’d come for me, so I decided I would walk back, and I – I was so stupid and got so lost. I slept beneath a tree, and I hurt my ankle, and…”

She bowed her head, to hide the tears that had sprung to her eyes. “If I’d waited…”

His hand closed over her fingers.

“It was little Henry. He fell in the river, and I got him out, so I, and he, and Mrs Prothero went home early. We thought you would come back with the other three, but they thought you’d gone with us. Between that, you were left behind. I’m sorry.”

“She told me,” Verity said, raising her head again, and leaning against the couch back. “Mrs Prothero, she told me. Though…” She smiled wryly. “Last night, I thought you were teaching me a lesson, by leaving me there.”

His hand dropped from hers.

“You think I would do that?”

She pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. “No. No, when I think about it, I don’t. But when I was feeling about it, in the dark, and all alone - feeling’s different.” But the hurt expression on his face made her feel guilty, and her guilt made her feel angry. She added, resentfully, “And it’s not like you don’t feel that I take – lovers.”

“I know you don’t! “ He stood, and paced ferociously around the room. “You think I believe that!? I was angry and I said what I knew would hurt you. It’s my besetting sin - my talent for a cutting word. I’m sorry, I’m sorry! How many times do I have to repeat it before you stop holding a grudge!? God, if you’d just stab me every time you were displeased with me, and be done with it! I could live with that – but your insufferable coldness! Damn British coldness! Damn it to hell!”

She stared at him in shock. He hardly ever cursed, and certainly had never raised his voice at her before.

Sweeping past her in his pacing, he continued:

“I knew you were cold when I married you. But I’ve never met a woman, who once she’s found a flaw in a man, is so determined to judge his every sense of character to it! Haven’t you ever accepted an apology in your life? Haven’t you ever forgiven anyone? We’re married, and I’m going to hurt you many, many times – and you’ll hurt me. That’s what happens when you’re close to someone. If you can never forgive me – what can I do!? What can I do to earn your trust?”

He stopped his pacing, and his shoulders slumped.

“But perhaps I can’t.”

He picked up his coat from the chair and went to the door, without looking at her once.

“You should rest. You’ve had a long night, and you’re injured.”

The door shut softly behind him. Verity lay on her back, stared unseeingly at the ceiling. The maid came, cleared the dinner tray, and left again. Verity hardly noticed her.

The truth was that Verity never had accepted an apology in her life. She had heard so many insincere apologies over the years that she had come to distrust apologies in general, and the people who gave them. And she had thought she had trusted Neil, but she could see now that she had not. She had never trusted anybody in her life. She had been exposed so much and so young to the ugliness of human nature that once she caught the faintest glimpse of it in a man, she assumed he was ugly all through. She had seen some faint ugliness in Neil, and judged him wholly by it. That was not trust.

And she had believed that he had no faith in her!

She scrambled off the couch, flung her dressing gown over her shoulders, and limped hastily into the hall, still fumbling the tie about her waist.

She found him in the library again, once more dozing on the couch, one arm falling gracelessly to the floor. He must have slept late last night, and risen so early this morning.

She couldn’t wake him.

Verity kneeled, and kissed his cheek. Within three of his slow, sleeping breaths, she had risen, crossed the room again, and gone.

•     *     *

After she had left, Neil slowly opened his eyes, and touched a hand to his cheek where she had kissed it. There was some alien bloom of emotion in his chest. It was not love, he knew, and it was not lust. He puzzled over it some time, lying on the couch. It was so strange, and he felt so carefree and contented by it.

He still hadn’t defined it, when Prothero entered the room and asked his help shifting a heavy cabinet that Mrs Prothero had dropped a ring behind. By then, he was quite overcome by this strange new feeling, and the idea of shifting a cabinet seemed plebian and earthly in comparison.

“Sorry, George,” Neil said. “I, er, the wife – you know?”

Prothero raised his eyebrows. “Elucidate, dear boy?”

“The wife,” Neil eluded, slipping through the door. “The wife.”

And it came to him: the wife. Verity. She had started this strange emotion. She would answer it.

He ran upstairs, and threw open the door of the bedroom, where Verity was sitting on the bed, reading a book.

“Neil!” she said reprovingly. “You’ve knocked over the vase!”

He had. He had knocked over the vase on the table behind the door, and the flowers had come out, and the water was leaking out on the floor.

“Damn the vase!” He laughed, and bent to pick it up, and put it sloppily back on the table. “Did I dream it? Did you kiss me?”

She blushed, and put her book down. “Well I did.”

And he remembered, now, what she had said when he first entered the room.

“And – and did you call me by name, just now?” He crossed to the bed, and stood over her. “Did you?”

“I think I must have.”

He kissed her then, because he couldn’t not. It was the first time he had kissed her in a week.

“Neil,” she breathed once more, when he let her go.

The strange new feeling was still within his chest. It was neither lust, nor love, but something else. Something wonderful and light and dancing. It made him want to kiss her, again, and again, and again.

He never managed to define it. Perhaps because he never realized that it wasn’t a feeling at all, but the absence of one. For over a year now, he had still unconsciously been hoping that Giulia might one day return to him. It was a hope as dead as she. And a dead hope is a heavy weight to bear. But with Verity’s soft kiss at his cheek, the dead hope had risen, and silently quitted his soul, without him ever knowing it had been there. He was no longer waiting for the woman who could not return. The woman who could return had.

He held her shoulders in the little silk-draped room, not entirely knowing who she was to him. She was pink-cheeked and smiling before him. Questioningly, he kissed her again. Her arms came up around him in answer.

After that, further definition of his emotions was superfluous.

I’m not sure if they made up too quickly or not. But then, they can’t fight forever. There may be a mini chapter tomorrow as well, just to sort of tie this one up. It got very long.

Interlude (Chapter Seventeen and Three-Quarters)

Afterwards – there was an afterwards, a pleasant, drained afterwards, lying collapsed among silks, clothes discarded, hearts slowing, breath returning – he asked:

“Did I hurt you?”

“Not much. Not as much as I thought it would.”

The sun was just setting. Soon they would have to dress again – clothes seemed so purposeless now – and go to supper, and smile at other people – irrelevant other people – and after supper she would go to the drawing room with the women – what a silly habit – and he would stay and drink in the dining room with the men – how tiresome. It was all very tiresome.

She nestled closer to him, and kissed his shoulder.

“I’m going to try my best to trust you,” she murmured, lips brushing his flesh. “I’m not very good at it, but I will try.”

He kissed her hair. “I won’t fail you.”

The knock came at their door, some irrelevant time later. A voice in French. Her husband replied to it, and it went away.

“We’d better get dressed,” he told her ruefully, shifting, and running his hand wishfully down her waist and hips and legs – a touch that made her languid contentedness suddenly just a little more energetic, a little less contented.

She sighed, and rolled slowly from bed to look for her slip and corset.

“Don’t call for the maid,” she said. “I’ll dress myself tonight.”

“I’ll dress you,” he said. “Though I admit, I’m inclined the other way of things.”

She giggled shyly, and found her slip half-hidden beneath the bed. “I’m not sure you’d be much good at it.”

But his fingers, she saw, were practiced with tying stays, and she realized he must have done this for his wife before. His first wife, she corrected herself. For the first time, she felt like Mrs Neil Armiger, not Miss Verity Baker.

“Neil,” she said suddenly. “Will you tell me about her one day?”

He looked up, confused. “Who?”

“Your first wife. Julia. And your son.” She look some trouble cloud his face, and added hastily, “Not today – not today. But one day?”

His fingers had faltered on her stays, but now he remembered his task, pulled them tight, and knotted them, while she waited in silence for his answer. When he was done, he pushed her back slightly, to look her in the eyes. Something he saw there seemed to convince him. The troubled frown melted from his face, and his eyes softened.

“One day,” he promised in a soft voice, and kissed her.

Fluffy extra bit that didn’t quite fit in Chapter Seventeen and got edited out of it.

Chapter Eighteen: Fair Weather

The newlyweds were still in France, and finally, blissfully, enjoying their honeymoon, when Lord Landon, Richard Armiger, oldest son of the Earl of Albroke, learned his younger brother had remarried.

He did not seek out the knowledge. He did not know it was there to seek out. As far as Richard knew, Neil was still in Italy, playing the part of the prodigal son. So the knowledge had to come to him, and it came in the form of lace, and silk, and scent, and smiles, one sunny April morning.

He was reading a book in the library when his butler entered and announced the visitor.

“Mrs Walthrope to see you.”

He put the book flat on its face on his desk, and looked at the butler over the rims of his ugly little round reading glasses. The butler returned his gaze.

“Have you told her I am not at home?”

“She says, my lord, that she will wait in your drawing room until you return.”

Richard Armiger stared off into the distance for a moment. His eyes came to rest on the oversized portrait of his great-uncle on the opposite wall. Blurred by his reading glasses, he found the view rather improved.

If it was a question of stubbornness, of waiting, he knew that she undoubtedly would win it. He would see her, whether he liked to or not. But he was not without his own resources of character. He returned his gaze to his book.

“Very well. I will ring for you when I am at home.”

Three hours later and two cups of tea later, the book was finished. He laid it closed on the desk in front of him and stared absently, once more, at the portrait of his great-uncle. He had to digest the novel, and it made for poor digestion. It had been prudish and condescending. He thought the heroine stupid, found the hero irritating, and admired only the villain, who met with his just desserts in the form of swift death – but not so swift that he could not first be overcome with remorse, beg and be granted forgiveness, and, so the author hinted, be sent to heaven. A muscle below Richard’s left eye twitched in distaste. He would never have finished the novel if it were not for his desire to keep Mrs Walthrope waiting. Pettishly, he blamed her for the book. With a savage twist of the rope that hung by the desk, he rang for the butler.

“Has Mrs Walthrope left?” he demanded, when the butler came hurrying in.

“She is still in the drawing room, My Lord.”

“Then bring her in to me.”

He unhooked his cane from the back of his chair, stood, and limped in circles the room while he waited for her. Both Neil and Richard suffered from the same hereditary bone deformity, but Richard’s affliction was much greater. It had robbed him of his fair height, leaving him fully and imperfectly grown at sixty-five inches, if he stood on his right leg, and sixty-one if he stood on his left. The disparity of those four vital inches had caused an uncomfortable limp and a physical clumsiness in childhood. That same clumsiness had resulted in an accident, in which he had broken his knee. From then on, his right leg had never bent properly, and the limp had grown from uncomfortable to painful.

Extremely painful when he had been sitting down for three hours straight. He winced, and eased his stubborn, unyielding joints to the task of moving his body. The grimace of pain was still on his face when Jane entered.

“Richard.” Her own expression melted from one of irritation to sympathy on seeing him. “Sit down. Do sit down.”

“No.” He glared at her, and continued his pacing of the room, the stick thumping every second step. “What do you want, Jane?”

Her lips pursed, Jane sank down onto a couch without asking. For a moment, she watched him pace, looking troubled.

“What do you want?” he repeated.

It had been three years since he had last seen her, but with Jane, to Richard, it was always as if she had just parted yesterday. She never changed. Since he had first met her, she had never changed. She had always been, to his eyes, an entertaining and dangerous devil. Selfish, heartless, manipulative devil. Clever, funny, beautiful devil. Richard, whose deformity encouraged people to treat him with an insincere and condescending pity, was particularly angered today by Jane’s sympathy for him. She, of all people, ought to know how much he hated that. Treat a man any cruel way, scorn him, beat him, mock him, but above all things, Richard believed, pity was unforgiveable.

“I bring good tidings. Or ill, perhaps. I’m not sure how you’ll take them.”

With Richard, Jane never bothered to put on too much of a show. He could see through her too easily, but the habit was hard upon her, and she could not break it so easily as to simply say what she wanted. He looked suspiciously at her.

“Tidings of what?”

“Of your dear brother Neil.”

His joints unstiffened by the exercise, Richard permitted himself to sit down again, in a chair next to Jane’s.

“The last time we spoke, you were seeking news of him.”

“And I have found it. More than you know, indeed.”

Richard placed his stick upright in front of him and rested his hands on top of it. It had been eight years since he had seen his brother last. Of course he had tried to send letters, but if they had reached their mark, they had received no reply. And Neil, having a clear address to send letters to, had probably sent none himself. He had suggested to his father that they might send a man after him, but his father had laughed at the idea, and refused to part with the money. “He’ll come back. He’ll give it up, and come back,” he had said grimly. “I know that boy. He hasn’t the gut to see it through.”

“He came back,” said Richard, on a surge of intuition. “You’ve seen him.”

Jane gave him a Cheshire-cat smile. “Good or bad tidings?” she asked.

“Given it’s Neil… Both, I suppose.” But Jane wasn’t going to give him anymore, just yet. She sat watching him, the smile still on her face, waiting for him. He gave it to her. “Did he marry the girl?”

“So you never did find out,” Jane said shrewdly. “You might have guessed, when he didn’t come back. I was sure he had.”

Richard shook his shoulders. “It was just such a mad thing to do – an Italian nobody! Of course Neil always had that quiet, black mad streak… but it never seemed to last long.”

“It lasted, and he married her.” Jane clasped her hands around her knees. “Her name was Giulia, he told me.”

For a moment, the tense escaped him. Then he caught it. “Was?”

“She died, recently. He returned to live in England.”

Richard gave a sigh of relief. “He’ll come back to us – I’m sure he will.”

“He’s been here since March. He never sent you a letter?”

“No. But it’s only been a month. I’m sure-”

“Thirteen. It’s been thirteen months. He arrived last year, not this.”

Richard felt his heart drop. Over a year, and his brother had never sent word. The grudge went deep.

“You don’t look happy,” said Jane.

“I’m not. And you’re enjoying it.”

She shrugged. “None of you Armigers were much given up for happiness anyhow. But further pain comes, my dear Richard. I know how your furtive mind plans things. You’re probably thinking if you can find a wife for him, since it’s so damned hard to find one for yourself, and then, why, then where would your title go?”

Richard scowled. He had thought of it. Even his wealth and title seemed too poor compensation for his deformity of health, and mind. For he was as ugly inside as he was out, and all society knew it. No woman had ever been persuaded to marry him. It wasn’t for lack of trying.

“But you’re too late anyway,” Jane said, spreading her hands the way a cat spreads its claws. “I met him when he was on his honeymoon. He’s married the most awful little girl. Pretty, oh yes, very pretty, but very awful.”

“Is it you?” Richard growled.

Jane’s eyes opened wide a moment, in a very good impression of real hurt. “No.” Her eyes closed. “You know, Rich,” she said, like they were children again, “I never really realized how much I wished it would be… until I met her.” Her eyes opened. “I’m terribly jealous of her. Me, jealous.” She laughed scornfully at herself.

This was not, Richard thought, complete pretence. He could sense the real, raw emotion beneath her tone. But it wasn’t entirely truthful either. With Jane, it never was.

“Why is she so awful then?”

Jane sighed. “She’s uneducated, cold-hearted, prudish, conniving… and ill-born. Her father is a souse who makes some scant living cheating at cards in the nastier sorts of public houses. Her mother had been a lady, until she eloped with him. She’s low as mud. He might as well have married a kitchen maid. No. A kitchen maid would not be so bad. He might as well have married a beggar’s daughter.”

“What on earth – what on earth is Neil doing with a – a –”

Richard lacked the necessary adjectives and nouns. Jane supplied them.

“A dishonest slattern? A clever minx? I might as well tell you it all. She played him the way her father played cards. As a matter of fact, her father sent her to Neil one night, to pay a debt her father owed. It was a sordid business. Neil’s black, mad streak, I suppose. But it was more than madness to marry her after. She must have twisted him into it. He can’t believe it though. He can’t believe he was played like a fool.”

Richard raised his cane and beat the Afghan carpet with it. “That – I can’t believe it!”

“You will,” Jane said, “When you see her. That’s why I’ve come here, though when he asks you about it, I didn’t. They live in the shire of Houglen, in the larger town, Greater Hough. It’s a dreadful little hovel. I’ve taken a house there.”

Richard’s eyes sharpened. “You’ll only make things worse.”

She shrugged. “I told you, I’m jealous. I’ve never been jealous of another woman before.”

“You just enjoy raising Cain,” Richard said meanly. He rose awkwardly to his feet, and resumed his limping shuffle around the room. “But since you came here, you must want something from me. You never come if you don’t want something. What do you want?”

Jane smiled prettily. “You’re so cynical. I do enjoy your company, you know.”

“What do you want?” Richard repeated.

“Oh, nothing,” Jane said, standing. “I really did only come to tell you that he had married again. And to give you his address, so that you can see him, for I’m sure he won’t write. If you don’t want me though, I’ll go. I’m not one to impose.” She went to the door and paused with it open, looking away from him, out into the hall. “The girl is twenty years old. Such a fine age. So youthful. She makes me feel so very old. Why, legally a child, isn’t she?”

Jane left, and shut the door behind her.

It took Richard several moments to realize what she had implied. It took him several more to limp to the door, stick thumping on the carpet, and out into the hall, onto the landing that overlooked the front door. Jane was not there. He cursed his deformity, and hopped down the stairs on his right foot and his stick, almost falling at the bottom.

“Open the door!” he yelled at the butler, standing agape. “Open the door!”

“Sir-”

He opened it himself. Jane was standing on the top step of the townhouse stoop, her hand raised to the bell.

Of course, she wouldn’t have left that to chance, realized Richard. Not Jane.

“Do you know,” Jane said smiling, “I rather think it’s going to rain. I was just coming back to ask to borrow an umbrella.”

The sky was cloudless, and blue as her clever eyes.

“Do you mean to tell me her father didn’t consent?” he demanded.

“Whose? Oh… Why… I’m not really sure. I think one might have to ask him that. But I did hear, just gossip, that he made a nuisance of himself on the wedding day, begging Neil to let his daughter go. It does make one wonder, doesn’t it?”

Richard’s heart beat fast. He had never approved his brother’s first marriage, to an Italian. But this – this was worse. This was a sordid disaster! But, if the marriage wasn’t legally valid, if he just had a few months to talk to Neil again, as adults this time, and explain things…

…Then perhaps Neil would see reason, and marry someone suitable. Certainly not Jane Walthrope. Richard didn’t consider Jane suitable for any sane man to marry. He would not allow that.

But he didn’t tell Jane what he thought. He couldn’t, because she had walked backwards to stare up at the sky, said distantly, “Why, it looks like fair weather after all!” and walked away.

Her work was done.

Introducing my favourite character: Richard. He’s not very likeable though.

Chapter Nineteen: An Arrangement

The rest of their honeymoon remained forever in Verity’s memory as a sort of hazy, golden dream. Decades later, she could recall the oddest, most insignificant things with crystal clarity: the ornate seashell-patterned tea set that was Mrs Prothero’s best; Henry playing with the three broken pieces of tile on the kitchen steps; picking up Neil’s vest from the chair one night, to put away properly – he was always leaving his clothes lying about. But for the most part, she was left only with the impression that she had been impossibly, overwhelmingly happy. The concrete details of her memories were obscured in the mists of that emotion, the same way the concrete details of her memories of her childhood were obscured in the mists of misery. She knew she had been miserable as a child, but she could never remember exact reasons why, until some chance event reminded her, like when the fired coach-driver’s wife had come to the manor to ply Prothero with excuses for his behaviour and beg for his job back. Too many times, Verity had seen her mother with the exact same expression on her face, the exact same tone to her voice, as she had begged Lady Duvalle to not be so harsh on a poor, weak, gentle man. For Verity, the stain of strong emotions lingered longer than the memories of what had caused them.

It was then in early May that they returned to Great Hough, Verity knowing she had been happy, without knowing why, and faintly nervous at her return to the old surroundings, where so much misery had been felt.

The first week of their arrival was a hurricane of visits from curious neighbours. Verity found that Clair had grown taller, and prettier, and somehow indefinably older. She and her father were the only pleasant visitors that week. It was awkward for Verity to find herself suddenly removed from low society to high. She did not know how to be sociable to the well-dressed ladies and gentleman who had previously scorned her company. Nor did she find it easy to walk under the dirty glares of servants and labourers, who were perhaps jealous of her change of fortune, or perhaps merely resentful of her attitude, which had always been prideful and prickly, and was now marred also by a sort of hesitating and grating condescension towards them. Verity didn’t mean to be condescending, but in endeavouring to show some respect to the butcher’s daughter or the footman’s wife, she only made it seem like she was trying to remind them of their place.

After a week or two, the village came to the consensus that Mr and Mrs Armiger were snobbish and cold and prideful.

“Well-suited to each other,” Mrs Stanley sniffed to her two eldest nieces, neither of whom had succeeded in ensnaring the attentions of any gentleman over the past year, and were very disheartened by their prospects. “Them both so proud and above us all! And with nought to be proud of!”

For somehow it had come to the village that Mr Armiger had been virtually exiled from his family and the society he was born to: a black sheep, come to hide far away from the flock. No one knew exactly how true the rumours were, or exactly why he might have been exiled, but the villagers were highly imaginative, and with no truth to dispel any lies a clever fishwife might come up with, the gossip flamed high and wide.

Despite this, the married couple were very content, living up in the manor in their own company and ignorance of all gossip. There were a few blights, their first few weeks back, it was true. They had argued about Neil’s distressing habit of leaving his clothes where he dropped them, for one thing. For another, Verity’s father had bullied his way through the butler, and refused to leave until he had seen Verity; Neil had sent him away eventually, with a pound in his pocket, and the footman’s boot up his backside.

It was at the end of their second week home that Lady Duvalle sent Verity a message asking to receive her, and Verity went, as called.

When she entered the parlour, there were the usual formal and expected greetings, and then the maid was sent away, and Lady Duvalle poured tea.

Verity sipped at it, cautiously. Her grandmother always made it unpleasantly weak and never used sugar. It was too hot yet, and she put it down gratefully, and nibbled at a biscuit.

“You look well,” Lady Duvalle remarked. “You’ve gained weight. Are you pregnant?”

Verity, having picked up her tea again, spilled it sloppily over her fingers and skirt.

“I- I don’t think so!”

“Ah,” Lady Duvalle said meaningfully. “Then you have consummated the marriage. Good.”

Verity flushed red to the roots of her hair. Too late she realized Lady Duvalle had trapped her into revealing that intimate secret. She pressed at her skirts with a handkerchief, to cover her confusion.

“The sooner you do have a child, the better,” Lady Duvalle continued. “You will need to supply him with heirs, of course, and a child will tie both our families together nicely.”

“ Our families?“

“The Armigers, and the Duvalles.”

Verity shook her head and tossed the soiled handkerchief on the table. “No.”

The flatness of her reply surprised her grandmother. “No?”

“I married Neil. Families have nothing to do with it. I don’t care if I never meet Neil’s family. I probably won’t. I gather that they hate him, and he certainly hates them. And you can’t say I’m a Duvalle anyway. I’m not proud of being a Baker, but my mother was a Duvalle and ran away from it, so I don’t think there’s much to be proud of in that either.”

It was the first time Verity had directly contradicted her grandmother like that. She watched the stain of colour rise on her grandmother’s cheeks with a mix of exaltation and trepidation, like a schoolboy who has just smashed a window with a really well hit cricket ball, and knows he will soon receive punishment for it.

“I supported you when you needed it most,” her grandmother said slowly.

“You abandoned me as a seven year old child with a dead mother and a father who was worse than dead.” Verity drank her weak tea. Her new position, as a married woman, gave her a power she was now aware of. She was no longer dependent upon her grandmother – no longer dependent on her grandmother’s opinion of her. No. Now she could give her own opinion.

“I don’t think you ever hated me, or my father. You always said you hated him, but I don’t think that’s true. You just didn’t give a damn about either of us. It was mother you hated. You hated her for defying you. You planned for her to marry someone important, and she didn’t. I can’t say I approve her marriage either, but I’m not your next chance to rearrange the social register. I’m going to live quietly and peacefully with my husband, and we’re going to ignore all such snobbish nonsense.”

Lady Duvalle pursed her lips. “Next time you need my help, I’ll make you beg for it on your knees,” she said icily.

“Last time I did, you refused me. So where does that leave the both of us?”

It wasn’t a pleasant visit, but family is family, and neither Lady Duvalle nor Verity were as eager to burn the bridges as they appeared, only to test them. An hour later, after reluctant, half-made apologies on both sides, Verity left, and went home. When the butler came to answer the front door to her, he pointed to the drawing room.

“A gentleman awaits you.”

“His name?”

“He did not give one.”

“And you let him in without it?”

The butler pressed a finger to his lips. “He is a gentleman.”

That was a mystery that Verity could not solve. She went to the drawing room cautiously, thinking it might be her father again, despite the strict orders for no staff member to allow him in. But it wasn’t. It was a stranger. As she entered, he arose, clumsily, leaning heavily on his thick walnut stick, with the copper-head, in the shape of a boar.

She stared at him, taking in first, as everyone did, his stick and his crooked legs, and then, aware she was staring, looked at the ground without noticing his features.

“The butler did not give me your name, Sir,” she said shyly. “May I ask it?”

“Look at me, and you’ll tell it to me,” the stranger demanded rudely. “Look at me, go on.”

She looked instead to the door, thinking to call Neil – but he was out – the footman?

“Look at me,” the stranger insisted, more softly. “I won’t hurt you.”

She looked again. He was smaller than her. It was ridiculous to think that he could hurt her. Standing, his right leg bent slightly to accommodate his left. She was sure he could not run. And then, at last, she began to see him and not his deformity, and realization dawned on her face. The dark, curly hair, the fierce black brows, the angular features – he was an Armiger. He was a smaller version of Neil, with less grey in his hair, and fewer lines on his face – but what lines there were, she noticed, were bitterer than those on Neil’s.

“You’re Neil’s… brother.”

“And you’re his wife.” Like Neil, his tone of voice was distant and dry and slightly amused. But he wasn’t smiling. His thin lips might occasionally twist upwards, but she was sure his light hazel eyes were incapable of smiling. His eyes were the colour, almost, of yellow diamonds – and just as hard and cold.

“Mr… Lord? Armiger? Please sit down.”

“Lord Landon, if you must. I won’t stay long. I came when Neil was out, to speak to you alone.”

“Even if the butler doesn’t tell him you called, I will. So you might as well sit down.”

Verity lowered herself into a chair. Hesitating, the man sat down opposite her, awkwardly, shifting his weight from his cane suddenly to the chair, and letting his right leg slide out clumsily in front of him, the drawing room rug bunching up beneath it. He shifted his weight in the chair, and pulled the rug back into place with his foot. His right leg he kept splayed out in front of him, but his left he folded neatly beneath his chair.

He met her eyes, with his cold diamond gaze, and said nothing.

“You look younger than him,” Verity said abruptly, to break the heavy silence. “You look years younger. But you’re not, are you?”

“I’m thirty-three next month,” Lord Landon said testily. “And I don’t look young for my age. I’m only short.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me,” Verity protested, seeing she had insulted him. “His hair turned quite grey, you know, and he has so many lines in his face – he only looks his age when he smiles, and he doesn’t do that often.”

“He’s gone grey?” For a moment the stranger’s interest heightened, but then he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t come here to talk about his looks. I came here to talk about you.”

“Me?” Verity watched him closely. “Why me?”

He shrugged hopelessly. “Because you married him.”

“Yes.” Verity stretched out her hand, with the wedding ring on it. It was not at all grand: a thin golden band, with a small faceted garnet centrepiece, and two tiny white crystals, inset, either side. But it suited her thin, capable hands well. “I take it you’re displeased with the matter?”

“Something like it.” Lord Landon reached over, and ran a finger lightly over the back of Verity’s ring. “They’re not diamonds. Well, at least he got that right.”

Verity snatched her hand back. Lord Landon looked surprised.

“I don’t mean to insult you,” he said simply. “But you must be able to see it our way – it’s likely that Neil’s son will inherit the title, you see. And, well, you’re hardly the sort of wife who should be making him an heir. He’s really picked very rashly in you – I wish he’d waited a little longer, or asked me for advice.”

“Your advice isn’t wanted,” Verity said coldly. “If that’s what you came here for, you can leave.” She stood up.

“No. Wait.” He reached out, and took her hand. “Stay.”

His touch was the same as Neil’s – gentle, and warm, and dry. It surprised her enough that she sat back down, and folded her hands tightly in her lap.

Lord Landon breathed out. “I came on my father’s behalf, to make an arrangement with you – not with Neil, with you.”

“Arrangement?”

“We’ll give you twelve thousand pounds to persuade Neil not to contest an annulment of the marriage, on the issue of your father’s non-consent.”

•      *      *

The girl looked at him in silence a moment. She seemed to be considering the offer. He could see her mind working behind her cat-like green eyes. Richard pressed on:

“Until Neil inherits the title – if he inherits – he’s only got mother’s money. My father cut him off when he married the Florentine girl. This house might seem grand to you, living in a little country town as you do, but he’s only got two and a half thousand pounds a year.”

“We used to live on two hundred, before my mother died. And afterwards it wasn’t even that.” The girl was keeping her steady gaze on him, her mind still working behind the eyes, talking automatically.

“I’ll negotiate,” he added, sensing it wasn’t enough. “My father’s given me some leave for it.” He was aware, inside of him, of the alien and uncomfortable feeling of guilt. To appease it, he admitted, “We know what an annulment would cost your reputation, and we’ll more than make up for it. That’s why I’ve come to you, alone. We don’t want to destroy you, only this unsuitable marriage.”

For a moment, anger flashed across her features, and then, surprisingly, she threw back her head, exposing her elegant white throat, and laughed.

It was a cold, angry laugh, but there was clearly something that amused her. Uncomfortably, Richard thought it might be him. When she subsided, but still wouldn’t answer him, he said gently,

“If it’s scandal that holds you back, don’t worry. We’ll keep it very quiet. We can even find you another husband, or set you up as a widow. We’ll figure everything out.”

“Oh you’ll figure everything out?” His brother’s wife stood, and went to the window, to look out over the lawn, towards the woods. He twisted in his chair to watch her, and felt a momentary spasm of jealousy towards his brother, seeing how freely she moved in her dark blue gown, how tall and elegant and young she was. I’d probably enjoy it, if a woman like that tried to entrap me, he thought viciously. I can almost understand Neil – but why’d he have to marry the creature?

The grandfather clock in the hall struck six. Richard shifted in his chair, easing the weight on his legs. Neil would be back soon. He wanted to be gone before then. He wasn’t ready to see him again yet. There was too much at stake, too many old wounds, so easily reopened.

When she didn’t speak after some minutes, he said gently,

“Your father has already agreed to allow us to sue for annulment on his behalf.”

“I know— I know him.” She breathed out, misting the window glass. “How much did you pay him?”

Richard was stung. He had not expected her to see through both of them so quickly.

“One hundred pounds settled today, ten thousand settled upon annulment,” he admitted.

“You could have had him at ten pence!” She turned back to him, her face suddenly sullen – and prettier, he thought, for the expression. “With ten thousand pounds he’ll buy himself a sea of beer, and drown in it!”

“Then you have no choice, you can see. It would be best if you went away somewhere and—”

“No.”

“No?”

She walked over to look angrily down upon him, her skirts pressing against his splayed right leg, the faint scent of her perfume descending upon him. He breathed in, and felt again the spasm of jealousy against his younger brother.

“I won’t leave Neil,” the girl said haughtily. “I’m not saying you can’t get our marriage annulled – you probably could, with your money, and callousness, and my father’s weakness – but even if you do I won’t leave him. I’ve weathered the scandal of being his mistress before, and I’ll weather it again if I have to. And then, when I do turn twenty-one, he’ll marry me all over again – I know him, and you know him – and surely you must see he would. So whatever you’re planning it won’t work.”

She had started off composed, but by the end of her speech, her voice was raised, and she was blinking hot tears of anger out of her eyes. One landed on his cheek, and he wiped it off with an incredulous finger. He had been wrong about her. Jane had been wrong about her. No. It would have been best to approach Neil first – but the damage was done now.

He stood, laboriously, and she moved back, to allow him up. Her lips were shaking, but her eyes were burning with righteous fire.

“No. I can see it won’t work,” Richard said softly. Then, though he never bowed, because it hurt him to try, he put his weight on his cane and bowed to her. “I’m sorry. I must apologize. I didn’t realize. I didn’t think it possible that you could be in love with him.”

Whew. Long update for Valentine’s day. This story has been getting a lot of votes and reads lately - thanks SO much to everyone who’s been reading and voting. I really appreciate it. <3

Chapter Twenty: Further Damage

Several minutes later, Lord Landon’s carriage rolled down the drive and out of the gate. Verity watched it go from her bedroom window, her heart beating slow and heavy in her chest.

“I’m not in love with him,” she told herself. “Why would he say that to me?”

It felt like an accusation of a sin.

She sat down on the bed, and stared at the wall. She stood up, and paced the room. She sat back down on the bed.

“I’m not.”

It came to her, piercing through the haze of her confusion, that this was not even the biggest problem the visitor had brought her. Annulment.

What would Neil think of that?

Despite her protest to his brother, she could not quite be sure that Neil would marry her again come January, if they succeeded in the annulment. She thought he would, but she could not quite be sure, without asking.

She didn’t want to ask him. She didn’t want to tell him that his brother had visited to offer her that disgusting proposition. She wanted to pretend it had never happened, and hope that he would just go away, and give up.

She buried her head in her pillow, and pretended it was a dream. Yes, a nightmare.

Some time later, she heard the door bell ring, and got up and went to the top of the stairs, overlooking the hall.

It was Neil, giving the butler his stick, and shaking off his coat. He never wore a hat, and his curls were wind-tossed atop his head.

She came down to meet him, slowly. When he heard her, he turned and gave her a smile as greeting. Something happened at that moment, something that had been building up for weeks: A dam in her heart broke, and the entire flood of her feelings washed over her at once, leaving her bedraggled in its wake.

She stopped half-way down the stairs, clutching the banister like an anchor.

He came running up to meet her, and kissed her lips.

“You look pale. Was she that bad?”

For a moment, she didn’t know what he was talking about.

“No… Yes… but it’s not that.”

“You’re shaking.” He took her hands in his. They trembled in his grasp. “You must be ill. I’ll take you to bed.”

He put an arm around her, and led her away up the stairs. She was not ill, but she was full of a sweet agony of emotions, that made her unable to say or do anything for the moment, except be led gently to bed.

“I’ll call for Mrs Roper. Hot soup, and tea.”

“No.” She put out a hand. “I’m not ill. I just – had a shock.”

She was recovering from it now. Her breath returned to her. Her heart steadied in her chest. She had never known before that you could be so happy, and so sad, all at the once. And it was strange that her happiness didn’t mitigate her sadness, and her sadness didn’t mitigate her happiness. They each seemed the stronger for the existence of the other. She laughed, with tears in her eyes, and then held out both hands towards him, and he came and sat on the bed beside her.

Her fingers twined around his. His touch steadied her, and she was able to speak calmly, despite her thrumming heart.

“Your brother is suing to have our marriage annulled.”

Neil went very pale, very suddenly. The lines of his face seemed deeper; his eyes seemed black.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I should have told you better – I don’t know how to say it.”

“I – I don’t understand.” The words came with an effort. “What – Why?”

“Your brother – He looked like you, but he was short, and crippled. He was waiting to see me today, when I got back from my grandmother’s.”

“Richard,” Neil said slowly. “His name is Richard.”

“Yes. I suppose – he came and—”

“How did he know we were here?”

Verity stopped.

“Y-you didn’t tell them?”

Neil shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to any of my family since I was twenty years old. I should have told you before – they’re not good people. They’re very much not. That he’s here…”

He swayed where he sat, and put his head in his hands. Verity put her arms around him, and pulled him closer.

“Someone will have told them. Mr Prothero, Mrs Walthrope – Miss Walthrope. Someone else entirely. Mrs Roper might have spoken to a friend, who might have spoken to one of their servants. They were always going to find out eventually. Well, now they have. They know we’re here. They are going to sue for annulment. What will we do?”

She didn’t waste time comforting him. She didn’t know how. He had kind words for her whenever she was upset, but she had not yet adopted any more than a pale imitation of them for her own vocabulary. Now, in a moment of crisis, she could only do as she had in every other moment of crisis she had ever experienced, and look for a solution. She pulled him close, and repeated,

“What will we do?”

“I don’t know.” Neil shifted in her arms, rested his head on her shoulder, and spoke drearily into her hair. “I don’t know.”

They sat silent and still, arms around each other. It began to rain outside, but there was a fire in the grate, and the room was soft and warm.

I am in love with him, Verity realized. I’ve been in love with him forever.

It felt like it, at that moment anyhow. She had fallen in love with him by shades of deeper feeling over the past few weeks, so subtly in love that there was no moment where it seemed to begin, and thus it seemed to have been forever.

She didn’t want to tell him that. She was not often intuitive about emotions, but she had an instinct that it would be a very bad thing to say right now. He was not in love with her. She knew he was fond of her, but she knew too that he was fond of every harmless woman he met, the way some men are fond of kittens or children. To be in love with a man was to be a danger to him. He would not be so fond of her if he knew.

But how ironic that that cold, cruel brother of his had seen it so clearly – before she herself had even suspected!

The weight of Neil’s head lifted from her shoulder. He met her eyes. For one terrifying moment she had the irrational feeling that all her thoughts were visible on her face, and froze, but they weren’t – or if they were, he was blind to them.

“How was he?”

He wasn’t seeing her. He was seeing some far-place and time – a memory. She was almost relieved.

“Healthy, I suppose. He looks younger than you – at least, he does, when you have that expression on your face. His leg seemed to hurt him.”

“It always hurts him.” Neil sighed, and got off the bed, away from her. The colour was coming faintly back to his face, but he still looked drained, defeated. He went to the window, and leaned his face against the chilled glass. “You’ll have to tell me everything he said.”

“I don’t remember everything he said. He was waiting for me when I came back – the butler let him in, in secret, and now I don’t trust the butler.”

“It’s not easy to find new staff in a little village like this. We’ll have to tolerate Perkins. What did he say?”

“He was rude, very rude. Family trait, I suppose.”

“What!” Neil turned, and then, as she had intended, gave a short laugh. “Oh – well, I warm up better, don’t I?”

“You warm up very well. Mr Richard did not. He asked about you, but then seemed to think it a distraction, and hurried to the point, where he offered me twelve thousand pounds to persuade you not to contest the annulment.”

“He –” Neil shook his head. “They always think it’s about money – oh, it is, for them. What happened next?”

“He tried to persuade me to take it. He told me I could negotiate. He told me that he didn’t want to destroy me – only our marriage. He said you weren’t very wealthy, and that your father had cut you off. He even offered to find me another husband. I got the impression that he really thought he was being very generous.”

Neil made a small, disbelieving sound. “Richard was always a – a fool.”

Verity had the feeling that if she wasn’t in the room, he would have used stronger language. She smiled faintly. “Not so much a fool. What they’re doing will succeed, won’t it? I don’t suppose anyone thought to have my father sign his consent.”

“No. He gave it – I asked him that morning, and he said yes, and that was the end of it—” Neil almost turned to her for a moment, and then stiffened and didn’t. She caught the movement of his shoulders and wondered.

“What aren’t you telling me about it?”

He was silent.

“You’re paying him money, too, aren’t you?”

“I pay his rent, and give him an allowance – I’ll threaten to stop it, see if that changes mind.”

“Oh, Neil! “ Verity said softly. She wasn’t angry. She had always suspected something of the sort, but not dared ask about it. “He won’t, you know. How much do you pay him? A hundred pounds a year? They gave that much to him today. Ten thousand pounds when the annulment goes through. You can’t outbid them. And my father only cares about one thing on this earth. He won’t listen to reason, or compassion, or justice.”

Neil’s shoulders slumped. “I only give him five pounds a month. Anymore and he’d gamble and drink it all away. I could raise it—”

“You can’t outbid them.”

“Then what else do we do!?”

In the midst of everything, that one half-shouted phrase gave Verity a spark of hope.

What do we do?

She took a deep breath. But he wasn’t finished.

“Twenty-two thousand pounds!” he ranted. “They can’t afford that either – it’s Lady Laura Brockett’s money, some of it – snide, simpering little witch. Her father never—” He broke off suddenly, his hands in fists. “I must see Richard. He can’t have left town already. I’ll tell him to stop this nonsense – I know he’s a cripple, but I swear…” His fists worked in and out by his sides. “If I have to beat the sense into him—”

“No.”

Verity rose from the bed and took in his shoulders in her hands. She’d never seen Neil so angry before – not like this. This was a hot, alien anger, an animal, blood-lusting anger. She remembered Jane Walthrope’s warning: ‘He’s all cold on the outside, and hot within. He never shows his temper.’ But he was now. His shoulders shook at her touch.

“You’re not going to get in a fight with anybody. And as for what we’re going to do – we’re going to let them do their worst. We can’t do otherwise. But I told your brother that if our marriage was annulled, you’d marry me again next January, when I turn twenty-one. Was I – was I right?”

Her voice quavered. In that moment, Neil’s sudden, strange anger vaporized like mist on a summer’s afternoon. His hands came loose, and the tension in his shoulders melted into the usual warm suppleness.

“Yes.”

He kissed her.

A moment later, they collapsed together on the bed, body against body, lips against lips. For some time, their problems were abandoned, and the silence was punctuated only by sweet nothings and the rustle of silk upon cotton.

“As if I would let them take you from me,” Neil whispered.

For a moment, she thought she might be able to tell him she loved him, but he added, inconsequentially, his lips by her ear, “You’re too beautiful,” and she kept her secret.

It was nevertheless an entertaining diversion, but he cut it short, and sat up, with his back against the bedhead and his arm around her waist. She played with his cravat with one hand.

“Why stop? Dinner isn’t for an hour or two.”

He kissed her cheek. “What will we do if they succeed in annulling our marriage, and you come with child? We’d be in trouble.”

A short thrill of nervousness shot through her stomach. She had not dared broach the topic of children with him before. “Do you want a child? We haven’t talked about it.”

“Yes.” He kissed her cheek again and settled his arm more comfortably around her. “But not out of wedlock. And we might be in that state, if we’re not careful.”

Verity’s upbringing had not been so sheltered as to keep her in ignorance of how babies came into the world, and she could see the sense in his discretion. She mournfully let her fingers fall his cravat, and counted the months on them.

“I could outlive the scandal of being a pregnant bride,” she said ruefully, “but if we started a baby now it might be born before we could be married again – why do they have to ruin everything?”

“Perhaps they won’t.” He kissed her musingly on the forehead, and then pulled away again. “I’m going to the inn to see if Richard’s there.”

“Don’t fight him. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“I won’t fight him.” He got up, and began to straighten his mussed clothing. “I probably should have told you a long time ago, about them. They opposed my first marriage too. My father cut me out of his finances. I was twenty years old, and wouldn’t come into my mother’s money for over a year. He couldn’t take that from me, but I was flat broke. I didn’t even have the money for my passage back to Italy – to the woman I loved. I asked to borrow money from Richard, but he refused so I worked my way back, as a ship’s hand, and a carriage driver, and an interpreter, and a footman. It took me months. When I got there, I was still three months from my coming of age, and still broke, and we were married within the hour. That’s the kind of woman she was. She didn’t care that I wore stinking travel clothes and needed to shave and had no money – she married me. Her family wasn’t pleased about it, but they weren’t like mine. They accepted it. Every six months or so, I’d get a letter from Richard, or my father…” His voice trailed off. “I only read the first few. I was still hoping, then. But they were all the same, so I burned the others, without looking.”

She was silent, for a moment. Half her heart ached with pity for Neil. The other half glowed with a secret, silent joy that he trusted her enough to tell her these things. “He didn’t seem – entirely – like a bad person,” she said hopefully.

“His letters said that if I came home, and married Lady Brockett, they would forgive me, and reinstate my income.” He pursed his lips. “ They would forgive me .“

“Then, if you can’t forgive him, why are you going to see him?”

“Oh.” Neil opened the door, and gave her a wry, parting smile. “I’m just trying to see how much further damage he’s going to do.”

Duh-duh-dramah! Again!

Chapter Twenty-One: Introspection

His brother was staying at The White Hart, the second inn at which he inquired. Neil passed the innkeeper a coin as he opened the door of his brother’s suite. His brother was inside, lying on the bed with a book in his hand. He sat up, squinted, and then, eyes widening, ripped off his reading glasses and stared.

Neil shut the door behind him.

“Neil,” Richard said numbly.

Neil came forward and sat on a chair, his hands drooping between his knees. For a moment, he couldn’t say anything. He had known exactly what he was going to say, but the words just wouldn’t come out. It had been eight years. Even youth had never been kind to Richard, but now – his thick mop of dark hair was thinning, the curls lying limp over his brow. There were sagging, heavy lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before – lines that spoke of a world-weariness that went soul-deep. Since when had he needed glasses? Had the skin beneath his chin always drooped like that?

“Your looks haven’t improved either,” Richard said sourly, reading his expression.

Neil shook himself. “What happened to you?”

“I grew up.” Richard scrutinized Neil. “Your hair went gray.”

“Yours went thin.”

“How did it turn gray? She said it had – she let much slip.” Richard’s lips twisted in the ever-familiar not-smile that Neil hated so much to see. So he hadn’t changed – inside.

“ She is my wife ,“ Neil said coldly. “You will call her Mrs Armiger.”

Richard began to massage his right knee, through his pant leg, frowning. “Didn’t you think of us at all, when you married her?” he asked peevishly.

“No. I didn’t.”

“You should have.” Richard looked up resentfully. “Haven’t you the sense to realize that I’m hardly likely to find any woman at all to marry me – and that you’re the last son father has? If our title goes to a cardsharp’s daughter’s son!”

“What a stain that will be on the snow-white annals of British nobility,” Neil said dryly.

Richard flushed. “It’s the look of the thing, Neil. For a man like you to marry so low, and through entrapment—”

“There was no entrapment,” Neil interrupted. “I chose to marry her.”

“Why?”

For a moment, Neil couldn’t answer. He licked his lips, trying to think of why. If he knew – if he knew –

“Was it a reflex?” his brother asked acidly. “God knows when I saw her I considered – well I didn’t consider marrying her, but I did consider other things. You don’t have to marry girls to do that to them, you know.”

“And you don’t have to pay girls to do that to them, either,” Neil parried. He was too used to his brother’s keen tongue to rise to it, but he could see that had left a blow: Richard flushed. With a casual, scientific curiosity, Neil wondered if it was because Richard did pay women to sleep with him, or if it was because he didn’t and was still a virgin. That any woman had willingly and freely slept with his brother was not something Neil could believe: Richard was too full of sharp edges to have ever known what it was to love, even if only for a night.

“I just wish you’d thought about it,” Richard said bitterly. “Your children with this woman will carry on our name and title. And look at her father!”

Neil pressed his lips together tightly. He didn’t care about the family name or title. He hadn’t cared about them for a long time.

“Why don’t you marry Lady Brocket,” he said bitterly. “Go and have a thousand children with her. I don’t care. But leave off my wife. I came here to tell you that. I came here to tell you that you’re an absolute cad for coming up with this plan, and that even if you see it through, I’ll marry her again as soon as she’s twenty-one. So you needn’t bother with it. Cad.”

Richard made the funny, stuttering noise that he thought was a laugh but wasn’t. He swung his legs clumsily over the edge of the bed and leaned forward so he could look Neil properly in the eyes. “If I were you, and in love with that beautiful woman, I’d call me more than a cad for it. Here I was, lying here, imagining all the names you might be calling me, and you call me a cad. Well I am a cad. And a snake, and a bastard, and a mean, money-loving whore-monger. I’m all of those things, and to tell you the truth, I don’t like the idea of it – anymore. I stopped liking the idea of it when I saw her. Pa said a woman like that could never play countess – but he doesn’t know she’s a queen misplaced – star-crossed, probably, sent down a river in a basket, left on a hill to be eaten by wolves. And it’s a shame to make that queen a whore, and I wish I hadn’t told Pa about her now, because he doesn’t care who she is – he know she’s not Lady Brocket and Lady Brocket is a hundred and fifty thousand pounds ready and willing to be poured into the family coffers. Pa won’t give it up, even if I tell him you’ll just marry her again next January. You know he won’t. So there’s nothing I can do about it anymore, except be the messenger. Don’t shoot me, will you?”

But Neil wasn’t listening. He was looking, fascinated, at the strange, never-before-seen light in his brother’s eyes, and wondering what on earth had incited it. Richard had never been passionate. He was cold and bitter and practical.

“You have changed,” Neil said wonderingly. “I didn’t think you had, when I walked in, but you’re different now. Rich, I know you never liked me, but surely you can see what a foul thing this is that you’re doing?”

“I can.”

“Then can’t you stop it?”

Richard made again the sound he thought was laughter but never was. “No one on earth has ever stopped Lord Thomas Armiger, Earl of Albroke once he’s decided on a course. You’ll just have to let him trample down everything in his path – and rebuild it all when he’s gone.”

He was right, thought Neil. Their father had a bull-headed tenacity and an intolerance for opposition that had seen many in his path destroyed. Time and time again in his youth, Neil had come up against his father’s uncompromising will. Time and time again, he had been beaten down under it. Only once, when he ran away to marry the Italian girl he loved, had he managed to truly oppose his father. And even then, he had never dared bring her back to England with him, to take up a life there. He had feared that only at a distance from his father could he control his own destiny.

His stomach twisted, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t dare marry Verity for a second time – maybe his father was right.

Richard, seeing Neil’s bitter expression, said, “Look, Neil, I’m sorry about this – I didn’t realize what I was doing, when I suggested it to father – and now it’s too late to undo it.”

Some faint remnant of affection lit up in Neil’s soul. There had been times, in his youth, when his older brother had tried to protect him from his father’s rages. Blinded by nostalgia and some faint lingering childhood admiration, he didn’t realize that there had been just as many times when his warped brother had directed his father’s rage towards him. He gave Richard a bitter smile. “It was good to see you again. It was bad – but it was good.”

*       *       *

After Neil left, Richard remained for some time unable to concentrate on his book. Eventually, he put it to the side and limped to the window to stare out over the darkness of the valley. Here and there lit windows broke the blackness, but most of the light came from the blanket of stars in the sky above. It was an alien and attractive view for a man who spent his tired days and wakeful nights in hectic, gassy London. There was silence out here. If he had a library, and a house, and a dog… perhaps even a wife…

But the woman of his dreams appeared to Richard that night as an elegant young thing of twenty, dark-haired, and fair-skinned, with a pair of fine green eyes full of withering scorn.

He pulled the curtains over the window, shutting out the silence. The country was a terrible place, he told himself. Nothing to do and no one interesting to talk to. That must have been why Neil had married Her. He had to do something, or die of boredom. Well, She was the something, and now, now, now…

Richard went back to the bed, lay down, and stared at the ceiling. Someone had, long ago, thrown something at it – a cricket ball, perhaps. There was a series of confusing round indentations in the plaster. It irritated Richard. He wished the innkeeper would cover it up.

But Richard was perpetually irritated by life, and at that moment in particular would have found cause for complaint in anything he set his eyes on. With nothing to set his eyes on but the ceiling, slowly, his irritation drew back to its source.

Neil.

The last time Richard had seen him, he had been a boy of twenty, still with those gangly boyish proportions, and a trace of pimples across his brow. Now he looked – old. Lined, with grey hair shot through the black. Something had aged him – something terrible.

Richard was peeved to find that there were mysteries about his brother, but not anguished to find that they were sorrowful ones. He read the sorrow clearly on his brother’s face, and discarded it with a shrug of his shoulders. Sorrow happened. Richard had experienced it. And it passed, or it didn’t pass, but it was nothing that could be conquered, only endured. Obviously, Neil had endured it passably well and was not dead of it. There was no point lingering on the matter. But it did make one curious .

And for Richard to be curious was to be mad with the obscured truth of the universe.

Analyzing his younger brother’s reactions, bit by bit, trying to understand him, in the clinical, unemotional way Richard analyzed everything, he came to realize that Neil did not love Her. At first it was only a suspicion he treated with caution, for he was not without introspection, and he could see how convenient a balm it was for his jealousy. But slowly, the evidence mounted against Neil. He had not been angry enough. He had been so unruffled. He had called Richard a mere cad. Richard had intimated he was tempted to seduce his wife, and Neil had only tossed a bawdy taunt back at him.

No. Richard knew well what he called Neil’s quiet mad streak. He had never stood any such taunts against the Italian girl he had married. That he could stand them now was evidence that whatever Neil felt for Her, it was not love. Respect, lust, certainly. Richard could even empathize with those. But not love.

“There’s not much attaching him to Her,” he mused to himself. “Once her charm wears off, he’d probably even prefer an annulment. I’ll tell Pa…”

But he frowned at the deformed plaster ceiling. No. He would give his father no more ammunition. It was a foul thing. It wasn’t what She – it wasn’t honourable .

Richard was not without introspection, but at times, he was wont to cast it into his shadow, and look blindly into the sun.

Lot of italics this chapter. Thanks for all the reads and votes recently, guys <3 It means a lot to me.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Desperate Conviction

At first, Verity thought that at any moment she might receive notice that she was not, and never had been, married. But weeks passed without any further notice on the matter. She half-believed the Earl of Albroke had given it up, though Neil always looked away with pursed lips when she suggested it.

In June, summer arrived, late as usual, in the sleepy little valley. Neil went away for two weeks, to Albroke, to argue with his father. It was the first time he had seen him in eight years, and he was only seeing him to have an argument. Verity didn’t like it, and had wished to go with him, but he had flatly refused to allow her. He had so many good reasons why she should not go too: it was the first time he had seen his father since he was a boy; the journey was a long one and the heatwave unpleasant for her; she must maintain her presence in society; his father would greatly abuse her. Nevertheless, watching the forlorn slope of his shoulders as he left, looking like a dog who had been beaten by its master, she could not help but think he needed someone to support him. But no. He did not want her.

Instead, Verity stayed home. It was true: she chaperoned Clare and a few other younger village girls to a picnic; she went to tea with her grandmother; she bought herself two new ribbons at the village haberdashery store, a frivolous indulgence like she had never been able to afford until now. But apart from those interludes, she prowled around the house, upsetting Mrs Roper and the butler Perkins, who had begun a sort of civil war over the housekeeping duties and certain accusations of disloyalty. Recently Verity had begun to suspect that the butler, who had always been superior, as is bred into butlers, was beginning almost to be contemptuous. It irked her. So when he knocked on the door of her bedroom that day, put a finger to his nose, and said,

“A visitor.”

Verity replied sharply, “You may call him by his name, Perkins. And take your finger from your nose. You look ridiculous.”

The butler removed his hand from his nose with dignity. “I had an itch, my lady. And the visitor is a lady. She has given me her card.”

He presented the card on a silver platter, and Verity took it up with confusion. She had assumed it would be Richard Armiger again, come while his brother was out. She had been expecting somehow that he would.

Mrs Walter Walthrope presents her compliments

Jane Walthrope!

Verity dropped the card in her lap, as though it was a rat. The instinctive reaction did not pass the butler by, and a faint smile hovered on his flat-cheeked, long-chinned countenance.

“She is here now?” Verity snapped, and he drew himself to attention, the emotion fading like mud drying up in the sun.

“In the drawing room, my lady.”

“Then I suppose I must see her.” Verity stood up, and tossed the card in the waste paper basket. “You are dismissed.”

Verity did not like dismissing servants, as a general rule, but Perkins seemed to need it. He bowed, ever so slightly, and turned and left. She went down to the drawing room alone.

When she got there, Jane rose from the couch, held out her hands and said, “Verity,” very warmly. For a moment, Verity could do nothing but stand still and stare at her. She had only met her twice, and neither time had she liked her. Moreover, an echo of emotions of betrayal and horror came to her at the sight of those deep blue eyes. Perhaps sensing it, Jane let her hands fall to her side.

“You weren’t at the Thompson’s ball!” Jane prattled. “Or the Merritons’, or the Kimberlys’. I didn’t know where I would meet you if I didn’t come by – and Neil isn’t here either! But that’s alright. We don’t need men. It’s you I wanted to see.”

“Why?”

The word seemed to cut through Jane’s consciousness like a bullet. Her hands stopped fluttering, her mouth stopped moving.

“Why?! Well, I mean…” Jane looked around, and then sat down again, and looked invitingly up at Verity. “Well I want to be friends with you of course! Aren’t we already friends?”

In a small country town, you do not refuse to be friends with people on so shallow a reason as disliking them. But Verity was inherently truthful. She sat down slowly opposite Jane.

“What are you doing here?” she evaded.

“I live here now.” Jane smiled charmingly at Verity. “I’ve been trying to meet you, but you never seem to go out. So I did the unmannerish thing and simply came over. It seemed more practical.”

“You live here? In Greater Hough? Mrs Walthrope – you didn’t come here because of – us did you?”

She managed to make it ‘us’ and not ‘Neil’ at the last moment.

“I thought a country change might be nice for me – and of course I would want to stay where I had friends.”

A woman like Jane, Verity thought calculatingly, would have friends and enemies all over the countryside. She didn’t need to come to Houglen, away in the middle of nowhere. A faint shadow of suspicion flickered across Verity’s thoughts. She did not consider Jane someone to be jealous of, but she aware of her heavily flirtatious manner, and suspected that with Neil there might be more depth to the flirtation than there was with other men. And Neil was friends with her.

“And do call me Jane, dear,” she added, as though reading Verity’s thoughts.

Verity smiled weakly at her. “I suppose I should ask you how you find the neighbourhood.”

“It’s very charming, very quiet, very good for my health I’m sure. And there’s so many interesting people to talk to - really quite as many as in London. You will come to the Kipling’s supper party won’t you – and bring Neil, if he’s back.”

“I didn’t know they were having a supper party. I suppose we haven’t been invited. We don’t know them very well.”

“Oh, but that doesn’t matter! I’ve never met them – I’m coming because Miss Simpkins said I simply must, and of course Maria agreed, and there you are – I’m sure you must come too. You would be the life of it!”

“I’m not the life of any party,” Verity said firmly. “I prefer the part of the wallflower.”

“No you don’t,” Jane said equally firmly. “You just need some coming out. You’re a very pretty young woman, and it’s a shame to hide yourself away from people. Why, one day you’ll be old, and wishing you’d flashed some ankle while you still had ankles worth flashing.”

Verity laughed, despite herself. “I can hardly invite myself to the Kiplings. I’m sure if you’re staying in the neighbourhood, we’ll run into each other soon enough. But I’m a homebody, you see, and I don’t go out much.”

Jane lifted and dropped a hand dismissively. “But what is there to do at home all the time? Apart from drink tea. Do offer me tea. I’m dreadfully thirsty.”

It was a very charming sort of rudeness, and Verity was affected by it, despite herself. Her earlier distrust of Jane was beginning to fade under the woman’s charmingly inappropriate manner; only her inbuilt reserve kept her from losing her inhibitions completely and opening up.

Nevertheless, she rang the bell for the housekeeper, and asked for tea. Mrs Roper, perhaps sensing another potential battle about Perkins, came in with the housekeeper and the tea tray, a vase of flowers in her hands.

“Has Perk-” She began, but broke off, seeing Jane. Her ruddy, round cheeks turned pale, and her eyes grew bright. She put the flowers carelessly down on a table. “Jane – dear Jane.”

Dear Jane froze in her seat. “Nursie.” For a moment, even Jane seemed beyond words. But it was only a moment. Verity watched her recover, the surprise covered by a scream of joy as Jane jumped up and threw her arms around Mrs Roper. “Why, haven’t I missed you!?”

Jane made a big deal of hugging and kissing the older woman. It was somewhat, Verity suspected, too much of a deal, even for Jane. She poured tea while the reunion took place, and invited Mrs Roper to sit down with them. Jane tapped nervously at the ceramic of her cup.

“I didn’t know you were living with Neil. I didn’t know where you were. How lovely.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs Roper said placidly. “Neil was very good to me. He paid me an annuity, all those years, and when he returned to England, he came to find me and offer me a home and a place. Though I’ve nought much to do here, with no children to look after.” Mrs Roper gave Verity a gentle sort of smile. “Not yet.”

Verity flushed. But she noticed that she wasn’t the only one flushing. Jane was also pinker than normal. She put down her tea on her saucer.

“Mrs Roper helped bring me up, as well as the boys,” she explained, speaking too quickly. “My mother died when I was young. There was no one else.”

But the relationship between them was not, Verity thought, even close to that of mother and child. And it was very strange to see the self-composed Jane nervous. She must have realized it too. Something went over her then, a ripple of movement, through her face, and arms, and hands and chest and legs, every muscle tensing, and then suddenly slacking. She smiled at Verity: a perfectly composed, controlled smile.

“So you see, Neil and Richard are almost like brothers to me. I am very fond of them.”

“Naturally.” But Verity wondered why it was Mrs Roper who had brought that sudden loss of composure to Jane.

The loss of composure did not return. Jane chattered charmingly about all manner of things, especially village gossip, of which she was rather more well-informed than a recent transplant to the neighbourhood would be expected to be. She was very, very amusing. Verity suspected that she was being deliberately charmed, but even that suspicion could not prevent the charm from taking some effect. When Jane left an hour later, she had almost forgotten why she disliked her.

Mrs Roper and Verity watched Jane’s carriage down the drive. Her white hand fluttered goodbye to them out the window.

“That poor girl,” Mrs Roper said in undertone. “Poor, wicked girl.”

Verity was surprised. That Jane was wicked she could easily believe. That Jane was poor did not seem so understandable.

But Mrs Roper, who staunchly refused to hear, see or speak evil, would say no more.

Neil returned from Albroke a few days later, grimmer and more broken than the day he had left. He did not talk much of his interview with his father to Verity, but he did admit that nothing he had said seemed to have effect. The suit of annulment would continue, even though he had sworn blind that he would marry her again in January if it succeeded.

“He just likes to hurt people,” Neil said miserably, the evening of his return, when they were together in the library. “As a child, I used to love him. When he was pleased with me, he would give me all sorts of nice things. But if I did something that displeased him, he would take them away again, and lock me in my room, and whip me. He can no longer whip me. He only wants to hurt me as much he can, in other ways. Even if it’s pointless.”

Verity put her arms around him and kissed his temple. The words came unbidden to her lips, to tell him that she loved him. She smothered them by kissing him again.

“We’ll get through this,” she promised. “And when it’s over, you’ll never have to speak to him again. You can have your lawyer handle the case. You needn’t take part.”

And then, to distract him from his sadness, she began to tell him how Jane Walthrope had taken a house in the neighbourhood.

It was news that brought the ghost of a smile to his face and the shadow of joy to the tone of his voice. He asked questions, and she continued to talk to him about Jane. By the end of the night, when he kissed her goodnight at her bedroom door, he almost seemed cheerful.

“We’ll have to have a supper, and invite her,” he decided. “It will be fun. And I haven’t been very sociable of late.”

“Of course,” Verity said, despite the faint feeling of misgiving that crept into her heart. With the effects of Jane’s charm faded after several days, she remembered more clearly now the effects of her casual, cruel words, the first time she had met her. She kissed him again, and drew him inquiringly closer through her door.

He pulled back, and smiled down at her.

“I don’t think we can risk that yet.”

“I want you,” she persisted, with the sudden desperate conviction that she did not have him.

He kissed her again, but went no further. “I know.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: She Did Not Look Back

It happened without Verity realizing that Jane Walthrope became an indelible member of her social circle that summer. At first, her distrust over their first two meetings lingered, but Jane was so charming, and friendly and amusing and clever that this passed over into some sort of strange friendship.

It was a strange friendship indeed, for Verity, now that she knew she loved Neil, could not help but be struck by an impotent jealousy at the woman who engaged so much of his interest, if not his affections. It was a jealousy made all the worse by the observation that Jane never once flirted with Neil, though she made free game of the rest of the village men with scant regard to their eligibility. Verity knew that if Neil had not been important to Jane, she would have flirted as recklessly with him as she did the others. Try as she would, Verity could not contain her occasional thrills of fear or anger when she saw Jane and Neil being, damnably, respectably, friendly to one another. But knowing her jealousy for what it was, she forced herself to be extra generous and affectionate to Jane, who responded in kind, and so she found herself in the very strange position of being bosom friends with a woman who gave rise to her worst nightmare.

Or not quite her worst nightmare.

The letter from Mr Colbert, Neil’s lawyer, came towards the end of summer. A trial for the annulment was to be held in September, in the London Consistory Court.

Neil read the letter aloud to her at the breakfast table, with some notable silences where Verity was sure he was redacting the most uncomfortable phrases. She silently thanked him for it, and sipped her coffee from trembling fingers.

Neil put the letter back down and sighed.

“Colbert is a good lawyer, but my father can afford the best. Verity, I don’t think we can stop this.”

She looked down at her plate, at the food untouched.

“No. We can’t.”

She rose, bent to kiss him, and went to her room.

She knew that they could not stop it. The power lay in two men: their respective fathers. Well, she thought as she dressed in her oldest, least expensive gown, Neil tried his and that didn’t work, so now, I’ll try mine.

She didn’t tell him she was going, nor the servants. She quit the manor through the side entrance and walked the three miles to Lesser Hough, to the street where her father’s cottage lay.

It was not yet noon, and she did not bother knocking. She walked through the unlocked kitchen entrance, bile rising in her throat at the old smell – how had she never noticed how much it smelled? It smelled of gin, and sickness, and damp. There was a woman from the village who came weekly to scrub and cook and slap the house into something resembling order. She was paid well for her troubles, Verity knew, because Neil was the one who paid her, but Verity pitied her all the same. The cupboards were splintered and warped, and the tiles crooked and broken, the grime of years seeped into every crack and fissure.

The dining room was worse. Verity swallowed, and steadied herself against the wall a moment, remembering what had happened to her the last time she was here. For a moment, she thought of fleeing – and might have if it hadn’t been for her father’s snore, coming down from the rickety stair case. She hurried through the dining room, and up the stairs to his room.

It was dark in here, the curtains drawn across the windows, and she could only just make out his form draped over the bed, the rags of blankets all trammelled up against the walls and the foot of the bed, as though he had fought them in his sleep.

He had gained weight in the belly, she noticed with disgust, too much weight – yet the rest of him was sinewy and bony and undernourished. His arms were bare to the elbows, and his shirt was open down to his sternum, revealing the sinews, and coarse greying hairs. He snored again, the sound uncomfortably loud, and Verity grimaced.

She did not wish to touch him, so she kicked at the lumpy mattress until he woke. He yelled something, sat up, and his bleary eyes focused weakly on her.

“So you came back.”

He was sober, at the very least. Whatever he had drunk last night had worked its way through his system and was out of him. Being out of him, it left him in a temper too.

Verity went to the window, and pulled open the thin curtains, and shoved open the shutter, which was broken and always stuck.

With the light, she could tell that the cleaning woman did not venture here. Clothes lay strewn across the floor, along with empty glasses and bottles, and straw from the mattress. She caught a glimpse of a mouse scurrying under the bed. There were other scurrying things too, in the eaves, coming down the walls, in the shadows of the floor.

For one moment, she wanted to cry – not for herself, but for the man her father might have been. He was reduced to no more than an animal, living in his own filth. It wasn’t right.

The moment passed.

Her father slung his legs over the bed, glared at her, and scratched his sagging throat, itching with a half-week of beard.

“I knew you’d come back.”

There was something reminiscent of an animal’s snarl to his voice. Perhaps it would have been better if he was drunk. At least then, he wouldn’t be so angry.

“Father,” Verity said softly, “Why are you saying you didn’t consent to my marrying Neil?”

He scowled, and winced, as though the movement made his head ache.

“I didn’t say you could marry him, you’re my daughter.”

“You told him he had your blessing.”

“He lies!”

Verity sighed. “You can’t go on with this, father. You can’t destroy my marriage. It won’t do anybody any good.”

“Good!? What do you know of good! You never cared for me. You never loved me. You won’t help me get the things I need. You ran off and left me, like everyone else. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

Verity winced, but she remembered her purpose, and kept a rein on her temper. “Is it money you need, father? We’ll give you money, if you stop this. We’re already giving you money, but we can give you some more.”

His eyes took on a cunning expression. “He told me how much you were worth, that earl fellow. He’s got the money. It doesn’t go to your man. It goes to other one. The cripple. You won’t ever see it. So don’t say you can give it to me.”

They couldn’t. They didn’t have it. They were rich, but it was a drop in the ocean compared to what the Earl of Albroke could put a hand to.

“But it’s not a nice thing to do, to destroy a marriage,” Verity pleaded. “Didn’t grandmother try to do that to you? Why would you do that to your daughter?”

“Hah! That—” For a moment, Mr Baker remembered he was a man, and not just a creature. His mouth snapped shut. Verity could guess what the next word was to have been. “You took her side, didn’t you? You left me, and went and stayed with her, and her people, and now you’re just like them. Don’t pretend you aren’t. You’re no daughter of mine.”

“Then it’s not to you to be claiming I can’t marry who I will!” Verity snapped. She made an attempt to rein herself in, but realized there was no point. Neither mercy nor malignity would suade Mr Baker to withdraw the suit: Mr Baker wanted only money.

She tossed her head.

“And you’re no father of mine. I should have told you years ago – you never once cared for me, or loved me, or did anything to better me. You treated me like a slave and a whore. You never protected me. Or mother. If you were once a man – were you ever a man!? Were you ever a man or were you always this!?” She pointed a finger at his stinking, dishevelled form, at the bugs, and the mess, and the smell. “Do your worst, father. Take the money. You’re a liar and I know it, and Neil knows it. You gave permission for me to be married because it advantaged you then, and you’re pretending you didn’t now because it advantages you. You – You’re—”

Her vocabulary failed her for a moment. Mr Baker took the opportunity to begin to cry, and accuse her of being ungrateful and cruel, and even certain unrepeatable things.

Verity cut through them all.

“You’re worthless.”

She turned and left the room. Mr Baker followed her down the stairs, he shouted things, he accused her. He kept it up until she was at the gate.

She did not listen, and she did not look back.

By the time she got home, the worst of her anger had cooled. Neil met her in the shabby little egress by the side door. He must have guessed where she had gone.

“He won’t change his mind.”

“No.” Her voice was blurred with tears. She took off her bonnet and gloves, and laid them down on the worn side table. She wouldn’t look at him, because she didn’t want him to see the tears in her eyes, but she could see in the mirror that he was leaning against the chest opposite, and watching her too.

She kept her head bowed, and moved away.

“Verity.”

“I have a headache.”

“Verity.”

“I’m going to-”

“Verity, will you marry me?”

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, and slowly turned back to him.

“What?”

He was standing, with his hands clutched together in front of him, looking concerned and a little sheepish.

“I never asked properly before. And since it looks like we’re going to be not married, in the future, I want to ask now. Will you marry me again? Will you?”

The tears she had not shed began to stream down her cheeks – so fiercely that she could see nothing of her husband but the faint blur he made as she stumbled towards him. He pulled her into his arms and she pressed her face to the cloth of his jacket, feeling its comforting roughness against her cheeks, breathing in its comforting, woody smell.

“Will you marry me?” he asked, once more, and she realized she had not replied.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

She raised her head and kissed him with a fierce, blind hunger.

Some minutes later, she pulled away, looked around the shabby half-hall, with its boots on the floor, and the outside door with the window in it, and the open doorway to the back hallway. They both giggled.

“Come to bed with me,” she whispered.

“It’s just on one o’clock, my dear,” he replied tauntingly.

“I want you. I need you.” She kissed him. “I love you, Neil.”

The last words were said with a trill of sadness to them. She’d been holding them back for a long time now, but at last she could hold them no longer. He must have caught it. He kissed her.

“Verity. Do you mean it?”

“Yes. I do.” She faced him, half-bravely, prepared for rejection.

There was none. She had taken steps to close the gap between them. He had neither backed away, nor stepped closer. He kissed her eyes, and then her lips.

“I’m honoured, my dear. I’m really… very happy. I couldn’t ask for a better woman to love me.”

Perhaps it was that, his obvious guilt that she felt more for him than he did for her, that led him to take her hand, and lead her away up the stairs to the bedrooms. Perhaps it was only that he wanted her as much as she wanted him, and the months had been long and lonely.

She held him for a long time afterwards, and they murmured sweet nothings to one another, and played with each other’s fingers and hair and flesh.

“You won’t avoid me after this, will you?” Verity asked anxiously. “If we can be married again January, there’s not time enough for a baby to be born before then.”

“I couldn’t avoid you if I tried,” he promised. “I missed you.”

Hadn’t she missed him!

Some time later, with her head resting on his chest, and her fingers playing idly with his, she said quietly,

“I know you don’t love me. But I want you to know how I feel. Can we live like that?”

He brought her fingers to his to kiss them. “Yes.” He kissed every one. “I like you a lot, Verity. I always did, you know, and I like you more every day. And I’m really very happy to know that you love me. I didn’t think… I don’t deserve it.”

She rolled over, and pressed her body to his.

“Since when was love ever deserved?”

But those were the last sensible words for some time.

Dun. Dun. Dun. What’s that!? An update?! In fact, updates may be only Fridays for the next few weeks. I’ve been trying to keep up twice a week for a while, but I’m pretty busy right now, and I’ve run out of pre-written chapters. Once I manage to set aside a solid writing binge and get some more written, I’ll be able to resume twice-weekly updates.

Thanks so much for the loads of reads this story has been getting recently as well! It’s crazy!! I’m really glad so many people are enjoying this <3

Chapter Twenty-Four: He, She, and Scandal

The day he learned his wife loved him, Neil realized the law suit to separate them no longer mattered. His father was nothing more than a brutal child kicking down sand castles, out of spite and malice. His father had never been anything more than that. But his father could not destroy what Verity felt for him, nor even what he felt for her. He felt safe in her arms; he was even beginning to feel at home in them. If they had to remarry, she would do so with joy, and he would do so with confidence. And at that point, his father would have no more ammunition against them, no more circumstances or weaknesses to exploit, nothing he was able to kick down. His father would recede to a cold and dark distance, where he could be forgotten, if never forgiven.

So for Neil, the last of summer, and the first of Autumn, passed in a golden haze of contentment. He no longer bothered with the letters his lawyer sent him, but merely signed them and sent them back. When villagers, reading the gossip of the case in the papers, commented on it, he smiled and diverted the conversation. He enjoyed his wife, and his society, and his house without sparing a glance for the cloud that hung over them all: it was only a storm, and it would pass.

In mid-October, the court case concluded, and the storm broke. He attended the London Consistory Court with his lawyer Colbert to hear the verdict:

The wedding had been unlawful, and the marriage was null and void.

Returning to Verity to tell her was more awful than hearing it himself. She came out onto the front steps as his carriage arrived, and when he jumped down and ran towards her, she turned white and still as porcelain.

“They did it…”

He folded her in his arms.

“I’m afraid they did, my dear.”

Colbert, who had travelled with him from London to sort out the last details of the event, came up behind and said, sincerely,

“My deepest apologies and commiseration, Miss Baker.”

At the sound of her old name, Verity went slack in his arms, and he lowered her, shaking, to sit on the steps, his arms still around her.

“Has she fainted?” Colbert said helpfully. “Should I fetch my smelling salts?”

For not the first time, Neil cursed his lawyer, who was so clever with law, and so stupid with people.

“Do go away, Colbert,” Neil said roughly. “Go and wait in my study.”

It was only the lawyer had gone away that Verity raised her pale face again.

“I had still hoped otherwise.”

He kissed her. “Colbert says we may marry again after your birthday. Don’t fret.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, and slumped against him, her warmth like fire compared to the chill of the stone steps beneath them. “People will talk. They will judge me.”

“As they did before, I know.” He patted her shoulders. “Perhaps you should return to your grandmother’s house, for a short while. Just until we can marry.”

She gave a weak laugh. “I’d rather stay with you. If I have committed sins unknowingly… I did honestly enjoy them, and would knowingly repeat them.”

He kissed her hair. “I’ve even been thinking, on the drive over here, that I might spend the winter in France, with Prothero… I can return in time to be decently married.”

“No!” She twisted and clung to his coat. “Neil, please, please… I’d rather be judged. I’d rather be with you, and judged. Please. Stay.”

She was shivering, he realized, with both cold and emotion. Perhaps she was even taking ill. In damp weather, he had noticed her old cough seemed to return. He pressed a hand to her cheeks, and found them burning.

“We’ll discuss it later,” he promised. “Come on, let’s get inside, and have something to eat.”

But after persuading her to hot tea and a few nibbles of toast, Verity herself decided to go to bed. She took his coat lapels in her hands on the staircase.

“Come with me.”

But Neil, suffering under some reluctant ideal of preserving her honour, sent her to bed alone, and ordered his housekeeper to make the second bedroom ready for him later that night.

He had been serious about returning to France. It had seemed to him one way to lessen the scandal blowing about them – there was so much scandal in a small village – and one sure way, too, to lessen the temptation to touch her, and hold her, and kiss her, and do all the things to her that only truly married couples were supposed to do. He wanted to treat her like a lady. He wanted other people to see her as one. That certainly would not happen if she lived, unmarried and unchaperoned, in his house with him.

He went to his study to start the letter to Prothero, and on entering was surprised to see his lawyer sitting by the fire, looking impatient and tired. He had forgotten he had told Colbert to wait.

There were some last minute matters to deal with, various errata to settle the dust on the battle they had lost. Colbert brought out the papers and signalled where Neil was to sign. When it was over, he went over to the reading chairs by the fire and sank down expectantly into one of them.

Sighing, Neil went to the sideboard. “A drink, then?”

“I’d be very grateful for a brandy, Sir.”

Seated, with brandy, Colbert circled the intended conversation like a buzzard – or, thought Neil, like a lawyer. Neil did not sit, but stood facing the fire, twisting his own glass in his hand. He had no desire to drink it.

“The lady is very young, isn’t she?”

“Older than her years, I think. She has endured much.”

“Of course. Her father. And her upbringing.” Colbert sipped brandy. “I suppose you felt sorry for her.”

“In a way, I still do.”

“You intend to marry her when she is of age then?”

“Yes. As I’ve told you.”

Colbert ran his finger along the lip of the brandy glass. “If you’ll forgive me my personal opinion, Sir, deviating from the legal, if I were you, I would not.”

“Not marry her?”

“No.” Colbert took the rest of the brandy in one gulp, as though bracing himself for what he was going to say. “If you forgive me, she is not of your class.”

Neil raised an eyebrow. “No. I often find myself looking up to her,” he said, in a tone so agreeable that Colbert, who knew him well, could not have failed to take it as a warning. Heedlessly, however, he plunged on:

“If you were to put aside, say, two hundred and fifty pounds a year for her income…”

“Ah, I take it you suggest I make her my mistress?”

Colbert blushed delicately.

Neil found he could no longer pretend to be amiable about the matter. He poured his brandy slowly into the fire, watching it flare.

“This is where the law fails and morality succeeds,” he said, when the fire had stopped fizzing. “I’ll make no argument to you about morality. You’re a lawyer and you’ve got none. It would take more than two hundred and fifty pounds a year to make that woman a mistress. She never was, and never will be my mistress. She is my wife.”

“But as a matter of law…”

“Didn’t you hear me? The law has failed. Morality dictates my answer. Colbert, she is my wife.”

---

The letter was sent the next morning, and Neil told Verity that he was arranged to sail on the seventh of November. It gave her three more weeks with him – three more weeks to be the woman who was no longer his wife, living in his house with him. They were a party of three: He, She, and Scandal.

Lord Albroke had proven quickly true to his foul word, and ten thousand pounds had been placed in the tremulously grasping hands of her father. It made Verity ill to think of how her father would spend the money, how it would be more a poison to his life than poverty ever had been. However, it was true he had at least the presence of mind not to spend all of it on alcohol: he had a new horse, and a new coat, of a green and red check, and, above all things, a female admirer, indeed, at least a dozen, of the very low types with whom he was acquainted. It was chiefly through Mr Baker that Houglen first learned the suit of annulment had been successful: he was very proud that night, and thought it such a clever thing. The gossip spread upwards and outwards. When the newspapers from London arrived a week after the fact, it only confirmed matters.

Nobody asked Neil and Verity to confirm things. Verity supposed it was too indelicate a question for most to brave asking. Indeed, nobody mentioned the annulment at all, except, of course, Jane Walthrope.

She came over the day the newspapers arrived, though Verity was sure she must have heard the gossip beforehand. Embracing Verity as she entered, she had cooed,

“Oh, you poor, poor dear! That wicked Lord Albroke! He was always such a brutish, horrible man! What on earth are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” She went with Jane into the drawing room, angered by the sympathy, and suspicious of it, but too wary to show it. They sat down, and she rang for tea. “I just don’t know. Have you come to commiserate, or was there something more important?”

“What can be more important?” Jane said. “I want to help you in any way I can. People are talking you know. I’ve heard such terrible things. Mrs Kimberly is very distressed that you are still residing in Neil’s house. Are you going to return to Lady Duvalle’s house? But if you do, you might never leave. You might become an old maid there.”

“I should think,” Verity said icily, “That it must be obvious to everybody in the village by now that at the very least I am not a maid.”

Jane smiled, with a trace of stiffness. “I had made no assumption.”

“That is not only most generous of you, but really quite becomingly innocent,” Verity said, with more than a trace of irony.

The tea came. It interrupted what might have, with little more provocation, become a verbal battle. Verity poured, and Jane picked a sandwich delicately between her forefinger and thumb.

“No,” Verity said slowly, her guard dissipating suddenly under the overwhelming need to talk to someone – anyone – who wasn’t Neil. “It is Neil who is leaving. He is going to France for the winter.”

“France?” Jane put the sandwich back on her plate. “Why – he is abandoning us.”

Us. Verity’s guard returned, like a steel vice clamping down over her heart.

“He believes it would evoke the least scandal this way. When he returns, we will be married again almost immediately.”

“I see.” Jane took up the sandwich again, and examined it as though it were a strange sort of bug. “Chivalrous. He was always chivalrous. I will miss him.”

And how do you think I will feel?  Verity thought. With a burst of anger, she snapped, “Are you going to eat that, or just ogle it!?”

Jane’s mouth opened in surprise. She gave a burst of laughter, and then took a great, wrenching, unladylike bite of the sandwich, her teeth snapping.

When they parted later that day, Verity was more acutely aware than ever of the strange place Jane Walthrope held in her life. She was both friend and enemy, kindness and cruelty. And the trouble with Jane was that she could be both all at once. There were no moments with Jane where she was ever entirely the one or the other. Even when she was being kind, she never let Verity forget that there were steel barbs under her golden tongue, and when she was at her cruelest, her words were never so sweet, her expression never so friendly.

It was two weeks before Verity saw Jane again, at the dinner Neil threw the night before he was leaving. It was perhaps the hardest dinner of Verity’s life. She had never been at ease in high society, or what passed for it in Houglen. Now, in the wake of the annulment, she felt more like an imposter than ever. She had avoided society as much as she could. Tonight, she could not.

Perhaps the other guests felt the same way. It was a subdued evening. Even Jane’s constant, idle prattle, always a relief at an awkward dinner party, was sparse and uninspired tonight. Verity even caught her repeating statements, as thought she knew not what else to say.

“Those lovely orchids – did you see the orchids, Mrs Simpson?” she said, at least twice.

It was a relief for the women to withdraw to their own room after dinner, and leave the men to their drinks and snuff.

Mrs Simpson took the piano and began to play one of Scarlatti’s sonatas. Already moribund in tone, it was not improved by her missed notes and rheumatic movement. Verity moved about the room, fiddling with the flowers over the fireplace, straightening a picture frame on the other wall, braiding the tassels of the curtains. The other women talked in a soft sort of hush, occasionally falling back into silence, to pick at their nails, or idly flap their fans.

The sonata ended. Mrs Simpson started another.

“Cards?” someone suggested feebly.

Cards was a good idea, everybody agreed. Nobody moved.

“I’m a little tired for it, after all,” Jane said, yawning. “I might read a book.”

And Jane buried herself in a corner of the settee with a novel. From then, the conversation was even sparser.

It was a relief for Neil to appear at the door at last. One by one, the men filed in. Conversation came with them. The alcohol had loosened their tongues. Verity rallied herself to the cause, and even Mrs Simpson managed to break away from Scarlatti and play something merrier.

But it was a relief, Verity believed, to everyone, when the clock struck midnight and everybody began to disturb themselves in the effort of leaving. No longer host of her own home, Verity slipped away without a word, and waited hidden by a pillar on the mezzanine as Neil said goodbye to the guests in the hall below.

Jane was to be the last to leave. Verity could hear her voice trilling in the hallway, after the other carriages had disappeared down the drive.

“They’re awfully slow tonight – Neil, darling, tell me how to keep my servants from cheating me with their slovenly behaviours and manners.”

“If I knew! Should we wait outside? They cannot be much longer.”

“Oh no. It’s far too cold. We will see them when they come.”

They fell into silence. Verity waited awkwardly in the shadows, feeling suddenly and embarrassingly like an an eavesdropper.

“Jane?”

“Ssh. Quiet.”

At that, Verity stopped feeling like an eavesdropper, and twisted around the pillar to look.

They were standing very close. Jane had her hand on his cheek.

“I’ll miss you, if you go to France.”

Neil said nothing.

“I’ve been missing you for years, Neil.”

Still, he said nothing.

Slowly, Jane drew closer. Verity’s stomach seemed to turn over inside her body as first the woman, and then the man, closed the distance between them by hesitating inches.

Neil’s shoulders hunched over the woman. Slowly, he raised his hands to her arms. In the distance, horse hooves could be heard, rounding the drive. As they approached, she raised her head, and he lowered his to receive her kiss.

Feeling sick, her hands trembling, Verity twisted on her heels and stumbled blindly to her room.

A/N: Is this? Is this? Could it be? An update? The next three chapters are written already, if you're in a panic about that. I'm not panicking about writing chapters. I never panic about writing chapters.

 

No. 
Never.

# Chapter Twenty-Five: That Fragile, Twisted Heart

It was a proper kiss, but it was not the kiss she had wanted. It was sweet and kind and intolerably chaste. Without haste, Neil released her, and pushed her back gently to look down at her with an expression full of pitying fondness. Her pride flared in her breast. Jane hated to be pitied.

"A farewell gift, I think," he said softly. "Your carriage has come."

"Don't think you gave that to me," she warned. "I stole it. I earned it."

The softness in Neil's eyes faded slightly.

"Either way, I believe it must be farewell."

"Must it?"

"It would be best." He drew away from her. Behind him, the open front door revealed her carriage pulling up. "If you are in love with me, our continued friendship will only cause you pain. If you are not in love with me, then you are playing games with me, and I cannot be friends with a woman who treats me as a plaything. So perhaps you should not tell me which it is. Perhaps we should not risk conversation at all. It can only confirm unhappiness for one of us. Mrs Walthrope, I do not wish to know for whom."

This was not as she had expected. She had expected to awake within him some of the passion she knew dwelt there – whether anger or lust, she had not known. His quiet disappointment and faint pity hurt her far worse than he could have known or intended. His dispassionate summary of her motives pinned her down in an unflattering light. She did not like that he saw her as pathetically lost in a one-sided love, or cruelly involved in a twisted and sluttish game of hearts. She did not like that she did not know herself which was true.

She set her jaw and abandoned her usual flirtatious manner for bluntness – a weapon she rarely effected. "Neil. I stayed away from you while you were married to her, but you're not any more. You're free, if you wish to be. And I'm free to make an attempt to win you. This is my attempt. My genuine attempt."

But he was shaking his head, and heading for the door, not looking at her. He stood with his back against it, one arm held out to direct her through. "I'm not free to be won. I'm not."

"You're unmarried." Jane looked him up and down contemptuously. "Unless you're in love. Are you in love? With 
her
?"

"Jane. You should have left without a word. No more words, now, please. Please, take your leave and go."

But Jane could not go. For Jane, love was war, and she a proud warrior. She had always demanded of men one of two results: defeat, or conquer. Retreat was not a move in her repertoire. Nor was she accustomed to a man refusing to battle with her. She was weaponless against his retreat into dignity and coldness.

"Are you in love with her?" she demanded, once more. "Don't you at least owe me that?"

"Please, Jane. Just go."

He did not love her. He did not love the girl he had married. She was as sure of that as she had been of anything in her life. He did not love Verity, and still Jane had lost him to her. The revelation hurt her to the quick, to the core of the heart she kept so well guarded by smiling and coquetry and charm; to the heart that had never trusted any man, nor kindness, not certainly any woman since the day she had first felt what it was to be betrayed. And in the face of a man who embodied faith, not love, that fragile, twisted heart broke.

"She's a drunkard's daughter! She's a whore-branded drunkard's daughter!" Jane's voice, always melodious, now broke from her throat like tearing silk. "You are marrying her for honour! Honour! Not love! And she – she is... nobody. Nothing."

Neil turned white. Slowly, he shut the door on the waiting carriage, and came back into the hall.  

"She is the most honourable woman I know. Again, and again, I have heard her maligned for her father – we cannot help our fathers. And yet her own actions – her fortitude, her strength, her principles – no one cares about them. All because she is a drunkard's daughter. Yes. A drunkard, and a liar, and a thief. A drunkard who lied to force an annulment upon us for his own material gain! How can I not marry her come January, Jane? You say I am free – I am not. I married her in good faith, and she me. Legally, our ties have been broken. Morally, I cannot abandon her."

"I thought you would be relieved by it," Jane spat. "I can see you don't love her. You, who have already lost so much for love, would now lose it all again for something as paltry as honour?"

But Neil no longer seemed to have words to say. He was staring, brokenly, at Jane, as though he did not recognize her, as though he did not want to.

"Seeing ghosts?" she asked acidly.

"How paltry do you think honour is?" Neil said slowly. "Jane... you thought I would be relieved? And you never flirted with me once until now. You knew my father was planning this, or you would never have come to Houglen. You knew – and you never warned me? No... Jane... Jane... you thought I would be relieved... you believed it was a good thing. You still do."

Her jaw jutted sullenly. "One day you-"

"No. No I won't."  

"In time, when your ridiculous guilt complex has faded-"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't demean yourself further. You have waited for me all these months, that you might persuade me – what? To start an affair with you? To marry you? Or merely to persuade me that there are sweeter waters than Verity Baker? That's demeaning enough. You would go so far to ruin another woman's happiness. To so much effort. Don't demean yourself by failing at the task now. Go home without trying. Your only redemption lies in retreat."

She attempted to laugh. She attempted to smile. A harsh, uncertain cackle came from her. She choked on it. For the first time since she was a child, she felt the hot prick of genuine tears in her eyes. She had too much practice at controlling herself to let her mask slip entirely, even now. She tossed her head, and headed for the door, unable to speak, for fear she should lose control entirely.

"Wait."

Neil's voice was dead and cold as ice in winter.

"How did you 
know
 my father was planning the annulment?"

She twisted her head, and looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. Still, she could not speak. Now, she did not want to.

"How did you know?"

She opened the door. Her carriage was waiting outside. The footmen looked up at her. The driver gathered his reins.

"How did you know, Jane!?"

She ran down the stone stairs.

"Jane! Answer me!"

He came down after her. His fingers brushed her gloved wrist as he reached out. But she had always been fleeter of foot than him. She leaped the last six steps, and flew to the shelter of the waiting carriage.

The footman slammed the door behind her. The carriage began to roll away. She leaned out the window. Neil was slowing to a stop at the foot of the stairs. His hair was dishevelled, his face white, and his eyes wide and black. She saw her chance, in that moment, to win the war – and lose it simultaneously. Better – better than retreat.

"I came up with the idea, you fool. I'm a lawyer's daughter!"

The last sight she saw of Neil was him folding up to sit on the bottom step of his lonely manor, his head in his hands.

*	*	*

Neil had to sit still for quite some time on the chill steps in the night before he had the strength to rise and go to bed. It was one thing to be betrayed by his father, even his brother. It was very different to be betrayed by someone he had trusted. He could not understand why she would want to separate him from Verity; why she would be involved to this degree of machination. She had always been cruel. She had never, until now, been so wilfully malicious.

His shock became anger, and he cursed her, loathing every moment they had ever spent together. He loathed, in particular, the kiss. He had not pushed her away at the first moment because he had believed that she might be just a little bit in love with him. He had wanted to believe. It had excited his ego to believe that such a beautiful woman, who blatantly enjoyed the fruitless attentions of so many male admirers, could truly have lost a piece of her heart to him. Deep down, he must have always known she did not have a heart to lose. Cursing his own weaknesses now, he kicked at the stairs until his heels ached. She had played him, and they had both lost.

He went inside, finally, when a soft rain started up. By then, it was two in the morning. He dreaded his journey tomorrow. It never did well to leave a place in anger, and he was angry. He would leave in a cloud of bad feelings, and they would follow him to France.

He bolted the door, and traipsed upstairs in the dark, head bowed. Passing Verity's door, he stopped, and opened it.  

He rather thought she moved as he came in, but when he got to her side, she was still, her face pressed into a pillow, her chest rising and falling with each gentle breath.  

He had wanted – needed – to talk with her. She would dispel his cloud, she would persuade him things were not so bad – but even if he could, was she able to hear about what had happened downstairs without also being hurt?

No. To explain that he had kissed Jane, the woman who had coldly planned the demise of their marriage? He could not. And yet, surely, he would have to one day. It was not a secret he could keep from Verity forever. For his own sake, more than hers, he needed to confess, and receive her absolution. But to expose her to such hurt the night before they separated for months would be an inconceivable wound.

It was a tangled, tangled mess.  

Not wanting to wake her, he backed out of the room, and went to lie, alone, in his bed, and frustrate himself with unending angry thoughts until morning.

~~~~

A/N: There. Better? Forgivable? Well. Perhaps. Next update Tuesday. Thanks for sticking with this story, Guys :)

# Chapter Twenty-Six: The Unforgiving Weight of the Ocean

After she heard Neil leave the room, Verity turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. She was not sleeping. She could not sleep.  

And she did not, until dawn began to seep greyishly through the sky, and birds began to sing. Some few hours later, she was woken by a knock at her door. Neil.

"Verity," he said softly. "I'm leaving in an hour. Are you awake?"

For a moment, she froze, horror stricken in bed. She could not forget the sight she had seen last night.  

"Don't come in," she said haltingly. "Don't."

And before he could, she fumbled her way out of bed and twisted the key in the lock.

"Verity? What's wrong? Let me in – please."

"No!"

"Verity? What on earth is wrong – please, I must speak with you. I cannot leave before I speak to you."

"I'm tired," she snapped. "I don't want to talk." And she was tired. The betrayal she had witnessed and the sleepless night that had come of it seemed to have leached the energy from her bones. She sagged against the door, and slid down it until she was sitting on the floor in her nightdress, her hands still clinging to the doorknob. After a moment, they too dropped lifelessly to her knees.

"My carriage leaves in an hour! Verity, please, tell me what is wrong."

And then, because she thought he might never be quiet if she didn't, she said bitterly, "I saw you kiss Jane last night."

From outside the door there was silence for a moment.

"It was a goodbye kiss," he said flatly. "I don't believe I will ever see her again. I'm sorry. I should never have done so."

"It's just," Verity said bitterly, "That I never expected you to fall in love with me. You are no longer capable of love, aren't you? That is what you once told me. I think you believed it. But I wonder now if you are capable of it – but not with me. And if you are... I must be in your way. And I should apologise. But I cannot."

"Verity – no. That's not true. It's my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, let me in so I can apologize properly."

"I'm tired," she repeated. "I want to go to bed."

She knew, at that moment, that she could not bear to see his face. Outside the door, he swore softly.

"Verity – Verity, come with me to France. I can't leave you like this."

"We are not married, Sir," Verity said archly. "It would be improper."

"Damn impropriety! Verity – I must talk to you. For god's sake, open the door. It was just a kiss – a foul kiss – and I will regret it every moment of my life. Let me see you, please."

"No."

He went away then. But he came back, an hour later, when she had managed to crawl back into bed.

"Verity, please, please let me see you before I go. Please. We can't say goodbye like this."

Verity, lying flat on her bed, staring at the ceiling, saw the plaster fresco blur with tears.

"I'm tired, Neil. Let me sleep."

"For god's sake – open the door. There's something I must tell you before I go – many things. But I can't do this through a wooden door. I can't."

"It cannot be urgent," Verity said dully. "You can write me a letter from France. I feel tired. And ill. I do not wish to converse with you."

She heard a thump. She rather thought it was forehead, and not his fist, against the door.

"Good bye, Verity. I will miss you every day."

"Good bye," she whispered. And knowing he could not have head it, repeated, louder, "Good bye."

His footsteps left the door. A minute later, the front door slammed shut in the wind. She threw herself suddenly out of bed, and raced to the window in time to see him climbing into the carriage.  

She watched it down the drive, her heart thumping wildly. Every impulse in her body, suddenly, was to run after it, to call him back, to beg him to take her with him.

Then it disappeared from view, beyond the wall of evergreens that lined the drive. She slumped back against the window seat. It took a long time for her racing heart to slow.

*	*	*

In the carriage, Neil was not idle. He had a book of Italian verse resting on his knee, and used it as a desk for the letters he had to write. The first was to Jane Walthrope. It was also the shortest.

Mrs Walthrope, 
he wrote, with no salutation,

I am writing you this letter because I fear our conversation last night may have left you with some questions still resting as regards to the status of our acquaintance. I find I must make absolutely clear my feelings and regard for you. Once upon a time, I considered you my friend. Having grown up together, you were almost closer to me than my own sister. However last night, I found I was deceived in almost every measure of my approximation of your character. Deceived, and greatly pained.

There can be no further acquaintance between us. You have damaged me in a manner that can never be repaired, damaged me, and my wife. My house, my heart, will be forever be closed against you. It is clear that what I believed to be friendship was to you nothing more than one of your complicated games. I had prided myself on being one of the few people to rise above your generally misanthropic estimation of the human species. I can see now I was wrong. I doubt such a person exists. 
 

Perhaps it was wrong of me to write such a thing. Perhaps there are men and women for whom you have genuine feeling. But it is clear, at the least, that I cannot be one of them, and in light of that, as well as the great ills you have done me in recent months, I can only ask that you take measures to avoid my society in future, and inform you that I shall be taking measures of my own, to avoid yours.

He signed it, again without salutation, for to write his regards would be absolutely false at that present time. Then, putting it aside to wait for the ink to dry, he turned his attention to the other letter. This one took him longer. There were many pauses, many crossings out, and even swearing, when at one point he upset the ink bottle over his knee. It was only finished as they drew into Portsmouth, and the ink still too wet for the letter to be folded. He slipped it into the pages of the book, and folding the letter to Mrs Walthrope, addressed it with only her name.

"George," he said, when he got down from the carriage, "You'll give this letter to Mrs Walthrope on your return tomorrow – and this one, give this to Mrs – Miss Baker."

The driver took the folded letter and the book and nodded. "Very good, Sir."

He fulfilled his duty. The next day, as Neil's boat was out in the channel, struggling in a bitter and driving wind, the faithful George delivered first the letter to Mrs Walthrope, who received it with a pale face, and a suspicion of what was in it. Then, he gave the book to Perkins, as he helped to stable the horses and put away the carriage.

"The master said to give this to Miss Baker."

The arrogant Perkins did his duty too, and took the book to Miss Baker in her sitting room.

"Mr Armiger said to give this to you."

She took the book, and stared puzzled at its cover. The Italian title was incomprehensible to her. She flipped briefly through its pages. But Neil had written on both sides of the paper in his desperation to say what could never be said through the panels of a locked door, and spilled many ink blots beside. The ink had dried, and in drying, had stuck the letter between the two leafs of paper on either side of it. Verity flipped past it unknowingly.

"I suppose he was done reading it, and wanted me to put it away," she said.  

And so she put it away, in the drawer that held all his Italian things, and the one green dress of his wife's that he still could not bear to part with.

The letter remained unknown and unread, and in the events of the days that followed, she forgot about the book all together.

*	*	*

It was some four nights later that another letter arrived by express at midnight. This one was not from Neil. It was from the company that ran the ship from Portsmouth to Brest. The housekeeper got to the door first, and in the absence of the master of the house, fetched Perkins. It was Perkins who read the letter, self-importantly and improperly, as it was addressed to The Honourable Mrs Armiger. Having read it, he lost for one moment his air of self-importance, and demanded of the housekeeper to go fetch Miss Baker.

Verity was fetched, eyes half-lidded with sleepiness. The letter was given to her with an expression that chilled her soul and forced her eyes wide open.

"What is it?" she asked, hardly daring to look at it.

"The ship has gone down. Mr Armiger's ship."

Frantically, Verity read the letter. In shock, only choice words jumped out at her:

Survivors. Rescue. Efforts. Tragedy.

She had to sit down and focus before her mind stop shaking and jumping enough to read it properly.

The ship had gone down in a violent storm near the coast of France. Efforts were being made to rescue any survivors. There were survivors. News would be relayed immediately to the ship office at Portsmouth. From there, they would reach families individually.

"I must go to Porstmouth at once," Verity said. Though her hands shook, her voice was perfectly steady. "Tonight – no. The men will be sleeping. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I must go."

"Madam," Perkins said hesitatingly, "You have no one to go with you, and you are not to call yourself his wife any more."

"I shall go myself – no. I shall write to his brother. And then I shall go myself. The letter is addressed to a Mrs Armiger. The ship company shall not know I am not his wife. Even if they did, I would insist on knowing all they have to tell." She folded the letter, her hands still shaking. "I must know if he is one of the survivors – or..." She could not voice the possibility.

As always practical in a crisis, a talent honed by years of living with a man who manufactured crises for himself and his family on almost daily basis, she clamped down on the darkest possibilities present in her mind and vanquished them. There was nothing to be done but what could be done, and she would do it.

She wrote the letter that night, and sent it the next morning, before she herself took the journey to Portsmouth. For several days, she waited at the inn, presenting herself every morning to the office as Mr Armiger's wife. News continued to come in from France. The ship had gone down in the harbour. Many of those onboard had been rescued. Names and details were still being collected in France, the names and details of both the dead and the living.

At the end of the week, Richard Armiger arrived in Portsmouth to await the news also. He called on Verity at her inn to thank her for sending the letter. She received him coldly.

"It was only right."

"I have not told the company you are not his wife."

"That too is only right."

He looked ashamed, but only for a moment. He rose, and bowed, leaning heavily on his stick, and left without apology or goodbye. Verity watched him go with relief.

He did not call on her again, not even two days later, when the company informed her at last that Neil could not be found. He was neither among the rescued and living, nor among the dead washed up on the shore. He was drowned, and vanished under the unforgiving weight of the ocean.

~~~~

A/N: This marks the end of Part Three. Please don't kill me, guys?

Also I've added a hashtag Wattys2016 to this piece. I don't know exactly what a Wattys is, but I love me a competition.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven: Flood and Steel

It took Verity some weeks to believe it. She went back to Houglen in a daze, and spent weeks refusing any company but her own. Her grandmother came to offer her condolences and advice, and Verity saw her for only long to summarily reject both of them. Mrs Walthrope begged interview, and was flatly refused. The letter she left behind expressed her regrets at leaving Houglen on such short notice, without the chance to say goodbye, and left a forwarding address. Verity burned it apathetically. Even comforting old Mrs Roper was shunned every time she tried to entreat Verity to a cup of tea or a game of cards. Instead, Verity took long, aimless walks around the grounds, wrapped up against the winter chill. She never went out of sight of the gates. It seemed to her that at any moment another express might arrive, saying that Neil had been found safe.  

The express never came.

She came to believe it only that day in mid-December when Richard Armiger called once more. It was a mercy to her that he was too awkward to attempt to be kind.  

A funeral had been held in Albroke, with an empty coffin as centrepiece. A stone would be laid in, when the ground settled. When the legal processes were through, the estate in Houglen would be turned over to the running of his father. At that point, she would be evicted.

"I have come to give you fair warning," he said stiffly. "I am not ignorant of the predicament my actions, and those of my father, have put you in. I can only soften the blow."

"It is feather light," said Verity, with more than a trace of Neil's irony in her tone. "So very kind, I'm sure."

"My father believes it would be best if you returned to your father's house."

"Your father believes?" Verity laughed. "Your father is either the stupidest or the cruellest man on earth – perhaps both. I will be out of here before he claims the property. Don't worry. I have no wish to ever lay eyes upon that man." Her gaze encompassed Richard's diminutive, twisted form. "Or for that matter, you."

And she rose and left, unable to bear it any longer.

Christmas she spent, of all places, at her grandmother's table. There seemed no good reason to refuse the invitation. She tolerated the cutting remarks of her crueller aunts, and was cut deeper by the patronizing kindness of her cousins. The day after, there was a family conclave. The topic was what was to be done with Verity. Her reputation was altogether tarnished, and completely without hope of redemption. It was, everybody agreed, not entirely her fault. The actions of the Armiger clan had been unjust, even cruel. The matter remained that Verity's reputation did not just reflect upon her life, but upon those of her unmarried cousins. What was to be done? To cut Verity from the family now would of course be best for the family – and the unmarried cousins. And yet her family were the only people she could rely on now – she was at their mercy.  

Various suggestions were made. Each was more unpleasant than the last. A thousand pounds and a ticket to America. A nurse to crotchety old Aunt Agatha. A governess to Edith's spoiled children. A nunnery in Scotland.

"I think," Verity said finally, "That I am quite capable of relying on myself as it happens. In fact, if I can be honest, I am enjoying my ruination more than I ever enjoyed my honour."

She smiled at her family. She was getting used to a certain kind of smile these days. It went only skin deep, and hurt less than tears.

She did not know what she was going to do. It seemed that there was nothing she could do, except helplessly tread water in whatever direction the flood took her. In sum, then, as she had done her entire life.

The new year came in, and Verity returned to her isolation, wandering the halls and grounds of Neil's manor, losing herself frequently in the memories of the happiness she had found there. Sometimes she lost herself so deeply that for days at a time reality seemed a foggy nightmare, one she had had long ago, as perhaps only a child. On coming back to it, to find that happiness had been the dream and that the nightmare was true and inescapable, she felt anew the pain of her heartbreak, as deeply and physically as if her body itself was shattering into pieces.

One day in January, Mr Baker died.

Verity was called in from one of her walks by a manservant. She sat down in the drawing room while Mr Abernathy explained matters to her. His voice seemed to come from a distant and unimportant place. Mr Baker had collapsed walking home from the pub the night before. The doctor had been called, but it had been instantaneous, and painless. He had never seen it coming.

"I don't see how he could failed to see it," Verity heard herself say. "I've been seeing it coming every day for the past twenty years."

Awkwardly, the vicar shuffled his feet. "Of course, we shall take care of his funerary arrangements. We shall put it on the parish budget, if there is not the money. It is not a woman's place to be at a funeral. But if you would like to go through his things, at the cottage... what little he had."

"Of course. I will do so. Thank you, Mr Abernathy. You are very good to me."

He blushed, perhaps remembering another time, when he had not been so good to her. But it did not matter anymore. She only knew she could not bear to see or touch her father's body. She wanted nothing to do with it. After the vicar had left, she found herself almost relieved by the event. In a way, it was one less problem.

But later that night, the dam she had kept on her feelings for the past two months broke. It broke on no provocation; it was only the ever growing swell of sadness finally breaching its banks. Lying in her bed, watching the moonlight through the window, she had been overcome. She had cried as though her tears had no end. She had sobbed and shaked and laughed to herself all the night.  

The next morning, she could not get up. She stayed in bed while Mrs Roper brought her soup and bread and tea. The day after that, it was not much better. Though she knew how to walk, how to move her legs, how to stand, she had no volition to. It seemed easier to lie in bed and just wait... wait...

She waited.  

The funeral was held.

She waited.

The landlord was wanting the cottage cleared out.

She waited.

Her twenty-first birthday came and went.

She waited.

Lord Albroke and his son would arrive on the morrow to take possession of the house.

She waited.

Lord Albroke and his son were downstairs in the library.

"Perhaps if I do not walk out of here," Verity murmurred, staring out the window, her arms wrapped around a pillow, "Mr Richard will be kind enough to carry me."

"Aye," said Mrs Roper. "And Lord Albroke would be cruel enough to throw you. Come on, love, it's time to get dressed, and manage things."

Verity shut her eyes.

"Don't you do that," Mrs Roper warned. "You must get up, and go to your grandmother's. The grey dress, I think. You're in mourning."

Mrs Roper bustled about, opening drawers and pulling out clothes. She had packed a lot of Verity's things in the days previous, in preparation for Verity's move to her grandmother's house. She even had the idea in her head that afterwards she and Verity could take a small house in the neighbourhood on the annuity Neil had left Mrs Roper. It was quite apparent that whatever happened she was not going to abandon Verity. Perhaps, Verity thought sleepily, she believes I really can't look after myself.

Because I can't. I can't.

A maid knocked at the door. "The gentlemen have asked me to clean out this room, Miss?"

"We need a little more time in here. They have enough, certainly," Mrs Roper said briskly. When the maid was gone, she added, "Though perhaps you should stay in bed after all. I can tell them you are ill. It it not a falsehood. You are certainly not well of late."

Reluctantly, Verity opened her eyes. Mrs Roper was holding a moss grey woollen dress. It was the closest thing Verity had to mourning clothes.  

"Who am I supposed to be in mourning for?" she asked.

"Yourself, I believe." Mrs Roper came close and put a tender hand to Verity's forehead. "Should I tell them you cannot rise?"

Verity's gaze slipped from Mrs Roper to somewhere in a far and untouchable distance. Something within her was resolving itself, had been resolving itself for all the past week, perhaps the past few months. It was something that had almost defeated her. It was something that roiled and burned and tore at her soul.

"I'm tired of treading water," she said bitterly. "I'm tired of it."

"Just let me put this away. I'll tell them you are ill."

Mrs Roper went back to the cupboards.  

"Yes," said Verity, sneering at herself. "Put it away."

With momentous effort, she drew her legs up from out under the blankets. She pushed herself up, and sat on the edge of the bed. For a moment, the room spun a little. She had not eaten more than a few bites for some days. She stared it down, and it slowed to a stop.

"Put it away, Mrs Roper," she added, when the woman came near again, still holding the unwanted dress. With another shove, her spine shaking, she managed to stand.

Mrs Roper looked her up and down in concern. Her legs were shaking slightly. Her nightgown was wrinkled and stained with the sweat of days of wear. Her face was as pale and fragile as porcelain.

But there was steel in Verity's soul. There always had been. Her absurd, arrogant pride came to her rescue, as it always had. She thought it beaten out of her, but she had been wrong. It rose like an angry beast within her, stiffening her shredded nerves, her trembling voice, her shaking legs. She would not beg of Lord Albroke hospitality. She would not even flee his house unseen, like a thief, an interloper. No. It had been her house, and it was he who had taken it from her.

"Put it away," she repeated. "I will wear the red silk."

"Are you sure you can get up?" Mrs Roper asked hesitantly.

"The red silk, Mrs Roper. I am no longer in mourning." There was steel in her voice, and steel in her eyes.  

Obediently, Mrs Roper went to obey.

A/N: This chapter marks the beginning of Part Four. Wow, it’s depressing. And, slow. Stick with me guys. Next chapter has some left hooks coming.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Fortune from Misfortune

It took Verity nearly an hour to get ready to leave. She had to wash before she could begin to dress. She was stained with the sweat of days and nights of soul-fevered torment. Her hair was tangled and greasy. There was no time to wash it. She had Mrs Roper tie it back in a severe bun. Her face, when she looked in the mirror, seemed almost alien to her. The cheekbones were too sharp. There were lines around her eyes that had never been there before, and deep shadows beneath them. She looked ten years older than she was. She felt a hundred. But the red silk dress sheathed her like armour, and her eyes, despite the lines around them, were full of the old and familiar fire.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Lord Albroke?” Mrs Roper put a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, no, love, you should not see him. You’re better off never knowing him.”

Verity raised her gaze to Mrs Roper in the reflection of the mirror. Mrs Roper’s pitying expression faltered a moment.

“He should still be in the library, I believe.”

He was not in the library. But in the corridor, Verity heard the sound of a knife scraping against china, and the low murmur of male voices. She walked silently to just outside the open dining room door; out of sight, but not out of hearing.

“…doesn’t go for much in this part of the country, of course. It’s not a bad place he picked, but I don’t expect much of it. Though perhaps it’s best not to sell it for a year after all. I can dismiss the male servants, and save on taxes.”

The voice was deep, and soft, and surprisingly smooth. There was no hint of gravel in it.

Lord Albroke.

Verity set her shoulders, and marched through the open door.

The three men in the room looked up as she entered. Identical expressions of surprise arose to their faces, and quickly dissolved into less similar emotions: anger, confusion, guilt.

Richard Armiger pushed back his chair, and clumsily stood. The other two remained sitting. They were strangers to her. One, with his faded ginger hair, was obviously no relation to the family. The other, hazel-eyed, dark-haired, and angry, had to be Lord Albroke.

It disturbed her that he looked so much like Neil. An older, balder, and larger version of Neil, but a version of him all the same. He had the same aggressive eyebrows as Neil, the same angular bones beneath his plumping jowls.

“I had rather hoped it was his mother he had taken after,” she said pleasantly, by way of introduction. “But it seems he looks very much like you. A pity. But then his character, certainly that must have been his mother’s. I do not believe it could have anything to do with you.”

A faint and unpleasant smirk rose to Lord Albroke’s lips. “If it had, we would not be in this thankless position today. For your part, I have some more understanding now. He was always a fool for beauty. A pity he never bothered to look deeper.”

“You do not think I am as beautiful inside as out? But you hardly know me.” She came forward, gave a brief and mocking curtsy, and sat down in one of the chairs, uninvited. It was a relief to her. They could not have seen how her legs were beginning to shake again under her skirts, but she could feel it. The half-eaten remains of their meal on the table made her stomach twist with hunger.

“And I wish to know you no better, I can assure you.” The smirk rose and faded again. “When will you leave my house?”

“Today. My things are being put in the carriage right now.” She looked at him evenly. “I take it I have your permission to use the carriage to aid me in quitting?”

“If it will expedite the matter, then most certainly.”

They fell into silence again. She had had no clear intentions when coming down to find him. She had only known that she could not leave without meeting the man who had done her so much harm. Facing him now, it was clear to her that he had much the same opinion of her as she did of him: arrogant, hateful obtrusion into my life. It could almost have made her laugh. Only she was too full of hatred for anything close to laughter.

Seeing that she was not going to leave, perhaps seeing in her some of that hatred, Lord Albroke said quietly,

“I am not ignorant of the cost your reputation has suffered through the annulment of your marriage to my son, and his subsequent death. In recognition of that, I am prepared to offer you an annuity of one hundred pounds, for the length of ten years, the total cost of which would be one thousand pounds. In fairness, you should know this money would be coming from a share of my son’s estate. It would not be my money.”

The lawyer behind Lord Albroke jumped slightly, and Richard looked surprised. But neither spoke. Verity had the impression that they were accustomed not to speaking in Lord Albroke’s presence unless he allowed them.

“No,” she said agreeably, “It would not be. But you need not part with it all the same. I desire no compensation for the ills you have done me – bar one, which I believe you should never give.”

Lord Albroke’s head tilted slightly. “What would that be?”

“An apology, of course, and a recognition of the legal deception you took part in.”

There was silence, for a moment. The lawyer leaned closer.

“No,” said Lord Albroke. “Don’t bother, Hayworth. Miss Baker, I do not apologise, and I do not concede. I have fought, within my rights, to protect my family from humiliation. There is nothing to apologize for.”

She waited a moment before replying, taking in every angle of his hateful face, every line and wrinkle and sagging pit of his flesh. She shook, not from illness, but from the effort of holding back the wave of anger sweeping over her.

When she spoke, her voice was tight with the effort to control herself. “In that case, I only ask for you and your family to never come near me again.”

“We will forever agree on that. Perhaps, you can even say, we are parting on agreeable terms.”

She stood. Briefly, she curtsied on her trembling legs. “No, Lord Albroke, I cannot.”

“Wait!”

She paused at the door, and turned. Richard had half-risen. “Where will you go now? Do you have a place to go?”

“It is no concern of yours.”

She swept from the room.

As a matter of fact, the carriage waiting out front was supposed to take her to Lady Duvalle’s. Somehow, after her interview, she could not stand the thought of speaking to her grandmother. She knew her grandmother’s offer of hospitality had come not from kindness, but from guilt. Perhaps even guilt was too heavy a term. Obligation might have been closer to the truth. Verity had not mentioned it to her grandmother, but she had not forgotten that it was Lady Duvalle who had persuaded, bullied, and bribed the two of them to get married in the first place. Nor, she was sure, had Lady Duvalle forgotten. No. Her grandmother, having taken responsibility for the making of the marriage, was at least in part responsible for its unmaking, and the consequences thereof. That was the only reason Verity had a place to go today. And the very reason she did not want to go there.

On the steps of the old house, she made up her mind suddenly

“George,” she called to the coach driver. “You’re not to take me to my grandmother’s after all. There’s a cottage in Lesser Hough – my father’s old place. Take me there.”

*   *   *

The cottage was more of a hovel than she remembered. Her storm of anger had passed by the time she arrived, and she was regretting her decision to come here. George looked doubtfully at the crooked, broken shutters and weed-strewn, muddy garden as he helped her descend from the carriage.

“Are you sure you want to stay here, m’lady?”

If he hadn’t asked, she might have begged him to take her away. Her resolve stiffened.

“Yes. Yes. Just for now. I promised the landlord I would go through his things. And I must do so.” She lifted up her red dress, not to ruin the hems in the mud. “Thank you. If you can carry the trunks into the dining room for me, I would be very grateful.”

In the dining room, George looked more concerned than before. He eyed the falling plaster and rickety furniture with distaste. A rat ran out from the skirting, and he stamped at it, so it got scared and ran inside again.

“M’lady,” he said bluntly, “They’re not going to be staying at the house more than a few days. If you need the carriage, to come back there, or go anywhere else, you just send word. They’ll never know.”

“Thank you, George. Really, thank you. When you get back, will you tell Mrs Roper where I am? She’ll want to know.”

“Of course.” He bowed, and left.

As soon as he was gone, Verity collapsed into a chair. She had not eaten all day, and barely at all in the week before. Coupled with emotional exhaustion, she felt ill and drained. She lay there for some time, thinking and feeling nothing, until her hunger drove her up, and to find something to eat.

Naturally, there was nothing. Not one scrap of mouldy bread remained in the house. The only thing approximating food were the two bottles of half-finished spirit on the mantelpiece. She sniffed one cautiously, and when her stomach roiled in reaction, put it back hastily.

No matter. She would do without.

Slowly, frailly, she traipsed around the small dining room, picking up all the random articles that had remained abandoned on the floor after her father’s death. Bottles; papers; a wicker basket that might once have contained bread; a butter knife; a lady’s fan, made of cheap linen, and stained. She did not want to know how that got there. Everything on the floor went into the wicker basket. She put it on the sideboard to sort through later. Grimly, she straightened the chairs against the table. Her father’s coat, the awful new green and red check, hung over the back of one of the chairs. So he had not been buried in it. No doubt the vicar had thought it too garish a coat for a man to meet his maker in.

But it would go to the poor, along with what little else he had of service. She took it with her, upstairs to his room, to look. Something crackled in the pockets, and she searched them. A letter.

She dumped the coat on her father’s bed, and then passed to the other side of the attic room to read the letter on her own bed. At one stage, there had been a curtain to separate the room into two. It now lay piled in a heap on her bed. She kicked the bed frame carefully, and when nothing but dust rose from the mess, sat down on it.

It was a letter from a bank in London.

Of course. The ten thousand pounds Lord Albroke had bribed her father with. Her heart beat a little faster. It could not all be spent yet. And her father was not the sort of man to leave a will behind.

She read the letter desperately, hoping for one, ironic chance of independence from the contents. It gave it to her. It spoke of five hundred pounds in guineas being presented to Mr Baker with receipt of the letter. It suggested, gently, the use of promissory notes and investment. It seemed to recognize that the hope of their use was not high. At the end, it conceded that the remaining nine thousand and four hundred pounds would be at Mr Baker’s disposal at any time he wished to send a messenger to London – or even to come himself.

Verity put the letter down, shaking. She was saved, at the very least, poverty. She could invest the money, and live off the interest – how much would it be? Two hundred pounds? Three hundred? More than she had lived off before in either case.

She sighed with relief. Fortune from misfortune, and misfortune in fortune, she thought. Probably, indeed, her father had hidden some coins in his usual place, under the bed, if the five hundred pounds he had taken had not run him out already.

She got back to her feet, intent on checking every cranny of the house. She had taken no money with her when she left, and was acutely conscious that if she did not eat soon she would be very ill indeed. But downstairs, before she could, she heard the sound of the front door opening and creaking shut again.

Laughing, she ran down the stairs, the letter in her hand. “Mrs Ro-”

She stopped still at the bottom. Richard Armiger was standing, leaning heavily on his cane, by the door. The expression on his face was pained and confused, but she barely registered it in her own confusion and annoyance.

“Lord Landon. I thought I was clear about my feelings towards you and your family.”

“You were. Eminently.” He nodded a slight greeting. “And I’m sorry to trouble you again.”

She peered out the window behind him. One of Neil’s horses was tied to the gatepost. “You came alone? How did you even know I was here?”

“I heard the coachman telling Mrs Roper about it. He seemed very upset by the condition of the place. I understand why, now that I’ve seen it.”

“I told you, it’s no concern of yours where I am or what I do.” She shook her head, and remembering the letter she still held, folded it away and slipped it inside the cuff of her sleeve. “Please, Lord Landon, do not trouble me further. If you wish to help me, I do not wish to receive it. If you have some other purpose in following me, I can only repeat that I honestly wish to have nothing to do with you.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still here?”

He chewed his lip a moment. “Because…”

“Because?” she challenged.

“Because you’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

A/N: I am way, way too tired to proof this chapter properly. Forgive me any rough patches or typos please.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine: Promise Me

"You're pregnant," Richard repeated.

The colour drained from the woman's face. By degrees of her ankles and knees and elbows, she folded up on herself, until she was only a flood of scarlet silk and white flesh upon the floor.

She had fainted.

Cursing, he flew to her side – as quickly as a lame man with crooked knees and uneven legs can fly. Her lips were moving faintly, though no sound came from them.

"Miss Baker? Miss Baker?" He pressed a gloved hand hesitantly to her cheek.

She did not respond.

He was too small and weak to raise her on his own, and even if he hadn't been, there was nowhere for a fainting woman to lie. There was no couch, not even an armed chair. He had some confused idea of smelling salts: looking around, he saw the half-empty bottles of brandy on the mantelpiece. His confused idea solidified. He pulled himself to his feet and hobbled to the fireplace and back, with one of the bottles in hand. Down by her side, he uncorked the bottle and pressed it helplessly to her lips. A moment later, she spluttered and coughed, and her eyes blearily opened.

"Just lie there for a moment. You fainted."

He got back to his feet and sunk in the nearest chair with his legs splayed out in front of him, to ease the aches that had risen to his knees with the effort of squatting and rising. His boots almost touched her skirts where she lay on the floor, still coughing brandy from her throat. He took a surreptitious sip from the bottle himself, and grimaced as he swallowed. It was sour as vinegar.

Eventually, she swayed to her feet, and waved him back when he made to rise.

"Stay there."

He stayed. She went out to the kitchen, and then the garden beyond. When she did not come back after a quarter of an hour, a spike of unfamiliar concern assailed him, and he hobbled swiftly in her footsteps.

She had not fainted again. She was sitting forlornly on the edge of the well in the miserable, weed-strewn yard that lay behind the cottage.  

"Can you get me some water?" she asked, not looking at him.

There was no real pulley, only a bucket on a rope. He lowered it, until he heard the splash, and dragged it back up again, his muscles protesting. She drank heedlessly from her cupped hands, and when she was finished, splashed her face and gasped.

"Better?"

"Better." Her chest was heaving in and out. Some droplets of water, spilled on her breast, danced with the movement. He bent over to fetch the cover for the well and drag his eyes away from her, hoping she had not caught him looking. "How did you know?"

Until that moment, he hadn't. It had only been a suspicion, driven by some jealous intuition of his own. Confirmed, he felt a spasm of unidentifiable emotion. His hands shook as he slid the well cover back into place. He forced them to relax, and sat down next to her.

"Intuition," he said flatly. "You were so proud – I knew you were keeping something secret, and what else does a woman in your position have, to keep secret?"

She gave an unpleasant cackle of laughter. "I won't be able to keep it secret much longer."

Richard wished he had never come to confront her with his suspicion. It would have been better to leave, unknowing. But he had a strong instinct towards clannishness, and it was Neil's child she was carrying. In his mind, it was more Neil's child, an Armiger child, than it was hers. And that made it his secret, as well as hers.

Only what was he to do now?

They sat in silence, and she made no move to evict him; she only leaned back on her hands, staring at the sleet grey sky above them. He could discern no visible sign of her condition—but then, the high-waisted gowns of the current fashion were very forgiving to pregnant women.

"When will the baby be born?" he asked abruptly.

She twisted her head to look at him. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

She shrugged. "Mrs Roper told me it would be midsummer. She knows more than I do, on these matters."

He counted the months backwards. It would have been October, perhaps even September. And the annulment had come through on the nineteenth of October. "Do you – do you think it was conceived while you were married to him?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh no. According to the word of law, I have never been married to anybody, Lord Landon," she said, with a cold irony. And then, her irony dissolving into anger, she blurted, "Yes, dammit, we never once made love since you did that to us."

Richard hunched over his stick, his hands trembling again.  But he had punctured her reserve at last, and she was ranting, without looking at him:

"We wanted to spare the servants their dignity, and ourselves under God. So we decided not to make love until we were married again. But the baby must have been started by October. I didn't know it until later, and he never knew. That morning – the morning he left, I had just started to suspect it. He wanted to talk to me, he had something to tell me, but I wouldn't open the door to him. I lay in bed and felt ill, and tired, and I thought, 'Is it a baby? Could we have started a baby?' But I wouldn't open the door to him. I was angry – over something unimportant – and I wouldn't speak to him. I stood at the window and I watched him leave, and I wanted to run after him then, and tell him, but I didn't – I didn't tell him, because I was a stupid, angry fool. And then, when the word came that his ship had gone down – that he would not return – I could never tell him then. He had asked me to go with him, you know – and I refused. I refused, that morning, because I was angry with him, and so I didn't go with him – and now... now... I wish I had." She curled up in a ball over her knees, and from it, cried muffled, "I wish I had."

"Thank god you didn't," Richard said. Between everything, his fear and his guilt and his shame, he was conscious of the overwhelming relief that she hadn't gone on the ill-fated ship. It was his relief that decided him. Though perhaps, since the first time he had met her, he had been decided, and not known it.

Slowly, Richard stood, and, leaning heavily on his stick, got down on his one bending knee before her, in the three inches of winter mud.

"What are you doing?" she said faintly, uncurling from her ball of anguish. "What are you doing?"

"Miss Baker, will you marry me?"

*   	*   	*

Verity stared blindly at Richard. It was absurd – surely he could see it was absurd!? For him to destroy her marriage to his brother, because she was not good enough, and then ask to marry her himself!?

She was so confused, the only thing she could think to say was, "Doesn't it hurt you, to kneel? Stand up, do."

He remained kneeling, shaking with the effort. "Marry me, and I will claim this child as my own, and make it legitimate – for god's sake, do. Let me – let me restore to you that which I took. Please."

"No!" She shook her head so violently that it hurt. "Can't you see it's impossible! Lord Landon – of all the things you have taken from me, my reputation is the least of them! You took my love, and my father, and my family. I would never subject this baby I carry to the whims and wills of a man like you! I would rather the world scorn me for my sins."

He finally did stand up, and then sat back down again on the wall of the well next to her, brushing the mud from his buckskins. She shifted away, unconsciously.

"I have treated you abominably," he said, in a flat, uncomfortable voice. "But you must see that precisely because of that reason, I must make some reparation to you."

"I can look after myself."

"I know."

His cold yellow eyes met hers with something of a pleading look in them. She was unmoved. Perhaps her countenance persuaded him where her protestation had not. His pleading gaze became guilty, and he looked away.

"Let's forget emotions, for the moment, and be practical," he said. "Will your grandmother help you, financially, or socially?"

Verity hesitated. "I don't know. She may give me money, and send me away somewhere until the baby is born, but she will not continue to support me in society here. Especially not if I raise the child – and I will not let the child be taken from me."

"But money is not your immediate concern – we Armigers will always help you with money. The baby you carry is – is of our blood." He gave her a weak smile.

"It's Neil's child," she insisted. "Blood has nothing to do with it. And I've told you, and I mean it, I want nothing to do with your family."

"You don't understand. Had you told my father about the baby, he would never have let you leave the house."

"Exactly why he must not know!"

For a moment, Richard was silent. "I do see your point."

"I don't like him at all."

"No one does. But he will not deny you any claim to his money or social support, when he knows about the child. And I will give you mine, freely."

Her voice softly venomous, Verity said, "Do you expect me to thank you? I cannot thank you. I loathe you, as I have never loathed a man. You have been responsible for so much of my pain. I want none of your support, as you so call it."

Richard winced. "I can do nothing but apologise for what I have done, continually, eternally, and fruitlessly. But, Miss Baker, if you're to have a baby, out of wedlock, with no money – scandal is the least of your worries. Look at this shabby cottage, look at the man your father is – this is no environment in which to raise a child! You need money, good people, a comfortable home. Well, I have only very little money of my own. My settlement comes with the title. But when I tell my father, he will make sure to provide for the child's upbringing."

"He must not be told!" Verity panicked, thinking of all that would happen if Lord Albroke knew of the baby. It was not unheard of for mistresses of wealthy men to have their ill-gotten children snatched from their arms almost at the moment of their birth, and to be barred ever seeing them again. She knew that Lord Albroke hated her. The prospect did not seem unlikely. "Please, Lord Landon," she begged, "Promise me you will not tell him."

"I can't make that promise when you risk impoverishment by it."

"But I don't." Verity put a hand to her sleeve, where the letter rustled reassuringly. "At least, I believe I don't. Your father gave my father ten thousand pounds. Nine thousand and four hundred of it is still sequestered in a bank in London. And my father is dead. He died last week. The money is mine, isn't it, if he dies without a will? Your father would not be able to get it returned to him?"

Richard looked at her with an obvious dawning admiration on his face. It made her uncomfortable, and she looked away.  

"Yes. Yes, if your mother was his wife, and you are his only child, then it will all be yours. Miss Baker, I am sorry, for this loss, on top of the others."

"I lost him years ago." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears that had pricked up were more for herself than her father. "I had forgotten the money until just now. There. It must satisfy you. Neither I nor the baby shall starve."

"Nine thousand, four hundred, you say? That would give you an interest of... a little over three hundred and fifty pounds a year. I mean, it's hardly luxury."

"It's more than enough for me. I lived off much less for most of my life."

"And you would need a lawyer – do you have one?"

"Mr Colbert will help me," Verity said, with more confidence than she felt. But in the face of Richard's eagerness to aid her, she was unwilling to show him any opportunity for it.

"He's solid enough, as lawyers go." Richard hesitated. "But still, Miss Baker... It is not right that my father does not know. It is his grandchild you are carrying. Armiger blood will run in its veins."

Verity swallowed her first impulse to snap back at him in anger. She knew if she started an argument now, he would tell his father out of hurt pride as much anything else. Instead, she laid a coaxing hand on Richard's arm, and forced herself to look upon him with what she hoped was a convincing impression of softness.

"Promise me you will not tell him. Please."

His arm went stiff at her touch. Warily, she drew back, believing she had offended him. But a moment later she realized it was only that she had exposed his natural awkwardness  with her intimacy.  

"I believe that I can trust you," she said, very softly, "But I am sure I cannot trust your father. Do you see why I do not wish for him to know?"

With any other man, it might have been too much, for Verity was unpractised at deception and coquetry, but Richard was even less experienced than she. He gave a strange, all-body shudder, like a man waking from a dream.

"I don't know what is best."

"Then perhaps you should consider that I do." She struggled to keep her tone soft and kind, and had to take a deliberate breath before going on, "Lord Landon, your efforts to do what is best so far have resulted in tragedy and sorrow. No, don't look at me like that. I am not accusing you. I hold no grudge." That was a bald lie, and a gross contradiction of everything she had told him earlier, but he did not seem to notice it. Mercilessly, she continued, her tone now faultlessly sweet, "It is only true that you have done great ill to me, and if you truly wish to make reparation, the one thing you would do is to listen to me now when I say that I do not trust him. Please. Promise me that you shall help me keep my secret safe. Promise me you will not tell him."

This time, she put both of her hands over his. The fleeting thought came to her: thank god he's wearing gloves.  

Thank god, also, that Richard could not hear it. His last resistance crumbled at her touch.

"I won't tell him. I promise, I won't."

A/N: This is a pretty long chapter. Richard has to be one of my favourite characters. He’s an asshole, and he’s so adorably incompetent at trying not to be one. And look! No cliff hanger!

Chapter Thirty: Lunch

Having extracted the promise from Richard, there was nothing Verity wanted more than to be rid of him. However, she did not want to disillusion him of her attitude towards him and send him running home in an angry huff to tell his father, so she tolerated his insistence on riding down to the village to buy her lunch, and went back into the dining room to await his return. The prospect of food was as welcome as the prospect of his company was not.

However, before he could return, she was surprised by the sound of more horses’ hooves, and looked out the front window to see Mrs Roper driving up in the servants’ buggy.

She went out to meet her, and laughed when she saw the loaded basket of bread and fruit and preserves that she carried with her.

“Armiger will be devastated. He’s just gone to get me lunch.”

Mrs Roper raised her eyebrows as she followed Verity into the house. “Armiger? Love, love, have you been dreaming?”

“Richard Armiger.” Verity snatched a roll of bread from the basket and bit into it as Mrs Roper began to lay out her own tablecloth on the ugly old dining room table. “He followed me here, and -” She chewed fiercely, and swallowed. “He knows.”

“He knows?” Mrs Roper began to cut the rolls. “No butter, I’m afraid. But I’ve apples, and half a ham. I didn’t think about food until after you’d left, poor girl, when George told me it wasn’t to your grandmother’s place. He knows what, and how?”

Verity plunged into another bread roll. This time, she waited just long enough to slather a generous spoonful of raspberry jam on it first. Her hunger was like a dagger in her belly.

“He knows about the baby. He guessed.”

“Don’t you eat too quick, now. You’ll be sick. Slow down. And sit down. I can’t believe it. That self-centred boy guessing about a woman’s pregnancy – and going to get you lunch on top.”

“I fainted,” Verity said, finally sinking back into a chair. “I fainted, and I think he was worried – about the baby more than me.”

“Aye. You’re probably right there. He must know, if it weren’t for his meddling, that baby would be heir to his title after him.”

“If it’s a boy,” Verity said quietly. “If it’s a boy. But it won’t be, now, either way.”

With her usual indirect weaving and hopping between conversations, Mrs Roper asked, “You fainted? Hurt yourself?”

“Only when I hit the ground.” Verity winced and felt her elbows and thighs, which were beginning to bruise.

“You’ve been ill – very ill. Here, have some ham. Ill with grief, love. It’ll consume you, if you don’t keep fighting it. And you can’t let it consume you. There’s things coming in your life worth living for.”

Verity smiled faintly. “I know.”

The door opened behind them, and Richard entered. He was carrying a loaf of bread under one arm, and a wheel of cheese under the other.

“Oh,” he said, seeing Mrs Roper. His gaze rested on the spread on the table. “Oh.”

“Please,” Verity said, “I’m very grateful to you. I didn’t know she would come.”

“No matter. This will keep for you.” He came forward, his limp pronounced without his stick to help him. “I can leave it here? There was no way to get milk – where does one get milk in the country anyhow?”

“From cows.” Mrs Roper eyed Richard distrustfully. “No. Don’t go just yet. Sit down.”

“I did buy tea,” he said meekly. “As apology for the milk. It’s in the saddlebag.”

“In that case.”

He limped away again. Mrs Roper leaned down towards Verity. “Is he going to tell his father?”

“He has promised me he will not.”

“Hmph.” Mrs Roper took a crisp bite of an apple, chewed, and swallowed. “Well, he’s not the type to make a promise just to break it.”

Remembering how she had persuaded him, Verity blushed. Mrs Roper did not need to know about that. Richard returned, and Mrs Roper took the paper packet of tea from him with a business like air.

“And now you sit down while I make tea,” she ordered.

He did. He manhandled an apple back and forth between his fingers, but did not speak, or attempt to eat it. Verity ate her fill, and relaxed back in the chair. She was also reluctant to speak. She had said all she wanted to say to Richard. And now that she felt stronger, merely weary and no longer ill, it occurred to her to feel humiliated by his seeing the shabby cottage where she had grown up, and to which she had returned, when she felt she had nowhere else to go.

“I will go to my grandmother’s house tomorrow,” she said quietly, noticing him staring at the curious rat, which had emerged again from its hole, perhaps in the hope of pinching some lunch. “I will not stay here. I only came to clean up after my father’s death.”

“You should not be working yourself so hard. I should send the coachman tonight to take you to your grandmother’s.”

“You shall not. If your father knows you are giving me favours, he will begin to wonder why. No. Lord Landon, after you return to Neil’s house, it would be best if you did not contact me at all, or send any servant to aid me. Tomorrow morning, I will walk to my grandmother’s, and tell her to send her own coach for my things. A walk shall do me no harm.”

She could see Richard did not like the proposal. He was chewing his lip, and twisting the apple rapidly between his two hands. They were not dexterous hands. He fumbled, and the apple went thudding to the floor and rolled off to a corner of the room.

It was Verity who went to pick it up, and put it back on the table. She moved slowly still. Things were no longer spinning, her legs were no longer shaking, but she felt frail and inconsequential, a paper doll of her former self.

“I will feel a lot better tomorrow, Lord Landon,” she assured him, seeing his disbelieving gaze as she lowered herself back into the chair. “I have been ill, and am only now recovering, but I am recovering.”

Mrs Roper returned with a steaming and chipped kettle in her hands. She put it down and went back for the tea cups.

“I would like to see you again before I leave this town,” Richard said, in a low voice. “It is for my peace of mind, not yours. I would like to see you installed somewhere comfortable before I leave.”

It irritated Verity, for she was undecided if she really did wish to stay with her grandmother or not. Lady Duvalle did not yet know she was pregnant, and Verity could not be sure what her reaction would be. In the past she had been so often cold and even cruel. During Verity’s marriage, she had softened greatly. But Verity was not entirely convinced the softening was due to some growing fondness; rather, she was sure it was a reflection of her rising position in society. And now that position had once again plummeted. He grandmother might not be trustable. She had half a mind to remain at the cottage until Mrs Roper had found a place of her own.

But no doubt if she told Richard that now, he would refuse to leave at all, and might even threaten to break his promise and tell his father about the baby.

Mrs Roper came back with the tea cups and tea plates, precariously stacked into one another. There were no trays in the little cottage.

Verity bowed her head. “The day you leave then, you may call on me in the morning. Do not allow your father to suspect the purpose of your visit. My greatest fear now is that he will learn of this child and try to take it from me.”

“Aye,” Mrs Roper said grimly, setting down the cups and plates. “Master Richard, she said you’d promised not to tell him?”

“I have promised. And I will not.” His voice was decisive. Verity thought she could believe him.

Mrs Roper poured tea. With no milk or sugar or lemon, it would not be the most palatable, but Verity took the hot cup in her cold fingers eagerly.

“So,” Mrs Roper said, resting her bulk in a chair that squeaked and squirmed in discomfort beneath it, “You came to tell Miss Verity you knew of the child, and nothing else?”

“He wanted to make sure I would not be falling into disgrace and poverty,” Verity said hastily, not wanting Mrs Roper to hear of the strange and unwelcome marriage proposal that had come with it. She fumbled the letter out of her sleeve. “And I shall not. Look. This letter is from my father’s bank. The money that Lord Albroke gave him is mostly still intact, and as he is dead, it shall come to me. We shall live together, you and I, on the interest.”

“It shall cover the poverty, certainly.” Mrs Roper read the letter carefully. “Love, if your father… ah, but there’s no point wasting wishes on the past. Richard, how much does this give her in interest each year?”

“I calculated it at three hundred and seventy pounds, give or take a little.”

“And I have one hundred of my own. Love, we shall be quite well put up on this. For a while at any rate. The babe must eventually have a dowry or a living.”

“It shall be more than fifteen years from now,” Richard said eagerly. “By that time, I will likely be in a position to provide more help than I am currently.”

Mrs Roper raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. “And will your heart run the same course it is today, in fifteen years?”

“I- well…”

“She is right, Sir,” Verity said softly. “Today, you are no doubt still grieving for your brother. You have been feeling strong emotions. In fifteen years, this child may likely be a nuisance to you. Especially as you no doubt will have married, and have children of your own that need their dowries, and their livings. I will not presume to ask you for any promises of the future. We have nearly five hundred pounds a year, together. We shall be able to save much from that. I am accustomed to living within narrower means than this.”

Richard had started blushing at the mention of marrying, and was scarlet by the time Verity had finished her speech. “I can see that my every offer of help is merely an encumbrance to you.”

Verity winced. He was so touchy. “It is not that. I am merely trying to be realistic about what I can expect.”

“There’s more help you can give us,” Mrs Roper said firmly, distracting them from argument. “Your father does not know that Mr Baker is dead. It would be best if he does not learn of it. I wouldn’t put it past him to try and get this money back. You’ll not tell him that, and you’ll not tell him you visited Verity. If you wish to help, you’ll clear him out of this town and try to keep him from coming back. There will be further business, no doubt, with Neil’s property. Perhaps you can even persuade him to take care of that yourself, without raising any suspicions of course. The main thing is to keep him away from Verity, and away from Houglen and anything that reminds him of her. That’s what we want. Can you help us achieve it?”

Richard looked helplessly from one woman to the other.

“I should be very grateful if you would,” Verity said pleadingly.

That was what seemed to decide him. He nodded. “Then I should return at once, for I have been gone a long time and he will wonder.”

After he had left, Verity drank the rest of her tea in silence. She was relieved he was gone. Very relieved.

Mrs Roper shook her head. “Love,” she said, “That’s the first unselfish thing I’ve seen that boy do for anybody. Wonders will never cease.”

A/N: Hello! Another very hastily edited chapter because I'm stuck in a writing writing mood and don't particularly want to edit. This is also a chapter that, if I was editing properly, would have got morphed into the next chapter, and both of them cut down a little. But I'm not editing properly, so please forgive that the pacing has slowed to a crawl for the moment. It'll pick up again to its usual bit-in-the-teeth gallop soon :)

Thanks again for reading :) I <3 you guys

# Chapter Thirty-One: In Disgrace and Humiliation

In the end, Verity went to her grandmother's house the next day. The shabby cottage, even after Mrs Roper had helped her clean out the attic bedroom, had proved too full of draughts and dust and bad memories for her to stand it any longer. Shivering when she woke and dressed that morning, she decided to swallow her pride. She would accept her grandmother's help – if it would be still be on offer when Lady Duvalle learned of her condition.

She walked there, through the woods that backed onto the cottage, and the farmland behind them, realizing halfway that this must have been the same route that she had taken the day she had stabbed Mr Harlan and fled the cottage. Only this time, when she had to stop for rest on a tree stump in a field, there was no Neil to rescue her from her tiredness, or the faint dusting of snow that was beginning to fall across the countryside.

He had never properly told her what happened that night. She knew only that he had carried her into her grandmother's house in his arms. He had refused to admit his part in heroship. Her only memory of the event, vague and untrustable, was that he had kissed her forehead and begged her to wake.

She would never know now if it had really happened. Part of her had hoped that he had cared, even then. Perhaps he never had loved her, but he had come to care for her, perhaps as early as that horrible night. She had to believe he had, or she would never be able to walk onwards.

By the time she reached her grandmother's house, she was exhausted. Her grandmother was in the dining room, seated by the fire, eating breakfast. She looked Verity up and down with a grimace.

"Now that you're here, I suppose you'd best eat with me. You look half-starved."

"I have not been well recently, and I have lost some weight." Verity nudged a seat closer to the fire and sat down. The waiting maid found her a plate and a cup, and would have stayed to serve her, but Lady Duvalle nodded at her to go.

"And you have come here, to beg of me a sick bed again?"

"No." Verity sipped chocolate, found it was too hot, and put it back to cool. "Maman, I have much to tell you. I have decided what I am going to do, and it will not impose upon you – except, perhaps, for a week or more. Lord Albroke has arrived at Neil's house, and I can stay there no longer."

"I had heard he had arrived." Lady Duvalle's nose wrinkled in displeasure. "Yes. I had heard. And you may stay here while he is in the town. I can give you that much. But I shall not keep you forever. What are you going to do with yourself?"

Verity began to eat a roll covered in jam and butter, and was saved from answering for a moment. Finally, Lady Duvalle snapped impatiently,  

"Well? You came here to tell me, didn't you?"

"Yes." Verity swallowed hastily. She did not know how to say what she had to say. "First, Maman, I must tell you..." Except she couldn't. She forced a sick smile to her face. "I must tell you that there shall be money. I shall have some money, of my own."

Lady Duvalle poured herself more chocolate. "Money? How? It is not Lord Albroke who is giving it to you, I presume?"

"Indirectly, yes. He honoured his deal to give my father ten thousand pounds... and my father is dead now. The money shall pass to me."

Lady Duvalle drank and considered this. "It is sound. You must forgive me the sentiment, but I cannot withhold it from you. It is no ill thing that your father died when he did."

Verity looked away. "He ruined me. Why do I waste tears on him? Why?"

Lady Duvalle was not moved to such an expression of emotion. She passed the bread basket to Verity. "You have not eaten enough."

Verity crammed another roll in her mouth. The act of chewing soothed her. "So. There is that. I shall have over three hundred and fifty pounds a year, and I shall live with Mrs Roper as my companion. She has one hundred pounds of her own. My disgrace shall not impose on you, other than that it may make it more difficult for my cousins to marry, if all the town continues to talk on it. If they do, perhaps I shall leave, for the better of all of us."

"A nursemaid for your companion!" Lady Duvalle sniffed. "After you have been all but the wife of an earl's son. It is a come down, indeed. Yet in some ways, you are very fortunate. You shall be more comfortable in ruination than you ever were under your father's roof. Very well. You may stay here until you have found a place to live, though I hope you shall not delay. And you will have over three hundred and fifty pounds you say? Whatever the sum, I shall raise it to four hundred. I can do that much quite easily, and it is clear to me that you are trying very hard to outpace your antecedents."

Verity stiffened, but did not show that it offended her. She was too used to her grandmother's blunt manner to quarrel on it now, particularly when it came with a gift attached.

"Thank you. You are very generous, Maman." She finished the last of her roll. She had to say it. It could remain a secret no longer. "I can only hope you will not revoke that kindness when you hear the last of my intentions."

"There is more?" Lady Duvalle's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"There is." Verity flushed. "There – there is going to be-" Her voice rose to almost a squeak. She started again. "That is to say... I am going to have a child. Neil's child."

For only half a breath, her grandmother looked surprised. "I suspected as much when you came at Christmas. When you said nothing of it, I assumed I had been wrong, or that you had lost it. You need not cry. I shall not cast you out on that account. Though it shall only add to your misfortune, I am sure. A woman with four hundred pounds a year might yet find a husband, even if she were ruined. A woman with four hundred pounds a year and a natural child will not."

"I have no want of a husband." Verity wiped her eyes. "I loved Neil. I came to love him. I do not wish to marry again."

"In time, you may find yourself thinking otherwise. Have not the Armigers offered to raise  it?"

"Lord Albroke does not know about it. Maman, he must not find out. If he does, there shall be no offer about it. He shall command me to give it up to him – and I cannot. It is my child, and Neil's, and I shall not let it be taken from me."

Lady Duvalle screwed her lips into a knot of distaste. "It is my opinion that that would indeed be the best event for you. But I will not press you to change your mind. Your opinions have never been close to my own, and I have long given up on changing them."

It was not the same as agreeing. Verity pressed further:

"You shall not tell him."

"A child belongs in his father's house." Lady Duvalle eluded the question.  

"His father is dead." Verity bowed her head a moment. "My marriage to Neil has brought me and our unborn child humiliation and disgrace. It was somewhat of your machination, and you bear some responsibility for it."

"Verity! That-"

"I don't blame you though. I don't. I can only thank you. Because I loved him. And I love this child of his that I carry. In disgrace and humiliation, I love this child. So, please, don't separate us. Don't tell Lord Albroke, who will."

She would never be as manipulative as her grandmother, but her blunt appraisal of the situation and her feelings was not as frank or unassuming as it appeared, and successful in its object. Lady Duvalle was flushed and confused.

"Very well," she faltered. "I shall say nothing of it. If you wish to put yourself in such a position, I shall make no attempt to prevent it. You have my word."

Richard came to visit Verity the day before he and his father were to leave Houglen for their own estate again. She received him in the rose garden of her grandmother's grounds, out of the view and hearing of any gossiping servants. At this time of year, the rose bushes were nothing more than thorny grey-brown skeletons, leering up out of the dirt.

"You look better," Richard said by way of greeting, when he limped through the door leading his horse behind him. "You look much better."

"I feel better." Verity sat down on a little stone bench, and nodded for him to sit beside her.  Her malaise of grief seemed to be over. The nights were sometimes bad, when there was nothing to do but lie in bed and remember, but the days were mostly clear and productive. She no longer had the sense that she was being pulled along in a flood. She had control. She had four hundred pounds a year, and a faithful companion.

"Yes." His eyes caressed her figure before coming back to her face with a guilty jerk. She noticed it, and savagely wished she had made him stay standing on his crippled legs. "I am no longer worried to leave you. Mrs Roper has convinced me that she will take care of you in your confinement, and afterwards."

"You will also be happy to know that my grandmother has pledged some of her own financial support. We shall have five hundred pounds a year between us. It will be very ample. Mrs Roper thinks she has found us a cottage too, on the edge of Greater Hough. There is a nice little garden, and she tells me it is quite large enough for two women, and a baby, and a maid."

"Then you have it all quite sorted, and I was of no help whatsoever." He made the strange facial expression that passed for his smile. It was quite grim. He did not seem pleased.

"You most certainly have been helpful, if your father does not suspect that mine is dead and that I am pregnant."

"He does not. I believe he has not spared a single thought for you since you left the house. You are quite inconsequential to him, and I believe you will remain that way."

"It is best."

Richard's yellow eyes seemed to be searching hers for something still.

"If I cannot help you now," he said finally, his voice very quiet and serious, "Then I can only promise that if ever the day comes when I see the slightest chance to help you, I will do so. Regardless of the fact that I know you never shall request it. I shall do it."

"I don't think I want this promise," Verity said slowly.

"Well." This time the smile was absolute, a wicked grin. It was the only smile that seemed to have a home on his face. "I admit, Miss Baker, I am not making this promise for your salvation. I am making it for my own. If you throw it back in my face, you are certainly damning me."

She laughed, despite herself. It sounded like the kind of thing Neil might have said. "Then... I shall not deny you your vow."

It seemed to be all he wanted. He got to his feet, and led his horse back to the garden gate. Verity stood to watch him leave.

"Farewell, Miss Baker."

She curtsied faintly. "Fare thee well."

When the sound of his horse's hooves faded away, she remarked viciously to the silent, bloomless roses, "I hope that day never comes."

~~~~~~

A/N: Yay!!! Chapter!!! Hope you guys enjoy :) I wrote 5000+ words today and my hands are 
cramping
. But now I've learned that the best way to type is with your back straight and your wrists not flopped over the keyboard. If I was a regency heroine, no one would ever marry me, because my natural posture is hideous.

# Chapter Thirty-Two: Petty, Selfish Adoration

Despite her vehemence, it was not long before Verity forgot Richard had ever even made his vow. She was too involved in her advancing pregnancy and the decoration of her new cottage to spare more than the odd, unpleasant thought for the Armiger clan. Neil remained close to her thoughts, and not a day went by when she did not feel the blunt needle of grief still pressing in her heart. However, in her complete disregard for his family, she almost managed to forget that they even existed. If she had remembered Richard's promise, she likely would have doubted he ever meant to keep it.

Richard, however, did not forget. He could not. His inability to help Verity in any meaningful way weighed upon his exorbitant and fragile pride. His conscience, never a particularly active beast, refused to return to its usual complacent slumber, no matter how many days passed, or how cunningly he rationalized his part in the annulment that had led to her downfall. He not only felt useless: he felt vile.

In the very darkest hours of the night, lying awake in his bed, he could bring himself to admit that he was violently, impossibly, pathetically in love with his dead brother's woman. He had been in love with her since almost the moment he had met her. He loved her so much it was like poison. For he knew that she hated him, and knowing that, he hated himself, and would tear and kick at the strangling sheets as though he could tear apart his own soul. In the mornings, when his own reflection in the mirror seemed to cast a loathing gaze upon him, he would deny it. He was not in love with her. He despised her. She was little more than an upstart-- but he could never finish the sentence, even in his mind. No. It was nothing more than his gentleman's honour that compelled him, if ever there was a chance of helping her, to do so.

And then, in March, out of the blue, that chance came.

He went back to Houglen as soon as he was able, on the excuse of business with Neil's steward, who was still in charge of the unlet house. He attended the business with a haste bordering on rudeness, which confirmed in the steward's mind that of the young Armigers, Neil was undoubtedly more the gentleman. Then he took one of the horses and rode towards Greater Hough to find Miss Baker, in a deepening twilight.

Her cottage was smaller than he expected -- a shabby little thing on the edge of the town, surrounded by other shabby things, with shabby gardens, and shabby inhabitants. He tied his horse to the gatepost and limped to the front door, where he had to wait a moment to steel his nerve before ringing the bell.

Mrs Roper answered it, and looked him up and down suspiciously. She always took Neil's side, even when we were children, thought Richard bitterly. Always.  

"Good evening, Mrs Roper," he said, hiding his anger in a transparent veneer of pleasantry – a veneer so transparent that it easily explained why Mrs Roper had always preferred Neil to Richard, if Richard had so thought to look.

"Good evening." Her tone suggested she felt otherwise. "I guess I ought let you off the doorstep, where everyone can see. Come in."

Inside, the cottage was less shabby, even somewhat cosy. Every nook and shelf held a vase of flowers, or a picture frame, or some feminine, homely knick knack. Mrs Roper took him through the hallway to a back parlour, giving him the chance to examine them. They all struck him as being remarkably cheap, but somehow the overall effect was charming.

"Lord Landon has called," Mrs Roper said in front of him, as he passed over the threshold into a warm, fire-lit room.

Verity rose from an arm chair by the fire, and nodded her head at him. "Good evening, Sir." There was the usual challenging expression on her face, the slightly set jaw, the narrowed eyes.

"Good evening." Richard stumbled over the words slightly. He had not been prepared for two things: the first the thumping of his heart on seeing her, and the second how visible her pregnancy had become in the two months since he had seen her last. Her belly swelled out round and low in her waist, deforming the elegant lines of her dress, and forcing her movements into an unnatural sort of clumsiness as she lowered herself back into the chair.

"The entire village must know you're pregnant by now." He did not mean for it to sound so crude. From her own chair, beginning to work on a bit of muslin scrapcloth, Mrs Roper cleared her throat warningly. Richard flushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... remark. It's just that I had somehow assumed you might be trying to hide it..."

"I am not."

Richard moved closer into the room, looked for another chair, saw there was none, and resigned himself to stand. Closer, he could see that Verity had gained weight elsewhere too. Gone were the hollows of her cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes. She looked, he found with relief, very well.

"The usual deception, I understand," Verity continued, "Is to run away to a town where nobody has heard of you, and call yourself a widow. I have no desire to succeed at such a deception. I shall stay here, and as such, there is no point trying to hide anything."

"I don't know whether to admire your candour or despair of it."

"It has nothing to do with candour." A flash of anger passed her face. "I have done nothing dishonourable by any sensible person's notion of honour, and anybody who believes I have is not somebody whose opinion I care to alter my actions to appease." 

Richard saw, then, that there were many people whose opinions had been weighing on her. He restrained himself from touching her hand, lying on the arm of her chair.

"You are well, though."

"I am well. Did you visit just to ascertain it?"

"No." He licked his lips. Having come so far, and seen her face, he found he could not merely say what he had come to say. He had to know – first. He had to let her know. "Please, Miss Baker, may I speak to you alone for a little while?"

"I-" For one moment, she seemed about to refuse him. Then, frowning, she nodded. "Shall it take long?"

"Not more than a few minutes."

"Then we shall go to the dining room."

Mrs Roper sniffed as they passed her. Richard had a moment of savage hatred for the old woman who had cared for him as a child.  

Verity led the way to a room at the front of the cottage. There was no fire or lamplight in here, and it was cold and dark – darker still when he shut the door behind him. He could just make out the shadow of the table and chairs.  

"Mrs Roper is entirely within my confidence. You must know that."

"But not mine." Richard gave her a smile that in her dark he knew she could not see. "I – I felt I had to explain something to you."

"Explain away." She was circling the table, one hand trailing the backs of the chairs. The motion wafted the faint scent of her perfume over to him whenever she came near. Jasmine. Elusive and enchanting, like a will-o-the-wisp. He forced his back to the door.

"It is the matter of why my family has historically been so poorly disposed to you."

Still, she circled the table: a slow, dizzying dance. "I seek no explanation for this."

"Why we thought it so necessary to break apart your marriage to my brother."

The motion slowed slightly, but did not stop. "I seek no explanation." Her voice was cold.

"Why I would ask you to marry me despite that."

The motion finally stopped. She was at the far end of the table, away from him.

"I shall not repeat the offer. Do not fear me."

"I have never feared you." Finally, she looked up at him. The reflected moonlight through the window cast a silver glow on one side of her face. "It did seem odd. It was very inappropriate."

"I can see it must have seemed so."

"It was so."

But he had her attention, even as he found he had lost his own. He had had some number of pretty words to say. He had arranged them in his mind before coming. But they were gone now. He found it hard to keep his head around her. And his legs were tired, and his stick was in the other room. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. Bluntly, he got to the heart of the matter:

"I can't have children."

A hand rose to her lips. "Oh." And after a moment of silence. "But- surely-"

"It is as I said. When I was a boy, I was ill with fever. I recovered, but it impaired me in that regard." He could feel his cheeks burning in the darkness. It was not right to talk to a lady of this. But what else could he do? She had to understand. "It is quite certain. I shall never have a son, nor even a daughter. I don't think Neil knew. He always assumed that I would marry, despite my deformity, and that my son would inherit the title. But since I was nineteen, I knew that it would be his title after me, and then his sons. So the matter of who he married was always more important than he knew."

Slowly, Verity drew out a chair at her own end of the table, and sunk down into it. He could not quite see in the dark, but he thought her hands were clutched around her belly.

"The child you carry... if it is a boy... that's why I asked you. It is our only hope to keep the title and the property. When I die, it will return to the crown. There are no other heirs in the male line."

"It may be a girl."

"Yes. But any hope was better than none. It is moot, regardless. I shall not repeat the offer." Part of him had hoped she would give him some sign that she would be welcome to it, but her antipathy on that matter was all too obvious to him. "But I wanted you to understand some of the pressures upon us. It was very important that Neil should marry well, for the security of our family line."

"I understand." She was quiet for a moment. "It's you that doesn't. Your title and your property are utterly insignificant. When you and your father are dead, nobody shall have any need of them at all. And Neil never cared. I don't see how you could have failed to see 
that
."

"Then... knowing that... does not change your mind at all?"

"About what? About loving Neil, or not marrying you, or not caring for your title? Certainly not."

"Then, knowing that if you so much as lifted a single finger, you would be an earl's wife, and an earl's mother, or at least... you... don't care."

"It is utterly insignificant." And then after a moment, she added, "It's not that I'm above earthly desires. I used to dream of being utterly wealthy and titled when I was a child. I wanted to live in a palace. But in fairy tales, you know, it's always a Prince 
Charming 
that comes with them,
 
not a Prince..."

"Richard." He gave a wheeze of laughter, despite the ache in his heart. "I certainly am not offering again. I shall not. I just wanted you to know why I offered, after all we had done – and why we had done it."

Though she didn't know all of it, he realized. He hadn't been able to tell her that he was in love with her. He knew that that was one thing she most certainly would not want to hear. And he did not want to tell her. That she might intuit it made him cold with shame. It would show his honourable motives for nothing more than petty, selfish adoration.

He pushed himself back to his feet. His leg was cramping in the chill room. He began to pace, not going near her end of the room. "It is not my only business here today to tell you that. When we last met, I made a promise that if I ever could help you, I would. Well, I can help you now."

"I need no help."

"Please." He went to the window and looked out onto the shabby street. Two residents were making their way down the dark road, arm in arm, drunk. It made him shudder inside. "Tomorrow I return to Albroke. I would have you follow behind me the day after, in a carriage of your own. The manservant George will drive you. Stay at the Barrow and Pig in the village. I will call on you there. It is a secret from my father."

"What cannot be done or said here?"

"I cannot say. I can only insist that my intentions towards you are for your own good. Not mine. You once said you trusted me. If you do, you will come. And I have given you reasons to trust. I have kept your secret. And I have told you mine."

She was rising, and moving for the door. He followed her back to the drawing room. Mrs Roper was still sewing away. He could see now that it was a baby's cap she embroidered. She looked questioningly at Verity, who sunk back in her chair by the fireplace.

"I should leave," Richard said quietly. "You may send word before ten tomorrow, to let me know if you shall come." He went to gather his stick. A panicked thought occurred to him: "You can still travel, in your condition?"

"For a little while longer."

"Come where?" asked Mrs Roper.

"The village of Albroke."

"No! It is certainly too far – and your father-"

"My father shall not know she is there." Richard bowed his head stiffly. "You have the night to decide. Good night, Miss Baker, Mrs Roper."

"Wait."  

He stopped at the door.

"We will come."

Relief washed over him, followed by uncertainty. It was a risk he was taking.  

But he dared not show it to her. He bowed stiffly.

"Thank you. You shall not regret it."

~~~~~

A/N: Well. Wonder what Richard's up to this time.

# Chapter Thirty-Three: Hope to Spring

Verity's first impression of Albroke, as the carriage wended its way through the cobbled streets four days later, was of sunlight filtering through budded branches, and faded tudor buildings leering over narrow roads. The Barrow and Pig was one such tudor building, but as peeling and aged as its outside looked, the interior was comfortable, if low-ceiling and narrow-roomed.  

Verity stayed under the name Mrs Baker: a lie that made her uneasy, even as she knew confessing her unwedded state might make her an unwanted guest. As they were settling in, the chambermaid brought them a letter that had been left for them yesterday. It was unsigned, but Verity knew it to be from Richard.

Tomorrow morning, at eleven of the clock, in the arbour at the edge of the estate. Go via the west gate.

"If he comes here," Mrs Roper said, "The staff shall know him, and perhaps word shall get to his father. Though, he ought have signed his initial at the least. There is not so much risk in that."

"Do you know the place?"

"Most certainly. It is not a far walk, and very private."

The baby was fidgeting inside her, with the new sort of strength it seemed to be discovering these days. Verity pressed a hand to where it pounded against her side, and paced the room in an effort to soothe it. The journey down, three days by road, had been more of a trial than she had expected. Her joints ached, she was tired, and the baby would not stop kicking. She doubted Richard's integrity – now more than when he had made the proposal. If he was idiot enough to think marrying her would aid her, then he was idiot enough to come up with other useless schemes too.

"If he has brought me down here and it is not important, I shall strangle him."

Mrs Roper laughed. "He makes it very tempting. Shall you have a hot bath?"

"Yes." She massaged the back of her waist. "Oof. As hot as they can make it."

It was raining lightly before breakfast the next day, a delicate sort of sprinkle that shimmered whenever the sun came out from behind the clouds.

"Perhaps we should not go." Mrs Roper was doubtful.  

"It looks to clear up." Verity sipped chocolate. In the morning, she was more optimistic. The inn was comfortable: the beds were soft, and the food was good. Most of all, the baby had stopped kicking for the moment.

And it did clear up, and they walked through the damp sunlight towards the Armiger estate at Verity's pace. Mrs Roper took her down side lanes and rabbit paths until they came to a wooden gate in a brick wall, over which loomed masses of dark green tree tops.

"The grounds of the earl's house," Mrs Roper explained. She pushed the gate. It was unlocked and opened without a sound.

Inside, Verity felt vaguely uneasy. She suspected at any moment Lord Albroke might step out from the woods on either side of them. She regretted coming, and mistrusted Richard. But it became clear that there was no one in this corner of the estate at all. They were alone but for bird song and the rustling of animals in the undergrowth.

The path through the woods continue for some way, until eventually it became a tunnel of stone pillars and plinths, veiled along the walls and ceiling by leafy vines growing from stone to stone, through which the sunlight filtered greenly. Richard was leaning against one of the pillars. As they approached, he pushed himself away from it, and bowed.  

"This was Neil's favourite place as a boy. The seats are dry. Please sit down."

There were stone seats nestled between the pillars, and protected from the morning rain by the vines. Verity lowered herself carefully into one, still unused to the growing, awkward bulk of her belly. Richard sat on the seat opposite, and Mrs Roper took the place beside her.

"What is it, then?" Verity asked.

"Are you well today?"

"I – am. Why did you call me here? It was not to enquire my health."

"I just wanted to make sure." Richard ground the point of his stick into the gravel beneath his feet. "Forgive me. There is no gentle way to say this, and it will shock you."

Verity's breath quickened. As though in response, the baby moved inside her. "Go on. Quickly then."

"Two weeks ago, we found Neil."

Her hands went suddenly cold. A strange gravity seemed to be pulling all the blood in her body southwards, draining through her veins. Mrs Roper put an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close.

"What." She could hardly hear her own voice. "His body."

Richard was getting off the seat. He skittered over the gravel, slid in beside her, and fumbled in his pockets. A moment later, he was holding something under her face, and she was blasted by a hit of ammonia. She gasped, and pushed his hand away. Her heart pounded, but her head began to clear. Around her, Mrs Roper's grip tightened.

"Breathe, love. What happened, Richard?"

Richard was speaking very quickly now, as though the quicker he could get it out, the less it would hurt. "He is not dead. He is not dead. He has been sick. He is very, very sick."

"He didn't come for me?" She was assaulted by the confusion of her own emotions, but a sort of numb, bleak logic spoke above them: "No. He must be dead. He would have come."

"He could not come." Richard pressed her hand. "He was too sick to come. Verity, he is not dead, but he is dying."

Her head was spinning again. "I can't-"

"Breathe."

Again, the smelling salts were pressed before her, and she gasped, and her head cleared. But even with a clear head, it didn't make sense.

"Where is he, Richard?" Mrs Roper pressed. "Is he here?"

"Yes. He is the house, in bed. He is too sick to move. We are just waiting..." Richard trailed off. "Miss Baker, I brought you here so that you could say goodbye."

She leaned into Mrs Roper's warmth. The sunlight danced down through the canopy of leaves above. It was too bright a day for such a thing to be possible – for hope to spring so cruelly from death, and be so swiftly reclaimed. She rested her head on Mrs Roper's shoulder, and shut her eyes. Mrs Roper rubbed her back in silent sympathy. She realized from the trembling hand that Mrs Roper was also shocked, though she was not showing it so openly, for Mrs Roper loved Neil too.

She let the news sink in. When her heart had stopped racing, and she thought she had a handle on herself, she said, with her eyes still firmly shut,

"Tell me everything."

"We don't know everything."

"Tell me everything you know."

Her eyes were still shut. She could not look at Richard. She could not.  

"A little over two weeks ago, a cargo boat stopped in Dover. Neil was carried on it. He was sick then. He must have been sick since the ship went down. He was feverish and raving, and hardly knew his own name."

"For months he has been...?"

"We don't know. The captain wrote that they found him in Marseilles. He had approached them to beg for a fare to Genoa. He was obviously an Englishman, and obviously not well. They managed to get from him his name, and the captain asked around the town. Nobody knew where he had come from, or who he was. The captain took him back to Dover, and in Dover he was recognized by a captain of the militia, who knew him and my father. So my father went for him, and he was brought back here. You should know that my father did not wish to tell you this. He does not know you are here, and would not let you see him if he did."

Tremblingly, Verity pushed herself away from Mrs Roper, and opened her eyes. She was weeping, silently and ceaselessly. She did not bother to wipe her eyes, and did not care if Richard saw.

"And he is... dying."

"Yes."

She could not have thought it would hurt so to hear it a second time, but it did. She took a sharp breath in, and breathed out slowly. He was not dead. He was dying. He was not dead. He was dying.

She breathed in and out to the tune of it.

"What is his sickness, Richard?" Mrs Roper asked. "Are you so sure it can not be cured?"

"He fevers and frets. He does not know his own mind. He swears that he must return to Italy, to marry Giulia – he does not know that he has married her, and that she is dead. We have tried to tell him, but he swears that we are lying, or forgets what we have said within hours. The doctors say there is nothing that can be done, except to keep him quiet. They are not hopeful of his recovery."

"He is, then, quite mad." Verity finally had the courage to raise her eyes to Richard's. "Is that not it?"

"There are interludes where he seems logical. For a time."

"There may be hope in it," Mrs Roper said firmly. "If it is only his mind that ails so greatly, then his body may recover yet. The soul is more fragile than the body."

Verity did not know if that hope was worth encouraging. If Neil recovered his body, and yet never his mind, would he still be the Neil she had always loved?

In her belly, the baby began to kick. She put her hands to the spot. "Your father's alive," she whispered. "He..." She trailed off, and then gave a low, drawn out sob of agony.

Mrs Roper patted her knee. "Ssh, Love. Don't cry."

Richard watched them awkwardly. "This must be so much for you to comprehend, in such a short space of time. I'm very sorry. I did not know any better way."

"I must see him."

"I know."

Again, Verity began to control herself. It was beginning to sink in now. It was beginning to seem possible.  

Neil had lost his mind in the shipwreck. Neil was alive. He was going to die, but he was alive. And she could see him just once more. What little there was left of him to see.

"I take it he does not understand about the baby."

Richard hesitated. "I have not tried to tell him, and my father does not know."

"And... he would go to Julia, to his first wife... he would not try to come to me..."

Again, the hesitation, longer this time. "I'm sorry."

"I always knew he loved her more than me. Do not be sorry for that. It is not your fault." She managed to stand, and paced warily the arbour, back and forth. The sunlight was warm upon her face. Her steps grew steadier.  But she was still shaking inside.

"You could have told me this in Houglen, and given me time to recover the shock."

"I was worried he might die before you arrived. He was very poorly when I left. But when I returned he was a little better."

"And today?"

"He was very rational this morning."

Verity leaned against a stone pillar, and stared through the curtain of vines over an expanse of terrace lawns and folds of shrubbery. In the distance, a grey-white manor loomed over the gardens. Neil was in there, somewhere.

"Did I – Did I do right, by you? Is this what you would wish? There is no returning him to you. I can't do that. But I can allow you to see him again, before..."

"Yes." Her voice was harsh. She cleared her throat. "Yes, Lord Landon. It is... right."

~~~~~~~

A/N: Well I'm sure everybody was flabbergasted by this totally unexpected and unpredictable plot twist.

# Chapter Thirty-Four: Bone, and Tendon, and Skin

They waited in the arbour for over an hour while Verity recovered her strength. It had been harder for her to hear the news that he was alive than it had been to hear that he was dead. Perhaps it was the baby kicking in her belly that made the difference. She could not stop thinking that Neil would never hold his own child. And the baby kept kicking, as though calling out for him.

Finally she stood, and took a deep breath. "I'm ready, Lord Landon. Let's go."

Mrs Roper stood as well, but Verity motioned her back down. "I know you must also wish to see Neil, and I am being very selfish in asking, but will you return to the inn?"

Mrs Roper shot a wary glance at Richard. "If something goes wrong, I should like to protect you, my dear."

"If Armiger betrays me, or if Lord Albroke sees me, there shall be nothing you can do. However, if he is to be trusted, then it should be easier to bring me alone into the house. Some of the servants may still know you from when you worked here, and even those that don't would not wish to question what the master of their house was doing alone with a young woman." Verity felt her cheeks burn at the deception, and added, more truthfully, "You have been so kind to me, and helped me in all things, but this is one moment in which I strongly desire to have no audience, no advisor, and no helpmate."

A spasm of emotion crossed Mrs Roper's face, before she captured it between pressed lips, and swallowed it.

"Aye. I'll give you that then. I'll wait for you at the inn." She jerked her head at Richard. "If she's not back by dinner, I'll be breaking the knocker of your grand front door."

They parted ways. Verity followed Richard to the end of the tunnel of leaves, and out onto a path twisting through rhododendron bushes. They approached the grey manor in a circuitous route, along the most bushy and overgrown areas of the garden. Despite her nerves, Verity noted with scorn that the house was so grand it had statues on the roof. To a girl who had grown up in poverty, statues on the roof were the height of senseless extravagance. What use were statues way up where nobody could see them?

"My father is in his office at the front of the house," Richard explained, as they walked under the shelter of a hedge towards a raised terrace leading into the house. "He will not see us if we approach this way. But the servants, too, we should avoid."

At the bottom of the steps leading up to the terrace, he paused.

"Wait here. I shall go first, in case there is anybody about."

When he had limped to the top of the stairs, he disappeared a moment from her line of sight beyond the balustrade. She waited uneasily, a strange premonition of doom upon her, yet after only a moment, he was back, and beckoning to her. She climbed the stairs, and they darted across the terrace, and through a half-open French window.

They stepped onto a floor of polished parquetry. Verity winced to see the mud she was leaving on it. The gallery stretched most of the length of the centre wing of the house, and its walls were cluttered with paintings. At regular intervals, hovering above identical Louis XIV yellow-silk settees, were life size portraits of the ancestral Armigers. There were two jaundiced Sir Thomas Lawrence portraits of Neil and Richard; a Batoni of Lord Albroke in his younger days; and even a very severe gentleman who could plausibly have claimed to be of Holbein's hand, but was probably not. Richard did not spare a glance at them as he led her swiftly through the gallery and into a vast drawing room, with a very sparse amount of uncomfortable looking arm chairs in symmetrical pairs, and some strange lumpy objects under dark linen covers that were probably musical instruments.

It was carpeted in here, and their footsteps were deadened. Richard took the moment to say, in a low voice, "We should be safe now. But do not talk."

Verity's heartbeat thumped as they crossed the room in silence, and slipped through the double doors on the other side. Here was a hallway, with a narrow, carpeted staircase ascending into darkness. They were half-way up when footsteps ahead warned them of company. Richard held up his hand warningly towards her, and moved up, over the crest of the stairs.

"There you are, Horner," he said briskly, to someone she could not see. "I want you. Go to my room and look at the windows. There is a draft. Perhaps it is the fireplace. Find it, and get someone to fix it."

"Yes, sir." The footsteps receded back the way they had come.

A moment later, Richard appeared at the top of the stairs and beckoned her on again. "Quickly."

It was only a few more yards down the hallway that Richard opened a door, and waved her roughly in, and shut it behind him. They were in a small sitting room, with a low fire going. It was less ostentatiously decorated than the rest of the house, and more comfortable; clearly private, not a room for showing off. There was a pile of mending lying on an armchair, and the paper hangings were shabby and dog-eared.

Richard pushed a door open in the adjacent wall, looked through a moment, turned back to her, and nodded.

She came on tip toe. Her heart was racing. As she slipped through the doorway, Richard stepped back into the sitting room, and she was alone in the bedroom. Alone, but for the man lying on the four-posted bed, asleep.

She floated closer by inches, not daring to come too close, too soon. The baby in her belly was protesting and drumming against her insides. Her lips moved to say his name, but no sound came out.

The sheets were twisted down over his waist, and one arm was thrown upwards under his pillow. His breath fluttered in and out, his eyes were fast closed. A curl, grayer than it used to be, fell over his forehead. They had cut his hair. She knew that, because it was too short. It didn't suit him. His skin was brown with sun-wear, and full of unfamiliar, harsh lines around his eyes and brow. And it stretched so tautly over his bones. There were hollows in his cheeks, and his temples, and dark deep shadows below his eyes. His wrists were bone, and tendon, and skin. Even his hands were vaguely skeletal. And there were scars all over them, red, and still fading. Another scar on his face, coming down through his hair, splitting his temple, and fading over his cheekbone.

She tried again to say his name, but the only sound she could make was a faint sob.

There was a chair by his bed, and she lowered herself into it numbly. For several minutes, she watched him sleep, without daring to move. Finally, she gathered her courage, and rested her hands on the mattress, close to Neil's, but not quite touching. His breath brushed across her fingers.

It was true. He was alive.

She waited a few minutes more, but still he did not wake. Only his breath kept brushing rhythmically across the back of her hands.

"Lord Landon," she called softly. "You can come in now."

The irregular footsteps thumped across the carpet in the next room, and Richard came in. She didn't look up at him, but from the tone of his voice, she could guess the tense expression on his face.

"Miss Baker, this must be your goodbye. For your safety, we should not linger."

"Just a little longer." She could not drag herself away. Not yet. He had not woken. "Does he sleep much?"

"On good days."

She took in every line of his face, every angle. A strange, painful joy was beating in her chest. He can't be dying, she thought frantically, he can't be. He lasted so long, alone, that with help, he would surely survive.

Slowly, she shifted closer, leaned over the bed, and kissed his temple. He still did not stir. His skin was cool beneath her touch. She noted there was no fire in the room, and that the window was open.

"You keep him cold?"

"He runs so many fevers."

She sunk back in the chair. "And... it is sure he will...die?"

"I'm sorry."  

"I just can't believe it." His bony chest was still rising, in and out, with slow, soft rhythm. "I can see he is ill but... he has made it so long."

"I wish it were not so. But you cannot allow yourself that hope, Miss Baker. I can assure you, there is no hope in that regard. This is a good day."

Verity could not take her eyes from Neil's sleeping face. If he could just wake up – and see her. If she could speak to him – but she dared not wake him.

The sound of a door opening and shutting in the next room jerked Verity from her reverent vigil. Richard stumbled to the door. Before he could reach it, Lord Albroke strode in.

"Rich-"he began. Then, he saw Verity. He froze. It was the way the wind suddenly freezes in the midst of a storm, only to blow all the louder the next minute.

"You brought her here." Richard was the first target of his anger. He crossed the room in two strides and shoved him backwards into the grate of the fireplace. Richard cried out, and grabbed at the mantelpiece for support as he stumbled. Verity rose from her chair, but hovered back, not daring to go within reach of Lord Albroke's arms. "You wretched liar!"

"He – shall wake. You shall wake him if you shout."

It was not true. Neil had not stirred, even when Richard screamed. But she could think of nothing else to stay Lord Albroke's hand, which was raised in a fist above his son.

Slowly, Lord Albroke lowered his fist, and let Richard go. Richard overbalanced, and collapsed to the floor. Lord Albroke ignored him, and turned to Verity. His face was red with anger. Then, his eyes popped, and it drained to a mottled yellow-white.

"What."

He veered towards her, and circled around her, looking her up and down. She shrank back, and placed her arms protectively over her belly.

"She's pregnant."

He stepped away. Red was draining slowly into his cheeks, and blotting out the mottled colour. The whites of his eyes showed as he examined her unblinkingly. She said nothing. He came closer again, and she flinched.

"Do you think I'll hit you?" He gestured at her belly. "I said: you're pregnant. Hell."

He turned again, and jerked a fist futilely at Richard, who was groping for his stick and clambering to his feet.  

"Father, I-"

"You knew."

Richard's cheeks were pink. "Yes."

"Good god." Lord Albroke threw his arms up and looked to the ceiling. "Why weren't you the one on that ship?" He wheeled again to the bed. All his movements were spontaneous, controlled by posthumous thought, if controlled at all. Neil was moving slightly in his sleep; his lips were moving in and out. He had started to dream. "We shall wake him. Come."

Verity stole one last, desperate glance at Neil before she helplessly obeyed the order and followed Richard from the room. Lord Albroke came after her, and shut the door behind.

"She had a right to know," Richard said, in a feeble attempt at protection.

 "And I had a right to know!" Lord Albroke pointed towards Verity. "You knew! And you did not tell me!"

Richard was pink and white as he looked from Verity to his father and back again. He began to speak, stopped, began again, and gave up and fell into a chair with a swallowed, painful sound. Verity could see he had been injured when his father pushed him. She backed against the wall behind her as Lord Albroke came closer. His eyes were glittering.  

"You deceived me."

"You have no claim to my confidence."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "It is Neil's child?"

"You have 
no claim
 to my confidence."

His fist slammed against the wall above her.

"Father!"

"Shut up!" Lord Albroke loomed over Verity. "Is it Neil's child!?"

She hunched back against the wall with her arms around her belly, and clenched her jaw shut. His fist pounded again, and she screamed.

"Answer me!" His voice was like thunder in her ears. "Are you carrying Neil's child!?"

"Father?"

The voice, frail and uncertain, came from the door. They turned as one towards it.

Neil was standing in the doorway, his figure bowed slightly, his shoulders leering a little. He looked confused, and pale under his tan.  

"What is happening?"

"Neil." Verity slipped away from Lord Albroke and flung her arms around Neil. He staggered slightly under her weight, and had to put an arm around her waist to stay steady. He smelled like home.

His bones pressed against her flesh. He was hard, and solid and warm, and full of angles that used not to be there. She rested her head against his shoulder, and gave a sob of relief. His arm at her waist shifted to a more comfortable position automatically, then, confused, left her altogether, and hovered by her side.

"H-Hello," Neil said, in that same frail, uncertain voice. "You- are you alright?" And then his gaze encompassed her figure and the confusion on his face came to a horrified sort of clarity. "It's... my- mine? That's what you asked her, Father?"

"You should go back to sleep," Lord Albroke growled. "Unhand him, Woman."

But Verity could not. She was holding him as though he was a lifeline, staring up into his eyes and hardly hearing a single thing that was said. She felt as though she could feel every atom of blood beating in her veins.  

His face turned back to her. He was confused, but not stupid. He had understood the argument that had woken him.

"It is mine."  

"Yes," she whispered.

"But – how?" A deeper confusion clouded his face. "I'm sorry – I – I just don't remember."

"You didn't know. I didn't know, when you left – I had a suspicion, but I wasn't sure. So you never knew."

She had hoped to reassure him. Instead, he drew away from her like she had stung him.

"I just don't remember you."

~~

DUN DUN. Someone updated. In fact, someone finished a whole damn novel about five hours ago. This whole damn novel. Right the way through to the epilogue and all. Of course it needs a lot of editing still - a lot. Some passages even need rewriting. But it is done. It's the first novel I've ever completed, properly, without just skipping over the difficult chapters or having a rock fall and kill everybody. When I finally finished, I spent like five minutes staring at the word document trying to figure out what the next sentence should be until I realized there wasn't one. Done. It's a weird feeling.

If you're wondering what delayed updates so long (this chapter has been written since it was due, but changed form several times since then) I was trying to avoid some treacherous plot holes and had to keep adjusting some events and dialogues so that they wouldn't contradict what happened later.

# Chapter Thirty-Five: The Lesser Evil

He pushed her away. "It is – true...? You were my... lover? You are to have my child?"

"Y-yes." He was all too clearly horrified by the notion, and his horror in turn terrified her. "You don't remember who I am? You don't remember me at all?"

But he was not listening. "Richard – Rich – is she lying? Tell me she's lying – it can't be true."

"It's not true," Lord Albroke snapped. "She lies."

"It 
is 
true." Richard hobbled over and laid a hand on Neil's shoulder. "It's true, Neil. You've been ill. You've forgotten things."

"But I –" The eyes he turned to Verity were full of loathing and fear. "I – no, I would not do such a thing – I don't... I would not betray Giulia – I did not. I can't – she must be lying! She's lying – she entrapped me! She lies!" His voice was raw with pain. "She lies!"

"This woman was not your illicit mistress. She was to be your wife. In January." Richard's voice rose over Neil's sobs. He was trying to calm Neil, but every word seem to cut him deeper. Neil's legs sagged under him, and he fumbled at the wall for support. Verity tried to help him, but he shoved her away, and put a hand over his eyes.

"My wife's name is Giulia. I don't know what you mean. My wife's name is Giulia."

"She died. She died two years ago, Neil." Richard's voice was low and gentle. "Miss Verity Baker – you were to marry her last January."

"My wife's name is Giulia."  

Repeating the phrase monotonously, Neil slid down the wall and collapsed into a graceless pile of knees and elbows on the floor.  

"My wife's name..." His voice faded away. He seemed to have fainted. Verity dropped to her knees beside him and put a hand to his chest. His heartbeat was soft and slow.

"He's breathing. Is there a nurse? Has he a nurse?"

Richard was pulling on a bell by the door. "Yes. I'm ringing for her. Don't cry. This is not unusual for him."

Verity realized tears were streaming down her cheeks. She wiped them away impatiently.

"Fool girl!" Lord Albroke stood over her, growling softly like a dog. "Look what you've done. He is not to be excited."

Verity pulled the curl back from Neil's face, and put her hand on his forehead. "He has no fever."

"He is too weak for arguments and revelations," said Richard. "I should have told you. But it is so hard to know what will be a revelation to a man whose mind is not right."

She lies. She entrapped me. I don't remember you

She remembered anew Richard's hesitation in the arbour, and realized its cause: Neil did not remember her – not today, not ever. She was entirely gone to him. He stirred slightly. His eyes opened, but he was not fully conscious. Incoherent syllables spilled from his lips.

"I'm here," Verity said, stroking his cheek. "I'm here with you."

An elderly woman came to the door, a man-servant behind her. "Sir?"

"The boy has fainted," Lord Albroke said flatly. "Put him to bed."

The manservant hauled Neil to his feet. He staggered and swayed. For one moment his eyes met Verity's, full of desperate questioning. The only answer she knew to give him was an equally desperate kiss, full on the lips. The man-servant shouted in confusion, and Lord Albroke grabbed her elbow and jerked her back. Neil was wide-eyed with some unnameable emotion. His eyes fluttered again, and the man servant all but carried him through to the next room.

"He won't remember this incident at all when he wakes," Lord Albroke told her. "Don't go hoping. You won't be allowed to see him again."

"I wasn't hoping. I was just..."

"If you'll leave me to my duties, and send up the chambermaid," the nurse said archly. "The boy is very ill indeed." Her gaze travelled scornfully over Verity. She went to the bedroom without a word.

"We shall repair to my office," Lord Albroke said. "We must discuss the child. You have all but admitted it is Neil's now."

"It is mine." But she had lost that battle and knew it. She pulled away from Lord Albroke and fled into the hallway. She stumbled blindly down corridors and stairs, aware that he was following her, until she came to the front hall where there was, of all things, a suit of armour on a pedestal. The grand front door loomed across the hall, but it refused to open to her frantic pulling, and she knew there was no escape through it anyhow. She sunk down upon the bottom step of the master staircase and awaited her reckoning.

Lord Albroke came down the stairs behind her. "You're not running away."

"No?" She leaned listlessly against the newel posts. "What do you want from me?"

"For you to have never existed."

"I can't." She pulled her legs up to her chest, as close as they would go with her round belly in the way. "I exist."

"We must tolerate it." Lord Albroke stepped past her and began to pace the floor. "I wonder what I should do with you. Neil is dying – did Richard tell you? My one handsome son is dying, and the ugly runt survives. You are bearing his bastard. It is an unpleasant situation. The two alternatives before me: I raise the child, though it can never be an heir; or I ignore the child, as it can never be an heir. But which is the lesser evil?"

His self-centredness inflamed Verity – a futile, impotent hatred.  The problems, as she saw them, was that her child would likely never know his father, and that Neil was sick. She cared nothing for the threat that the Armiger line would die out. Impossible, for a child who had grown up with a view through the glowing windows of wealth and power, and the door ever shut against her, to care for the complacently wounded ego of an old man who saw his own locked door edging open, and letting his hoarded consequence seep out.

"I shall not give the child up to you to raise," she said grimly. "This child is mine, and has no father – a direct result of your interference. If you were not willing for me to be Neil's wife, then I am not willing to let you be my child's guardian."

Lord Albroke raised his eyebrows and stopped his pacing. "
Your
 will does not come into the matter."

"It does. There was no formal bond between us, and Neil is in no condition to recognize the child, if he even lives to see it born. Moreover, you do not want it, and I do. You are only concerned about whether or not it shall one day forward your ambitions – by the time it is old enough, you shall probably be dead. You must be past sixty years. When the child is fifteen, you should be perhaps eighty. Shall you really live that long, Lord Albroke?" Her voice was shrill and sour and ugly, even to her own ears.

Lord Albroke laughed.

He bellowed, until the hall echoed with the sound, and a manservant peered nervously over the bannister. Then, suddenly, the laughter cut off. The hall was silent. The manservant tiptoed away.

"You mean only to sting me," Lord Albroke said affably. "Of course, I am a realist, and not a coward, and I have considered my own death, and how it will relate to my estate. Richard will be the one who eventually looks after this child of yours."

"He does not want to take it from me. He knew, and accepted that it should be mine."

Lord Albroke considered this. "I suppose he would consider it an encumbrance – he shall never marry, I believe. It would be a child of servants and nursemaids, occasionally paraded at parties, which he does not have; exhibited, then, only at Christmas and Easter, given the requisite gifts, patted, complimented, and sent away before it can make too much noise."

"You can see why I should be the better to keep it. I should love it. And make no claim upon your family for its keeping."

In silence, Lord Albroke crossed the room to lean against a side table. He drummed his fingers against the scroll-carved edge, and considered her proposal.

"You make no claim?"

"None." An idea occurred to Verity. "In that way, My Lord, it should almost be like I do not exist."

A crafty smile stole over his features. "I like that. Very well. I have a proposition for you. As you want this child so much, you may keep it, and I shall make no claim upon it – on the condition that 
you
 make no claim upon 
my
 family."

"As I said."

"Which includes that you shall make no further effort to see my son, who is the father of your child. You shall not claim that either. He is to be nobody to you."

Verity breathed in sharply.

"Whether he lives, or dies, he is to be nobody to you. You shall not nurse him his dying days. In the unlikely event that he recovers, you shall not approach him in his health, not attempt to remind him of the part you once played in his life."

The room seemed to spin around her. The suit of armour lurched dangerously. The only solid thing was Lord Albroke's voice, pounding away:

"The corollary of course, is this: if you wish to have a part in Neil's life, however long or short the days remaining of it, you shall take the formal role of his mistress, and the child when born shall be formally his and so under my custody and command. There it is, you see, you can only have it one way: Either you are my son's mistress, and your child under our care; or the child is your own, and nobody else's, and you have nothing to do with us."

Verity cursed herself for laying the trap he had sprung upon her. Having seen Neil, so thin and ill, it was impossibly cruel to walk away from him when given the choice to stay – but equally impossible the price of staying. "I need time to think about it."

"Tell me now."

"But I can't! I can't decide so quickly!"

His hazel eyes gazed steadily and coldly upon her. "You must decide now. I have no patience to tolerate your indecision. No time."

Verity put her head in her shaking hands. She could consider herself lucky that he did not take from her both Neil and the baby; he gave her the choice of either of them. That cruel, cruel choice. Perhaps that was why he did it: because he knew it wounded her more greatly to let the one go by her own hand than to have both stolen from her.

If Neil survived, of course, if he remembered her, he would help her. And Richard might show her some mercy, and allow her some part in the child's life, after his father died. But that might be years away, and they had said that Neil was surely dying. She had only herself to rely on, and alone she was no match for Lord Albroke's wealth and power. The baby had only her to rely on.

"I shall have nothing to do with your family," she said numbly. "And you shall have nothing to do with my baby."

~~~~

A/N: Wow, I do love putting Verity through hell, don't I?

# Chapter Thirty Six: Clear Vision

Richard did not see Verity leave, but when his father called him to his office afterwards, he could tell by the sly smile on his face that she would not be coming back. With pride in his cunning, his father told him of the bargain.

"I take it you have some sympathy for the woman," he said to Richard, when Richard expressed no pleasure; indeed, barely succeeding in masking his revulsion. "It is perhaps best that you do. When the child is older, perhaps six or seven, you shall effect a reunion, and persuade her to grant its custody to us. Until then, she might as well raise it. She can do little harm in the early years, and it will not be useful until it is older."

"Then you struck a bargain with her, never intending to keep it?"

"Don't look so shocked. It was scandal enough having Neil's marriage annulled. This way, she will find it in her best interest to keep very quiet about the baby and its father. Perhaps we may even manage to keep anybody from finding out who its mother really is."

Richard watched in cold disgust and disbelief as his father sat down and began writing a letter. He had always known his father to be a rash and cruel man, but in his adoration of Verity, he conceived it impossible that anybody should treat her so ill as his father had. It gave him the spirit, for the first time in his life, to oppose his father to his face, and not just behind his back.

"I won't do it."

His father looked up from the letter. "What do you mean?"

"I won't take her child from her. We've taken enough already."

Slowly, his father laid down the pen. "You have grown arrogant and stupid of late," he said, rising from the chair. He circled the desk and looked down upon Richard. The threat of his bulk made Richard step back hastily. "Should I whip you like when you were a boy? You know there is nothing that matters more to me than the security of our family. Twice, you have challenged that security. The first, by hiding the fact that she was pregnant, and the second, by bringing her here to Neil. Here, the third. You insist you will not take her child. Let her raise the brat. Let one who carries the Armiger blood be raised to speak with a cockney accent, gamble for its living, and call a whore his mother. It is only the chivalrous thing to do!"

His voice rose steadily throughout his speech, and he stepped forward for every step Richard stepped back. Finally, the back of Richard's knees hit a chair, and he fell into it.

"I just mean to say that we cannot be so cruel," he pleaded. "She has lost so much already."

"Pah. And caused us to lose much too." Lord Albroke, seeing he had dominated his son, went back to his desk. "No. I have no pity for her. Now, I tell you, if you attempt to bring her to Neil again, or remind him of her presence, I shall punish you most severely. I doubt Neil will remember her visit, but if he does, you must tell him nothing further. Nothing at all. He is not to be reminded she exists."

His father's eyes were dark with anger, and Richard's rebellion faltered. No. He could not openly oppose his father. He had been dominated by his father's will for thirty-four years. It would take more than one argument and falling in love for him to break away from it so entirely, but the first crack in the bond had appeared.

"Yes, Sir," he said meekly, and left.  

Outside his father's office, he had the impulse to take the carriage and warn Verity, but he knew it to be impossible. Any further contact with her now would certainly bring his father's wrath down upon them both if he found out. It was too dangerous. Instead, he went to Neil's room again. The nurse, who was waiting in the sitting room with her mending, gave Richard a suspicious glance.

"He's been very excited today. You know it's bad for him, My Lord. The lady who came – she was his mistress?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"She shouldn't ought have come. It's a pity about the baby, but he's in no position to be worrying about that kind of thing. It's best not to let him worry about anything."

"I thought perhaps he might be a little better for seeing her. They were very close. Perhaps it was a juvenile hope, but I thought she might even help him get better."

"I don't believe there is any getting better, My Lord. Mr Linfield says not to have hope, and in two weeks I've seen nought to give it. His body will not be able to survive the strain for long. And his mind – I believe it is gone long ago."

"No." Richard sighed. He could not, honestly, say that he loved his brother, but that did not mean he was not feeling the impact of the situation. He would rather Neil be alive and well than dead, and rather Neil be dead than in this quasi-life of foggy wakefulness and fitful dreams. "You may leave me with him. I shall not excite him again, and the woman has gone. She will not be back."

The nurse curtsied, and left to organize Neil's lunch. There was not much for her to do when Neil was dosed up on laudanum and camomile, as he had been after Verity's visit that morning.

But when Richard went into the bedroom, he could see that Neil was emerging from the stupor, leaning back on his pillows and staring dazedly out the window at the brightness of the sky.

"How do you feel?" Richard asked.

"I've been sick, haven't I?" Neil said wonderingly. He had said that same phrase to Richard at least five times in the past two weeks, each time it appearing to come as a revelation to him.

"Yes."

"I can hardly move my legs." He spoke slowly, every word visibly an effort. "My head hurts. What happened?"

"You were in an accident at sea. You've got to stay here until you're better." It was a dialogue Richard had down by rote. It hardly varied.

"Ah." Neil accepted it unquestioningly, settled back on the pillows, and half-shut his eyes.

Richard began to read, and for some time the only sound in the cold little room was the soft turning of the pages. He thought Neil had gone back to sleep. When the room grew too cold for his bad knee, he folded his book, and went to leave.

"Who was the girl?"

He stopped at the door. "The girl?"

"There was – a woman, wasn't she? She must have been a woman, not a girl, because she was having a baby." In his laudanum-dazed state, his mind worked with the slow, stumbling logic of a drunk man or a child.

"There was a woman." Richard examined Neil carefully. He did not seem particularly excited. He seemed only a little perplexed. "Yes. Do you remember her?"

"A little." Neil frowned. "Who was she?"

"Nobody important."

"Ahh." Neil began to smooth the blankets down over his legs. "What a pity."

Richard waited to see if Neil had any more questions, or remembered anything else, but Neil was only occupied in cocking his head and listening to the sounds of the lunch tray being brought through from the other room.

"I suppose it's barley soup again. What a pity."

*	*	*

-Not sure if he will. Nothing to do but wait, and hope if you dare. Women have always been better at that than men, but sometimes it's best not to be good at it. In cases like this where there isn't -

There was a woman, he thought vaguely, with green eyes, who was very good at waiting, but not very good at hoping. She did have green eyes, didn't she?

-I never thought he would be so delicate. One does not imagine one's younger brother passing before-

-You don't remember who I am?-

-She died. She died two years ago-

-Hold him down. He's having a fit-

-Ascolta mi, avvicinati, ascolta. Caro mio, ho solo poco tempo pìu- 
 

-

Non parlare 

cos

ì

- 
 

-
Just a nightmare again. Hark how he screams-

-Ma non è il dire che lo faccia essere vero. Non avere paura di sentirlo. Sto morendo-

-

Non parlare 

cos

ì, per favore, Giulietta, non

 crederlo- 
 

He had been wrong after all. The woman had brown eyes, and they were closing softly, closing, never to reopen. Except – no! The eyes were opening as he watched. And they were not brown. They were green. Definitely green. And filled with tears.

"I'm tired, Neil. Let me sleep."

But she changed her mind the next minute, fickle wench. She threw herself in his arms and kissed him. And the brown eyes were forever closed, so they could not see the betrayal. If his arms were not so heavy, he might have pushed her off, but they were weighed down with invisible forces. He was as insubstantial as a whisper. She was heavy as iron. He tried to run from her, but she called him back.

"Neil."

There was a pleading look in her eyes that confused and frightened-

-"You can go back to sleep."

Richard was standing above him, leaning on his awful boar's head cane. It took time for Neil's eyes to focus properly, and for a few seconds all he saw was the winking brass eye of the ugly boar. He was sick of the phrase, "Go back to sleep." He had heard it so many times in the past -  

He did not want to question that. He knew, somehow, that he had been sick for some time. He did not want to know for how long. But Richard was here, and he was back in his familiar bedroom, in Albroke Manor.

Giulia was dead.

It pained him, but did not shock him. He had woken up knowing it, today. Woken up knowing that it was today, and not yesterday, or nine years ago.

The light coming through the open windows told of a bright, warm day, but the room was cold somehow. His flesh prickled where it touched the air, and burned when he shifted beneath the sheets. He ached. His muscles felt nettle-stung and heavy.

What had been the dream?

Neil struggled to sit up, and looked around the drab, too familiar room. Richard was going back to his chair. The old woman was gone. And so was -  

The young woman. Who had been in his dream. With the dark hair and green eyes.

Except, he puzzled out, resting his head against the bedhead, she was not just a figment of a dream. He was sure of that. There was a memory – that woman had kissed him.

"Who was she?" he demanded.

Richard looked up from his book. "You're awake – really, awake?"

"Yes," Neil snapped irritably. "There was a girl. Who was she? She was here – not long ago, just now, I think."

Slowly, Richard lowered the book to his knee, and let it fall closed. "Three days ago, a woman visited. Is that who you mean?"

Neil frowned, the motion making his head ache. Three days. Then she had been both memory and dream. "Yes. I suppose it must be. Who was she?"

"Her name is Miss Baker."

"No!" He kicked weakly at the sheets in frustration. "You are telling me nothing! She kissed me. I am sure I didn't dream that. Tell me, Richard... who was she 
to me
?"

His brother hesitated. "You knew her a little. Some time ago. Before you were ill. How much do you remember of her?"

"That she kissed me!" She was a conundrum he could not solve. He knew that he had been ill, and that his memories had gotten out of order, but the woman appeared as an extreme aberration in his sense of the world. Another perplexing memory came to him: she was pregnant. With it came some faint shadow of guilt. "Richard..." Neil said softly. "I knew this woman – biblically?"

Richard bowed his head, but Neil could see his cheeks were pink. "You did not intend indecency."

"What did I intend?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know it was not indecent?"

For a moment, Richard faltered. "You should not be asking these questions – you will get excited."

"But I'm not excited." Indeed, Neil felt quiet and calm and in control of his faculties, if tired. He sorted the facts and had four: there had been a woman in this room; she had kissed him; they had been lovers; she was pregnant. He sat back and tried to tie the facts together in any way that made them fit. There did not seem to be a way. Information must have been missing. Logically, they added up to this: he had seduced the woman and abandoned her. But this was contrary to the logic of his character. It did not fit with his vision of himself as a man of honour and decency. Which he did concede might be wrong, as he did not seem to have a clear vision of anything these days.

"I've become a very bad sort of person," he said wryly. "You ought to have stopped me."

"You have done no wrong," Richard said firmly. "Don't be silly, Neil."

"I wish you'd tell me who she really was," Neil said petulantly, as a sudden ache of sleepiness overtook him, and he sank down into the pillows.

~~

A/N:  Finally! Another Neil chapter, after about 10 chapters of no Neil. I missed him. Here is a translation of the Italian:

-Listen to me, come closer, listen. Darling, I don't have much more time.

-Don't talk like that.

- But it isn't the saying that makes it true. Don't be afraid to hear it. I am dying.

- Don't say such things, please, Giulietta, don't believe them.

Or at least, to be accurate, a translation of what I 
intended 
the Italian to mean. My Italian is better than my French -- I can order all 120 flavours of Gelati without resorting to English or pointing and gesturing, while in France I just starve and French cooks flee from my accent -- but my knowledge of grammar and naturalness of vocabulary and speech is pretty scant, and it is quite possible I have written something very, very unnatural. If someone speaks Italian better than me, please feel free to correct me in the comments.

# Chapter Thirty Seven: The Other Woman

In the dead of night, in a darkened room, Neil lay awake, listening. Sometimes, when he had been dosed with laudanum throughout the day, he would recover at night to lie awake and think. It was hard to think when the nurse was in the room with him, because she was a talker. She talked of her grandchildren, and of the bible, and of the church sermon, and of her grandchildren, and of the bible, and of the church sermon. Sometimes she was daring enough to speak of the weather, but only in connection with the God who made it, and why he had made it so, and why one must be grateful to Him for it. She could be as grateful for thundering rain as she could for balmy sunshine. Neil, in her company, found it impossible to be grateful for anything.

There was, however, one advantage to her chatter. When she was talking, she drove out the voice in Neil's head. He knew it was in his head, and not in the room with him, for there was no one to sing it, and it was Giulia's voice.  

Now, as he listened in the silent dark, he heard it again:

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna,

I'm going mad, he thought desperately. No. I arrived at madness long ago.

"Stop it!" he hissed. "You're dead. You're dead and gone!"

Nella braccia della mamma

"I loved another already!"

But the melody in his head would not stop repeating. Again, and again, the first line of the old Italian lullaby repeated itself dementedly in his head, in the singing voice of his wife. Giulia had known opera and orchestra and ballet. The clockwork demon in his head knew only one line of a cheap lullaby.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna

He had heard it when he was at sea too. Clinging to a floating hunk of debris in the Bay of Biscay, his eyes set desperately upon the lights of a shore he could not seem to reach, a cold blackness in his head, the old lullaby had played in his ears. Then, it had seemed to him a beacon, coaxing him towards the lights of the shore. Hold on, hold on, and stay alive. Now it seemed to be taking him the other way, back towards the black, churning ocean – if he followed it. But he must not.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna

It was fading, finally. It never quite went silent. It had been with him all these past few months, he knew. He had tramped through France with the song beckoning him onwards. On the ship back to England, the captain had strapped him, violent and raving, to a bed, with the song urging him to escape. When he had been carried from his father's carriage to his room, the song had quietly, mournfully serenaded his return. Neil had not told the physician who examined him of the singer in his head. He had told no one. The song frightened him, made him angry, drowned out his own thoughts. He could confess it to no one, and only wait, pleadingly, for it to grow quiet, and give him some peace.

"You're dead, Giulia," he said to the darkness. "Leave me alone."

He was quite sure of that tonight. Giulia was dead, long ago. It pained him, but it did not shock him. He had married Giulia, and she had died, and he had returned to England. He knew it to be true though he remembered none of it.

He knew as well, to be true, that he had another lover, and that he had forgotten her too. What had been her name? It eluded him. But her face did not. He could not forget those green eyes, staring tearfully into his own. Who was she? He could not allow himself to forget her. He knew, most definitely, that the child she carried was his. She had told him so, or Richard had, he remembered vaguely, they had said enough, between them, to make him understand it. But it had been the broken-hearted kiss she had given him that persuaded him it was true. The woman had loved him, and he had broken her heart, and left her with child.

He probed, cautiously, the depths of his fragile memories. It was true that they were shallow depths. They seemed to go back only a week or more before suddenly reaching the floor of childhood. But the currents were deceptive. They could drag him under, drown him, until he knew not the true shape of the world, and his place in it.  

"Who was she?" he asked himself. "What did I do to make her so sad?"

His head ached. He tried to cast himself back into the past, as he tried so often these past few weeks. Fragments of memories came to him: a naked white body, pressed urgently against his; a cold voice, through a door, barely audible; rain upon his face, and absolute, gnawing desolation in his soul. Then, clearly, as though she was in the room with him:

"I want you. I need you. I love you, Neil."

He cried out, and fell back upon his pillow, his head in flames. Slowly, the ripples of pain subsided, and he was able to breathe again, harshly, clawing for air.

He did not know if he was feeling shame, or only the memory of it, but shame consumed him. Shame, self-loathing, and the horrifying conviction that he had broken something beautiful.  

"What did I do?" he begged. "What did I do to her?"

But Memory, having spoken once, had gone to sleep again, leaving Neil awake and without answer.

Days passed. Perhaps weeks. He could not be sure. Some of those days were spent in the past eight years ago. Some of them were spent in the present, locked in fever. Some, few, were clear and focused. Throughout all of them, he was subject to the constant refrain of the Italian lullaby. Even when he knew very well that Giulia was dead, he could not stop hearing her voice. Did not understand why she was singing what she did.

Some days, he was able to tackle the question of The Other Woman. He had forgotten her name, and Richard would not tell him. Most clearly what he could not forget: she loved him, and she carried his child.

It haunted him, so much that at times he almost wondered if it wasn't just some cruel dream he had invented to torture himself with. But at other times, he all too clearly remembered her kiss, and knew she was real.  

Neil was not the type of man who could so easily brush off a byblow by a lower class woman. He was a romantic at heart. He believed in a feminine ideal of chastity, purity, and innocence, regardless of whether the
 femme
 herself was a dairymaid or a duchess. He believed that he had tainted that ideal, and hated himself for it. It made it all the worse to be certain that she loved him. She loved him, and he could not help her, impotent in his illness.

He wondered if he had loved her, or if he had only been lonely. His memories did not aid him in that regard. He remembered no more than he had that first night, and trying only made him ill. Instead, when he was well, and the nurse had left the room, he tried to get Richard to tell him.

"The woman – her name I can't remember – what did I do to her? She carries my child. I 
know 
she carries my child. Tell me who she was."

"She was nobody."

"She loved me. She carries my child. Who was she?"

But Richard would never tell him. Neil could tell that Richard did know. The faint pink blush that stained his brother's cheeks told him that Richard was trying to hide it from him. And that fact alone made Neil suspect the truth to be far more sordid than he could imagine.

He woke from a dream one morning, a dream in which both Giulia and the Other Woman had been there, in a little garden, in the small village on the hill above Florence. What a wonder it was: they were not enemies. Not one word of love or hate was spoken. They drank their coffee and ate their bread, and leaned back under the lilac blooms, dappled sunlight on their cheeks. It was a disappointment to wake and find Richard's ugly face looking dispassionately at him from afar.

"You were moaning in your sleep," he said bluntly. "Squeaking like a dog."

"Was I?" Neil sat up. "Richard, I dreamed of the woman who kissed me. Who is she?"

"She is nobody, Neil."

"That is a 
lie
." Richard looked surprised and guilty. Neil added softly, "She loved me."

"Neil. You had best forget her."

"I must not. Who is she?"

Richard breathed out slowly. "She really was nobody."

"You're lying."

"You should forget her." Richard laid out his trump card. "Giulia..."

"Giulia is dead."

The room was very quiet for some time after that. Eventually, Neil said softly, "I'm dying, Richard. I'm dying too. Dying men get one last request. Mine is simple. It's only information. Why won't you grant it to me?"

"Because it keeps her safe." His cheeks were very pink. Neil waited, not breaking eye contact. Finally, Richard admitted, "Her name is Miss Baker. Don't ask me anymore questions."

It sounded wrong to Neil's ears for some reason. He repeated it, under his breath. It felt wrong too. Perhaps that was why he could never remember it, when he always remembered her face. He tried again, despite the warning throbbing in his head, to remember ever saying that name with fondness. But it did not seem familiar at all. Perhaps he had had a nickname.

"I'm going to London next week," Richard said, perhaps trying to change the subject. "Father is sending me to do business for him. Is there anything you'd like me to bring you?"

"Not particularly. You do a lot of his business, these days," Neil said distractedly. He was still thinking about Miss Baker, trying to remember her. He could, ever so vaguely, remember the feel of her warm weight in his arms, her head against his chest. That had been when she said she loved him. Needed him. A sharp pain hit him in the temple, and he winced.

"I have for some time. It will be my business one day. Are you in pain?"

"A little. It is not so bad." Neil clawed at the blanket, waiting for it to subside. "Miss Baker loved me, Richard."

"Stop thinking about her." And then, quietly, "Loves."

"She is not fickle then." The knowledge was bittersweet. If she loved him still, then she would only be hurting more for it. "I hurt her. I am sure I did. I feel so hollow, so guilty about – about what I do not know." He tried to remember what. He tried, desperately, to decipher where he had been when he felt the pricks of cold rain on his cheek in the darkness. But the memory went no deeper than that, and another stab of pain came at his temple.

"Don't talk about her. I see it is making you pale."

"No!" Neil hit at the bed savagely. "It is not talking that hurts. Not knowing. She loved me. She is to be the mother of my child. And I don't remember – any of it. Did I seduce and abandon her? Did I love her, genuinely?" He slumped back, so heavily a pillow fell to the floor. "I don't know. I feel ashamed. Guilty. I don't even remember why."

"I'll look after her. I'll help her when-"

"When I'm gone." It wasn't enough. Neil knew that it wasn't enough. Richard  might mean well, but he was a coward at heart, and so bound by unfeeling propriety. Without being told, Neil understood Lord Albroke to be a threat to Miss Baker. Lord Albroke, who had hated Giulia without even ever knowing her, merely because she was not 
his 
plan, would surely hate Miss Baker too. No. Neil had to help her. He could not die until he had come up with a way to protect her, and the baby.

For days, Neil puzzled the matter out himself. Richard would tell him no more, and his memories were vague and painful to seek. But perhaps it didn't matter. The facts were there: she had loved him, and was having his child, and he was dying.

The night before Richard left for London, he had a dream. He was at his wedding, in the little village on the hill above Florence where Giulia lived. Everybody in the village had hung wreathes of flowers on their doors. Petals had been scattered from the cathedral doors to make a path through the village square, around, and back up the hill road overlooking Florence, hazy in the bright sun, in the valley below, leading to to the doors of Giulia's parents' house. They were a popular family. Rich and poor alike cheered and sung behind Giulia and him as they made their way down the rose-covered path. He turned around one moment to look at them, and when he turned back, Giulia was gone.

"Where is she?" he begged. "Where is she?"

And then the hunt began. He knocked on all the wreath-covered doors, he ran back through the pews of the cathedral, he burst through the doors of Giulia's parents' villa.

There was someone talking, upstairs. He followed the sound cautiously, climbing, and climbing endlessly. The house was a maze of stairs, leading higher and higher. Finally he reached the top. It was raining there, snowing. The woman with green eyes – what was her name? – was standing disconsolately in the snow, holding a black-haired baby in her arms.

"Don't come in," she said. "Don't."

And then she was gone, and he was all alone.

When he woke, sweating, dawn was just creeping in over the horizon. He clambered, on heavy legs, from his bed. Conviction, cold as the dream rain on his cheeks, came to him, and with it clarity. He had to speak to Richard before he left for London. He had to. He knew the way they would protect her now.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna, 
Giulia sung in his ears.

"Don't," Neil said grimly, all but crawling for the door. "I'm not listening, and you're not there."

~~~

A/N: Whew. I had about three chapters of Neil waffling about being confused and Richard waffling about being... Richard. So I decided to condense them all to this 
one 
chapter and speed things up a lot, which meant rewriting most of what you see here. I think you can't format font size on Wattpad, or I can't figure out how to, but some of those lullaby lines are supposed to be in a smaller font than others.

# Chapter Thirty Eight: Not by Love

"We must take you home sooner, rather than later, Love," Mrs Roper said gently.

Sprawled over the bed, staring at the wall, Verity said nothing. It was now April, and she knew all too well that she should be returning home and preparing for her confinement. She knew the innkeeper did not like her staying there, for a woman so obviously pregnant might run her into all sorts of difficulty, such as the mess of childbirth. She knew that Lord Albroke did not like her staying there, though he had not sent any word of it. That was something she simply knew.

Yet she could not bring herself to leave. Though she had sworn she would have nothing to do with the Armigers, and had kept that promise, she could not bring herself to remove herself from the village where her husband lay dying. She had some mad notion that he must either die and release her from her vigil, or get better and rescue her. She knew in her heart that the second would not come true, and hoped that the first would not.

If she left, and something went wrong, she might not arrive back in time, or be able to travel so far. No. She could not. She had to stay until certainty came.

Mrs Roper had given up persuading Verity. She was at the window, looking out. "It's a nice day, though, perhaps we should- What is 
he
 doing here?"

"Who?" For a moment, Verity's heart lifted, and then constricted in fear. She scrambled up from the bed and peered out the window.  

Richard Armiger, cane in hand, was crossing the street towards the inn.

"Something has happened." Her heart was racing. "He is coming for us. Where is my shawl? I am not dressed."

There was a hustle to wrap the shawl around Verity's shoulders and force her feet into slippers before the knock came at the door. The inn servant spoke softly through it,

"Mrs Baker, a gentleman has called upon you."

"Please."

The door opened, and the servant came through and presented the card to Verity. She barely pretended to glance at it.

"I shall see him."

A moment later, Richard was shown in and before he had the chance to speak or even nod in greeting, Verity demanded,

"Is - Is he dead?"

"No. No, he's not." Richard glanced at the open door, and then at Mrs Roper. "I think we should all go somewhere else. We must talk and this is not the place. I have a carriage downstairs. Come with me."

"Where?" asked Mrs Roper. "Where are you taking her?"

"Nowhere, unless she wills, except for a ride. And you may come – should come, I think."

Verity took in the fretful line between Richard's eyebrows, and the tensing of his mouth. His eyes, when they rested on hers, seemed to be seeing instead something far in the distance.

"Can it not be hinted at here?" she asked. "You have had me rushing off on blind faith before – can you have faith in me, and tell me why, this time?"

For a moment, Richard's eyes did focus on her. He shook his head. "I don't know how to explain this. It's awful – it's a farce." He glanced out into the hallway, and then uneasily at the bed in the corner. He came closer to her, and said softly, near her ear, "Neil has developed a conviction. He remembers only that you were his lover, and pregnant with his child. I don't dare tell him any more than that. He is very fragile. He has the conviction that he must marry you before he dies."

Verity gave a short, nervous bark of laughter. "How -" She stopped, hearing footsteps outside. The maid passed by again, carrying a tray. "Yes, we should talk – elsewhere."

They went out into the street, and Richard led them to a plain closed coach, and helped Verity up into it. There was already a man inside, a stranger to her, plump, and slightly confused, wearing a hunting jacket and buckskins, with a black leather case between his knees. He nodded at her.  

"Good day, Madam."

"This," said Richard, "Is Mr Charmers. Parson. Up at Oxford with me. Charmers, Miss Baker."

Charmers cleared his throat a little. "Very glad to make the acquaintance. Always liked Neil."

Verity looked at Richard suspiciously as they settled back in the seats and the coach rumbled away. "You brought a parson. I don't suppose you've got a marriage license in your back pocket too?"

"Yes, I do. It's your decision if we use it. That's why I need to talk."

"It is quite impossible!" The horror of the situation rose to Verity's chest. "He has lost his mind – you have all lost your minds! Even if I do marry him, annulment would only too easily follow – with cause, this time. Lord Landon, you can't be serious."

"You haven't been there! You haven't been there, every day, by his side, watching him shiver and burn with fever, and fret about Giulia, and you, and dying – you haven't-" Richard broke off and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can tell you this – he is obsessed. He hates himself. He believes he seduced and abandoned you and nothing I can say will make him him believe any different. He believes that by marrying you, he can redeem himself. I couldn't refuse him. He gets this mad, black look in his eyes – he won't change his mind, he won't give up, when he has that look in his eyes."

"So you leave it to me to refuse him?" Verity leaned back against the seat and breathed deeply. "No. It is impossible. Your father will find out. He will destroy me."

"Not with any luck," Richard said persuasively. "Mr Charmers shall tell no one. I shan't, you shan't, Mrs Roper shan't. As for the special license, the Archbishop of Canterbury hates father. They were at Winchester together. He fagged for father. I think he will be pleased to keep it a secret for some time yet."

"Very good man, the old AB," Charmers protested. "Sure he was moved by the story. Sympathy for the – young lady."

Mrs Roper, sitting back in her corner of the carriage, shook her head. "The servants could not be deceived by the four of us going to his room."

"He's not in his room. I persuaded father to have him sent to the convent at Perlchester for the day. They've got a hospital there, and they've agreed to give us a private room for the hour. We're going there now, and at the very least you can tell Neil that you won't marry him, in person. You, he might believe."

"Oh." Verity felt her heart quicken at the thought of seeing him again. "Oh."

"It's the last time I shall be able to arrange any visit between you," Richard added. "It is too dangerous to bring you to the house, and there are no more excuses to bring him out of it, when he can barely walk."

"I understand. How far is Perlchester?"

"Not far. Less than an hour."

She had an hour to think it over. She squeezed herself further back into the corner of the seat. It was very cramped in the carriage, with all four of them. Neither Mrs Roper nor Mr Charmers were small to begin with, and Verity, in this late stage of pregnancy, was finding herself uncomfortably large, even when not in confined spaces. It was warm, too. Charmers fetched a handkerchief and swabbed his forehead every few minutes. Beads of sweat kept reappearing on it.

"It doesn't make me feel very comfortable," he complained. "A protestant clergyman giving a secret marriage ceremony in a catholic house? I wish it could be open."

"It can't be," Richard said firmly. "Though Miss Baker has not yet said either way."

They reached the convent not much later. It was smaller than Verity had expected: little more than a church with an attached abbey, in a state of renovation, set back from the road in a small village. A middle-aged woman in traditional catholic garb came out on the steps of the abbey as they arrived, and welcomed them. She appeared to know Richard and his purpose. There were no unnecessary questions or chatter as she led them through the chiselled stone walls of the abbey.

"He certainly is very sick," she said, in a low, slow voice, with the shadow of a foreign tongue to its vowels. "We have dosed him with a curative and given him barley soup. We have prayed. We will pray further. But if he lives or dies – it is up to him and God."

Verity, a lifelong if apathetic Anglican, found herself embarrassed by the nun and the surroundings. Charmers appeared likewise. Only Richard was able to say a polite if unenthusiastic murmur of gratitude.

Neil was not being housed in a communal nursing room, but in a little sitting room that was the abbess's own retreat and study, bundled on a recliner by the fire. When she saw him, once more the shock of how thin and old he looked made Verity's stomach drop. But he was awake, and sitting up, if still in a dressing gown over an open muslin shirt.

"Mr Brummel would not approve," he said wryly, seeing her face, "But I've got no suit."

"You are – everything I wished to see, as you are." But it was not the dressing gown, but the gaunt hollows and lines of his face. She wished to see him, as he was, and yet it hurt. It dawned on Verity that she was still in her morning gown, with a shawl hastily thrown over, and had given only the briefest attention to her hair that morning. It had not seemed to matter until she saw Neil.

The nun came into the room only for long enough to press a hand to Neil's forehead, nod to herself, and remove the tray that contained his empty plates. "If you have need of me, Lord Landon, you may step down the hall at any time. If you do not, we shall lend you this room until shortly before Vespers."

"Thank you," Verity managed, awkwardly. "Thank you for helping us."

The gaze the nun returned her may have had a tinge of superiority to it, but only a tinge. Verity wondered how much of the truth Richard had told the nuns - and how much of it would remain secret. Briefly, the nun nodded, and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Verity sat down on the chair next to Neil. She still hadn't decided what to do.  

"You didn't abandon me," she said. "It was all a horrible accident – with the ship."

He gave her a weak attempt at a smile. "Shall you try to persuade me I did not seduce you next? Your figure belies that argument."

"I was willing party to the seduction," she said, very quietly, because it seemed a horribly indecent thing to say in a convent. "Does that make it easier?"

"A little."

"We don't have much time," Richard reminded them. "Miss Baker?"

Verity looked down upon Neil. She still did not know what was best. She had broken her agreement with Lord Albroke just by coming here. If he knew that, there was no telling what he might do to her. But she wasn't afraid of him right now. There was no time for fear. She drank in the sight of Neil – battered as he was. Perhaps sensing her emotions, he reached up a bony hand to touch hers.

"If you are concerned, I am quite, quite in my own mind today. The past few days I have been wonderfully sane. It shall leave me, I am sure, but I am quite conscious of what we are doing. Now, Miss Baker, will you marry me?"

"Why do you want to marry me?"

"Because it's the only thing I can do. I can't get better. I can't bestow a fortune on you. I can't even remember who you are – beyond one thing, which I am quite sure is true. You loved me."

"Love," she corrected gently. "I love you." But perhaps it wasn't the truth. If nouns could have past tenses, she thought bitterly, that would be the phrase: she loved the Neil who had been; the Neil who was now commanded her heart, not by love, but by sorrow.  

His gaunt face was twitching with some half-realized emotion. "Then I have twice the reason. Marry me, Miss Baker."

She gave in, then, more because she thought it might make him happy than for any real hope of her own security. She nodded, silently, and realizing he needed a proper answer, managed,

"Yes. Yes. I will."

Mr Charmers cleared his throat again. "I don't suppose you've got a ring?"

It was the one thing nobody had thought of, but Verity still wore the modest garnet ring Neil had given her the first time they had married, and she tugged it from her finger. "Yes. This will do. You gave it to me once," she added, seeing Neil stare uncomprehendingly at it. "Do you remember?"

"No. Not at all. I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologise for."

The parson took the ring, and set his black case up on the abbess's desk. From it, he removed a prayer book, and his parish registry.

Neil smiled past Verity, at Mrs Roper, who was hanging back, some reluctance on her face.

"It has been many years, Mrs Roper – I was fifteen when we last met. I did not recognize you at first."

"No, love." Mrs Roper bowed her head a moment. "You have merely forgotten me too – I was with you these past – nearly three years now."

Neil's face fell. "I – did not know."

"You were very kind to me."

For a moment, a smile quivered on Neil's face, before it faded. "That misfortunate ship," he cursed softly.

"I'd like to begin now," Mr Charmers said, coughing. "Ordinarily I'd ask you both to kneel, but I think in this case it might be best if you both sit down. There, on the chaise, that will do."

Neil shifted over, to give Verity some space. For a moment, she laughed at the absurdness of being married on a sofa, but then she swallowed it, and wiped her tears.

Charmers cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this – these - two, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony... I shall not speak so loudly, as the room is small. Perhaps check the door, Richard, I see it is ajar... Which is an honourable estate – shall I speak faster?"

"With fewer interruptions of yourself, perhaps," said Richard.  

Charmers nodded. "Instituted by god in the time of man's innocence, signifying unto us..."

There were further interruptions. All of them came from the somehow nervous Charmers. He stumbled his way through the book of common prayer so haltingly that Verity wondered if he really was a parson, and not an actor or idiot Richard had convinced to play the part of one. But it must have been legitimate, for when it was over, he opened the book of Parish records, and all five of them signed their part in the deed. Neil's hand was shaking so much that his signature was just barely legible. Verity wrote after him, and Charmers closed the book.

"You're married," he said. "And I suppose we'd better get the groom back home sooner or later – he is very pale."

"We have until Vespers," Richard said. "And it is just on four now. Unless you wish to return, Neil?"

"I can stay a little longer." Neil fell back onto the recliner, and pulled the blanket closer over him. "It is more comfortable here than in the carriage. And I – I'd like to spend a little time with my – wife."

A heady thrill of nerves descended over Verity for a moment at the word. She smiled shyly at Neil. "I should like that."

"Oh." Something was going on behind Richard's yellow diamond eyes, some vague expression of hurt that surprised and confused Verity. But his usual guarded expression was in place a moment later. "Alone – I suppose."

Alone. Alone with the man she loved. She met Neil's eyes, and understood. He was giving her one hour of the few that remained of his life to say goodbye.

"Yes," Neil said. "Alone."

"We shall wait – somewhere," Richard said awkwardly. He and Mr Charmers left the room. Mrs Roper, with some frown on her face, hugged Neil tightly for several moments, and whispered something to him. Embarrassed of her own selfishness, and realizing that Mrs Roper too was grieving, Verity followed the men into the hall to give her some privacy.

"Thank you," she said softly. "Thank you, Mr Charmers, for performing the ceremony, and thank you, Lord -" She laughed. "Thank you, my brother." She took his hand, and pressed it softly.

Again, the faint hurt look came into Richard's eyes, and again, he conquered it, before she could understand it. He raised her hand a little, and bent over it, but did not kiss it.

~~

A/N: I can't be booooootheeered editing tonight. I feel lazy. So I didn't, but I don't think I misspelled anything too badly, or missed too many apostrophes.

# Chapter Thirty-Nine: In that Single Hour

When they were all gone, and it was just Neil and Verity alone in the room, she came over newly shy. She walked slowly around the table, Neil watching her every movement from his seat by the fire.  

"I'm a little tired," he admitted. "But I think we need this."

"I think we need more than this. And I think we will not get it." She came closer, and examined again the hollows of his cheeks and hoped, without conviction, that he was not dying.

"We will not." He patted the chair in front of him. "Please sit. It cannot be easy for you to stand."

She laughed a little, nervously, and sat down. "I'm pregnant, not crippled. Though I get tired easily too."

That seemed to close the conversation for a few minutes. He plucked at a loose thread in his dressing gown. She fiddled with a scratchy fingernail.

"We have very little time," Neil said abruptly. "Let's not waste it in silence. Miss B- Did I call you Verity?"

"Always." She smiled. "Please, do again."

"Verity." She could see it was foreign to him. "It is a very pretty name."

"Of all the Charitys and Prudences and Patiences in the world, I am very glad my mother prized truth over those virtues."

"And is it true? Are you truthful, or prudent, or patient, or generous?" There was a faint smile on his skull-head face. She wondered if he was attempting to flirt.

"In no amount that makes me worthy of the name of the virtue, I believe."

"You are doing better than me. I don't think I've got any virtue in my bones. I'm honourable, but I'm not virtuous. The virtuous do it because they're good; the honourable do it because others are watching."

"But I know that is lie – you cannot lie to me. I know you too well." She took his hand in her eagerness. "Your greatest virtue is kindness. Even this hour is kindness."

"And selfishness. I wanted it as badly as you... though perhaps for different reasons." He closed his hand over hers. "In all the world, in all of eternity, we have only this little room, and a single hour: to be married: to live and die and love and part in that single hour. And I've nothing to give you in this hour, no life or love. I can only take what you can give me. So you see, I am not being kind. I am being selfish."

"I shall give you all I can." She blinked back the tears that rose to her eyes. "What do you want me to give?"

He held her hand still. His flesh was dry and hot.

"Truth." He smiled. "Memory.

"Which... memories?"

"Tell me how we met. How we fell in love. You must know the past year or more of my life. I – don't. Can you give it back to me?"

She hesitated. "In bits... I can." She did not want to lie, but she knew she could not tell the entire truth either. Richard had told her in the carriage that Neil did not know they had been married and that it had been annulled. Nor did she want to tell him of the horrible night that had resulted in their engagement. "We did not like each other, overly much, when we first met."

"Where?"

"M-my father's house." She flushed. "My father is dead now – but he was an acquaintance, a rather low acquaintance of yours, in the manner of gentlemanly acquaintances."

Neil raised his eyebrows. "Which manner is this, exactly?"

"You may have played cards with him, a little more than was good – for him."

"I was one of those – fellows." He sneered a little, at himself. "No wonder you did not like me – though why did I dislike you?"

"Well – if I think about it, even then, you probably liked me a little, but I disliked you so thoroughly that I was incapable of seeing it. But you – were a little cruel. You were inclined to tease me."

"I ... hope I am wrong when I imagine the type of teasing you endured."

"Probably not." She squeezed his hand. "I don't wish to detail it. It is enough to say that I was ill disposed towards you after that first meeting. But afterwards, we met in the village alone, and you attempted to apologise."

"I've never been good at apologies," he murmured. "I'm too proud for that sort of thing. Though I might burn up inside without showing it."

"No – no I am sure you were genuine. But my pride was hurt, and I would not accept it. And then... later, that December, I was ill." She skipped the Harlan episode completely. There was no way to even begin describing that without hurting Neil. "I was very ill, and my grandmother took me into her care. You see, you and my grandmother were rather more the same social circle. And while I recovered, you were – there. My grandmother may have indeed engineered to thrust you into my path a little more than necessary."

"And we fell in love over a sickbed."

"Something like that." There was little way to describe the year after – the year of the marriage that had not been. "We courted for a year," she said lamely. "It was the longest engagement – it was nearly eternity. You – used to worry about your wife, a lot. Julia. Because you loved her for a long time, and grieved her, for so long. And I was not twenty-one, and my father was – reluctant. So we waited."

"I should have married you when-" He hesitated. "I mean, I put you in a certain predicament. I should have married you immediately after that."

"I encouraged you – you mustn't think that you seduced me against my will. I was so utterly in love with you that I didn't care about propriety. It seemed so – so wrong to have to wait until I was twenty-one. I was angry with the people who prevented us from marrying immediately. So angry." For a woman named Verity, she found it easy to twist the truth into an acceptable lie.

"The people? Your aunt did not oppose?"

"No – your family was - displeased. Your brother came to visit and tried to persuade us to not... but, he has changed a lot now. Your father still does not like me. He will not allow me to your house, to visit you, or I would have come."

"I must make him allow you. Some how, I must."

But that would not do. She had accepted a deal with his father, a deal she was breaking even now.

"When you are well, you will come and find me. And our baby," she suaded. "But until then, your father is a man whose will should not be challenged – he frightens me."

"I'm not getting well." He slumped a little, and let go her hand. "The physician has said I shall die. The nurse has said I shall die. The nuns said as much. And – I don't believe it myself."

"I believe it!" she said fiercely – another lie of necessity. "I must believe it. You shall get well, and you shall hold our baby, and we will return to the place we fell in love. I'm not going to give up on you. I love you." She had been leaning closer with every word. By the last, it was hardly more than inch before she closed the gap between their lips and kissed him deeply.

Part of her half-hoped that, like a fairytale, her kiss would break his curse and make him remember. When his arms pulled her closer, and his curious, slightly clumsy, kiss returned hers, she thought it might be working.

"It might be a waste of the hour not to talk," he said, a moment later. "I wish we had more time."

"Yes." She leaned her forehead gently against his. "I wish we weren't in a nunnery."

He laughed. A fragile, broken laugh. At the sound, she felt the baby shifting and squirming inside her. She sat up.  

"Our baby is kicking. Ouch. He must be turning around." She guided his hand to her belly. "Here. Feel him."

"Oh." His gasp of amazement broke her heart all over again. It had broken it so many times she wondered she had any of it left. "Oh – it's mine." His hand followed the movements.  

"Yes." She watched the rising wonder on his face, her heart aching. "Neil, can you feel this, and tell me that you are dying? You can't. You can't say such a thing."

"But it isn't the saying that makes it true." Confusion clouded his eyes for a moment. "I've had this conversation before."

"Not with me."

"No?" He frowned. "No, I suppose not. It must have been someone else. Stand up, one moment."  

There was a break in the conversation while she stood and he kissed her belly through her muslin skirts. When she sat down again, the baby seemed to have come to rest once more.

"I don't want to leave the two of you behind," he said softly. "I can't remember the moments we shared before this one, but I believe I must have loved you very much. But I 
am 
leaving, and you mustn't be afraid to hear it. I am dying."

"You mustn't believe that, Neil! You mustn't! If you believe it... then you have accepted it, and have stopped fighting it. I need you to fight it."

He gave her a weak, guilty smile. "Very well. I will fight."

"I told you," she said, "You can't lie to me."

He made no further protest, and she knew not how to change his mind. "I'll fight," she said quietly. "I always fight."

For a moment, a faint light came to his eyes. "So that's your virtue, then – fighting spirit." The light died. "But it isn't mine."

*	*	*

By the time the carriage rolled down the drive of Albroke Manor, Neil was so tired that eyes could no longer focus. He kept trying to relive the memory of the day, so that he wouldn't forget. He didn't want to ever forget. But even as he tried to think about Verity's soft voice talking about their past, the drumming rain reminded him only of the storm at sea. And when he had been carried into the house, and to his bed, he was nearly asleep.

"It might have killed him," the nurse said sceptically. "Barley porridge and tonic! Catholics!"

"Everything is worth trying," Richard said in the distance. But then the voices seemed to fade away. A new sound swelled up, soft and sweet.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna

"Alright," he murmured. "I'm coming."

In the little room, the lullaby grew louder. Neil shut his eyes and listened closely to it. Around him, the bed seemed to rock as though in waves, and if he looked closely inside himself, he could see the yellow lights of a distance shore. But he didn't want to go there. Not anymore.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna,

nella braccia della mamma

Fa la ninna bel bambin,

 Fa la nanna bambin bel,

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna

 Nella braccia della mamma

Sleepily, he thought he felt someone's arms close around his shoulders.

"So that's how it ends," he said to the darkness, and swam away from the yellow lights.

~~

A/N: This is such a tense chapter ending that the next one goes up as soon as I've finished editing it - gimme six hours. There's some very fiddly English in it I have to make sure of.

# Chapter Forty: Courting Trouble

Verity rubbed a clear patch in the glass of the carriage window. It was raining outside, and the window kept fugging up. Every now and then she cleared it and examined the view: here, the outskirts of town; there, the highway; and now, new-laid fields that in the rain were mostly mud.

"We could not have delayed much longer," Mrs Roper said. "To have stayed so long, indeed, was courting trouble."

"Yes." Verity's voice seemed very small and quiet to her.

It had been two days since she had so abruptly and improperly married Neil, and now that they were finally leaving Albroke, she was second guessing every moment of it. She huddled into the corner of the carriage, one hand resting on her belly, where Neil had kissed it.

Then this was it.

They had said their goodbyes. There was nothing to do but part ways, and part honourably, without looking back. It would be best, even, to move somewhere far away from Houglen, in case Lord Albroke did find out about the marriage, and attempt again some intervention or revenge. Until the day Lord Albroke died, Verity had to consider herself the ghost. She had made that deal with him – made it, and broken it by subterfuge.

A deal! He had taken Neil from her. He had as much as told her that he would take one: Neil or the baby, and she had -

Meekly.

Cowardly.

Yielded.

She was as angry at herself as she was him. Away from his presence, it was easy to forget how coercive and violent he had been. If she had not been so flustered or weak, she would have resisted. At first, she apportioned only an equal share of the blame to herself, and then, as the miles separated her from both her enemy and the man she loved, began to claim more of it. If she had not allowed Richard to be so weak. If she had not been scared of Lord Albroke's fists. If she had not fled. If she had only trusted Neil's recovery.

Mile by mile, she hated herself more and more. In the final mile, somewhere near Stevenage, sense came to her, and she turned her hatred back over on its true target, and determined to ruin him.

"Mrs Roper," she said. "We're turning back to Albroke."

Mrs Roper looked surprised. "But – my dear, you cannot afford to wait in that inn, until he – gets better."

"I'm not going to wait. And I'm not going to the inn. I have business with Lord Albroke."

"No – no, my love."

"But yes." She squared her shoulders. It seemed inconceivable that she had come so far already. "That odious man – I'm not going to fall to him. Not I, and not Neil either. I won't let us."

There was an attempt at argument. Mrs Roper could be almost as stubborn as Verity – almost, but not quite. The carriage turned around in the drizzle, and made its way to Albroke Manor.

When they arrived, the drizzle had become a downpour, and they fled up the steps of the manor to huddle under the terrace, where Mrs Roper clanged the bell. It was some time before the butler opened the door, and when they explained their desire to see Lord Albroke, he made them wait for over an hour in the cold waiting room before he brought them through to Lord Albroke's office.

"I didn't expect to see you again," Lord Albroke said, by way of greeting. He did not bother to hide his malice. Verity curtsied, but did not smile. Now that she was in front of him, she realized the difficulty she faced in persuading him to let her change his mind: out of pure bull-headed disagreeableness, he would likely refuse.

"I believe I promised you that you never would," she said. "I have broken that promise. I found it necessary. My Lord, I was in error, and made the wrong promise before."

"The wrong promise?" He raised an eyebrow. It was a move so evocative of Neil's expressions, and so alien to his character, that Verity felt sick at the sight of it. "Elaborate."

"I believe you told me that I must be either your son's mistress, and this child his and not mine, or this is my child, and I am not his mistress. Well, I was his mistress. I am. I shall be until the day he dies. I cannot deny it, no matter how much I wish to have this child as well. The child is his. Your grandchild." Her voice shook at the admission. "Will you let me now choose the other side of the deal? I shall not renege again. With time, I have realized my true position."

He considered it for some time in silence, pacing back and forth in front of the windows. Verity stood silently and waited. Mrs Roper made one or two attempts to speak, but thought the better of it each time, and kept quiet.

"I will take it in writing," Lord Albroke said eventually. "It is the only way I can be sure. State your position, and sign it."

"If you will do the same," Verity answered.

There was the hint of a smile when he met her gaze. She did not like it. "Very well. What would you have me say? Here – Mrs Roper, ring the bell, and you and the butler shall witness it."

The pause gave Verity time to think. She realized she had a chance to perhaps forestall the inevitable suit of annulment against their marriage, if the wording was subtle enough. Lord Albroke's eyes were cold and triumphant upon her. She bowed her head to escape them.

"What shall I write?" he pressed.

"Get the pen, the paper," she said. "Quickly now, Lord Albroke, I am not good with words and I find it hard to keep them straight in my mind."

He lumbered through the contents of his desk, giving her the time to check her phrasing. When he had the pen in his hand, and two fresh sheets of paper, he sat down and looked enquiringly up at her. "Well?"

"I, Lord Albroke," she began statefully.

"Oh? So proscriptive?" he said mockingly, dipping the nib in the inkwell and beginning to write. "Continue."

"Agree that I shall not challenge, morally or practically, the attachment between Verity Baker and my son, Neil, the formally intimate nature of which accords the woman some rights to his society and person, which are also protected from my challenge, and I agree shall be recognized as vulnerable alone to Neil's revocation, according to his sensible choice."

He finished writing as the butler entered, and looked up. "Jackson, I need you to witness this, and one other. Mrs Roper?"

The two servants scrawled their own names at the bottom of the paper. Lord Albroke wafted it gently in the air to allow the ink to dry a little, before placing it tantalizingly on the desk in front of Verity

"You must think me a brute of a man."

"You are."

"Perhaps." She still did not like his smile. He passed another sheet of paper over the desk, and held out the pen. "It is your turn."

She took the pen and bent over the desk. She knew she would have to break this document if Neil died, and knew too that she could only rely on Lord Albroke keeping his word as long as she was pregnant. But it gave her time. And he did not know of their secret marriage, or he would not be smiling now.  

"I, Verity Baker," he mocked, "Avow that upon the birth of my child I shall relinquish all claim to it and impart it to the custody of its father, Neil Armiger, or, in the event of his death, his heir as named by law. I further promise that upon the event of Neil Armiger's death, I shall no more associate, in public or in private, with the Armiger family or name or the Albroke title, excepting in the duty of giving birth to and carrying Neil's child." He paused. "It's a bit untidy, but I think it covers it."

She wrote the document with shaking fingers and signed it – Verity Baker. One day she might again use the name Armiger openly. Lord Albroke read it once, was satisfied she had not cheated him, and gave it to the butler and Mrs Roper to sign. But still, the smile hovered on his lips.

"May I see him now?"

"I cannot prevent you." He locked the paper she had signed in a drawer. "However you may find it crowded. The physician, the nurse, practically everybody but the gravedigger is waiting."

"He is... already..."

"He wasn't when I left." Lord Albroke's smile grew bolder. He said something as Verity grabbed her own paper and ran from the room, but she never heard it.  

She did not know the way to his room from this wing of the house. She turned uneasily in the hallway.

"This way, my love." Mrs Roper came hurrying along behind. "Come – do not panic. His Lordship may only be testing your nerve."

Verity doubted that. She doubted it further when Mrs Roper led her back to the sitting room, and the little dark bedroom beyond. It was crowded. There were piles of servants, a surgeon with his saw, a physician with his cravat and delicately gloved hands, the nurse, and even Richard, who got up when she arrived.

"Miss Baker!"

"Lord Landon – is he...?"

He was not. She saw that he was sweating and turning on the bed, making quiet fretful sounds. The physician was leaning over him. But he turned and cast a concerned eye at Verity.

"The presence of a lady in the room is inadvisable," he said. "She will surely faint, and be a nuisance to the care of the patient."

"Why are you here?" Richard said, in a quiet, unfriendly tone. "Come."

She accepted his arm, and they went back to the sitting room, where he pushed her down on a sofa and sat beside her.

"He's dying – you can see that, can't you? Why did you come?"

"Dying? Then it is true." Her heart pounded. The paper was still in her hands. "I have told your father that I cannot stay away from Neil – he says until the day he dies, I may stay. He shall not die today. He shall not. I shall not let him."

"Miss Baker." Richard took her hand, in a trembling grip that reminded her that she was not the only person who cared. "Leave. For your own sake. There is nothing you can do."

"I can stay by his side."

"For the sake of your child."

"I must stay." She had a conviction about it. She had seen Neil's pale, sweating face, and understood. It had taken from her any thoughts of the future, any plans to combat Lord Albroke. It had told only the immediacy of the dilemma, and that she must stay for the man she loved, and give him what comfort she could. 

Richard must have seen it in her eyes. He shook his head, and bit his lip. "I see. Come."

Back in the room, Mrs Roper was arguing with the nurse in a low tone, and the physician was arguing with the surgeon, in a louder tone. The three servants, two chambermaids and a footman, listened but tried to look as though they weren't.

"You may take the chair by his pillow," Richard said. "He has been insensible all day. Perhaps he shall remember you."

"What is she doing here?" The physician demanded. "I said she will faint!"

"She is his – she is here." Richard, who did not reach a full height of five and a half feet on his good leg, managed by class of breeding alone to look down upon the physician, who flushed. "And she owes you no explanation for it. What is your decision?"

"We shall bleed him."

"No!" Mrs Roper snapped. "Can't you see he needs what he's got?"

Verity, sitting cautiously down by the side of his bed, was inclined to agree with Mrs Roper. Beneath his tan, Neil was greyish white. He managed to look at her for a moment, through eyes unseeing, and uttered some garbled sounds.  

"It's alright." She took his hand in hers, and stroked the back of his palm gently. "It's alright. I'm here, and I'm waiting for you."

He lay back on the pillows, and made incomprehensible, fretful sounds.

"Beef tea," Mrs Roper ordered, to the chambermaid. "You run and tell her beef tea."

"He cannot eat," the nurse snapped. "He has not eaten since breakfast yesterday."

"Then he must." Mrs Roper dipped a towel in the steaming, herbal scented bucket by the fire. "Lavender!" she sniffed. "Oh, it will do."

Neil fidgeted when she placed it on his forehead, but Verity stroked his hand soothingly. "Quite alright."

Mrs Roper patted the towel down. "He's in a bad way, Verity."

"I know." Repetitively, she stroked his hand. "He cannot even hear us – thank god, for they are arguing so!"

The surgeon and the physician were coming to blows. The argument seemed to be between leeches and saws.  

"Children!" Mrs Roper sniffed. She went back to Richard and the men, and said something very quietly, and a moment later the surgeon was dismissed. The physician remained, though some of his superciliousness seemed to be wearing thin.

When the beef tea was brought, it emerged that Neil could not drink without being held up by the two footmen and the stuff being practically poured down his throat.

"A good bit of whisky," the physician began.

"No."

The whisky did not eventuate.

Though Verity had vowed to stay by his side, there was little she could do except hold his hand and watch and wait, while at intervals Mrs Roper or the nurse put a fresh poultice on his head, or attempted to pour more beef tea down his throat. As night fell, he grew verbal, and cried out for Giulia, begged her to stay with him. Verity held his hand firmly.

"She's gone, Neil, she's gone," she whispered. "I'm here. Stay with me."

She did not know if he could even hear her, or if he could, if he sensed her words. In quiet moments, the nurse explained, with some softening resentment, that the previous days had been so good for Neil that she had been sure it was only the calm before the storm: patients were like that sometimes, when they were near death, granted a small reprieve before the last trial.

"I am sure it was not his visit to the nuns at Perlchester," she confided, "Though that cannot have helped, to travel so far."

"Nuns?" Verity pretended she knew nothing of it. "He visited a nunnery?"

"They run a sort of hospital. Lord Landon thought they might be able to help. But of course..."

It was quite possible the event of travel had pushed Neil beyond his limits. Verity touched his cheek. But if he hadn't gone... he had wanted to marry her... before he died.

"You must not die," she whispered. "You must not give up, you fool. I'm right here. Waiting for you."

For a moment, his eyes seemed to focus on her, and see her properly. It was only a moment.

The night wore on in cold, weary hours. At one point, Mrs Roper had somebody fetch a shawl for Verity. A meal was brought for her. She even sipped some of the beef tea, made more of a meal of it than Neil had.

At dawn, with the sky lightening, Neil slumped back on his pillow so suddenly that Verity felt her heart lurch. She stood up, bent over him.

"Verity," Richard said behind her, in a gravelly, exhausted, hopeless voice.

"He's sleeping." The relief was so great that for a moment she could not feel the ground beneath her feet, and felt as though she were floating, or falling, or flying – what was the difference, but direction? Then, she was earth bound again, and exhausted. She pressed a hand to the drawn cheek, which no longer burned. His chest rose in and out with a steady, if slow rhythm. "He is only sleeping – at last."

She put her head down on the mattress by his shoulder, and joined him.

~~

A/N: originally Verity fainted at the end of this chapter, fulfilling the physician's prediction, but screw the physician, he's a jerk. He can be wrong about everything. I'm too tired to do a final check for typos, but it's probably okay.

# Chapter Forty-One: Patchwork

Verity never remembered how she got from Neil's room to the one she woke in later that day, but she when she did wake it was to find herself sprawled, still in her travelling gown, over a four-poster bed in a completely alien room.

Without waiting to change her clothes or find a meal, she wrapped the shawl around herself and headed for the door. Outside was the same hallway that led to Neil's room, so she was relieved the anxiety of wandering the manor. When she walked in, he was sitting up, and Mrs Roper, eyes darkly creased with exhaustion, was helping him drink from a mug of beef tea.  

The sight was such a relief that Verity barely managed to make it to her seat. She smiled wanly at Neil.

"Do you feel better?"

Neil wiped beef tea from his chin with a weak hand and frowned at her. "Perhaps." His voice was slow and full of effort.

It was the frown that told Verity he did not recognize her. Not this morning. She did not explain herself, but wiped his chin with a towel, and rearranged his pillows.  

"If you are tired, you should go back to sleep," she suggested.

"If I sleep, I'll miss Giulia."

Mrs Roper's eyes met Verity's in warning.  

"Who is Julia?" Verity asked guilelessly.

"She is..." His eyes clouded over. "Do you know.... I can't... be sure."

"When she comes," Verity said kindly, "I will wake you up. I won't let you miss her."

"You will?" He looked at her with the trust of a child. "I thought she was here before – but she wasn't. It wasn't her. It was..." He frowned. "It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes." She took his hand gently. "I was here all night. But Julia did not come. When she does, I will take her to you."

Neil nodded slowly. "I feel that I can trust you – I must have known you... from a while back."

"It was a lifetime ago, but we were very good friends – we still are."

There was an element in this of pacifying her drunken father. She knew not to contradict the reality he had constructed for himself, but to allay his fears, and perhaps it worked, for his eyelids closed slowly and a moment later he was asleep.

"You should eat something, love," Mrs Roper said, and yawned. "He's been dosed with laudanum just now. He'll sleep for some time. You needn't stay."

"If he's sleeping, then you should go to bed too. You haven't been up all night, have you?"

"I had a nap or two. But it's harder than it used to be." Mrs Roper squeezed her shoulder as she passed. "I think you're right. I'll go."

She left, and Verity was alone with him again. The frantic fever of last night as long gone. There was nothing left but a confused exhaustion. She kissed him on the cheek, and whispered that she loved him, and went to find somebody who would give her breakfast.

Downstairs, she found herself by Lord Albroke's office, and entered. He was behind the desk, writing. He looked up and scowled.

"He's not dead," Verity said. "Can I assume our deal from last night stands?"

"It stands." He dropped his pen on the desk. "Your bedroom is the one you woke in. You shall stay there until the baby is born. We have no women's maids in this household, but the chambermaids shall serve you."

"I should like to eat something."

"The servants will do as you tell them. Stay out of my sight, as long as there is nothing of business to talk about."

Verity curtsied. "Good day, My Lord."

She waylaid a footman, and arranged for a meal to be brought to Neil's room, and while that was cooking, rang the bell in her room and had a maid help her change into fresh clothing. Someone's foresight – she suspected Richard's more than Lord Albroke's but never found out – had had her belongings brought up the night before.

It was a quiet and uneventful meal, and quiet afterwards too, when she sat by Neil's side and watched him and waited, but she was not bored. She had much to think about. She had to process every potential horror and every potential joy that lay before her. And the twin of every joy was horror. But for the first time in months, she felt at peace with her circumstances. She was not so self-unaware that she did not realize it had a lot to do with the man who lay sleeping by her side.

The old nurse came in at some point in the afternoon, and checked Neil's temperature. He woke. He had more beef tea. He was quieter then, and asked no questions of Giulia or anybody else. For some time he sat awake in the quiet. Verity made no attempt at conversation, and nor did he. Again, he fell asleep.

Mid-afternoon, Richard returned. His hair had been brushed and oiled back over his head and he had shaved, but he was dressed in the same suit as yesterday – now, significantly more creased. He sent away the nurse, and sat down with Verity.

"What do you plan on doing?" He asked, in a low voice. "If you had stayed away... it would be safer."

"I know. But I can't leave him. I just can't. I told him he's got to keep fighting, and it's no good telling somebody such a thing unless you're willing to be there with them. And if he... then, I should be here for him then too. And afterwards, eventually, you will help me, won't you?" She gestured to her belly. "With this?"

"Yes. I made that stupid vow to you. I'll never revoke it."

She gave him an uncomfortable smile. "I'm not sure how it's going to work out. If Neil dies, I will quite definitely need your help. If he gets better, then I can only imagine he will protect me himself. But I can't think that far. I can only think that he needs me here, so I can't go."

"He does need you." Richard stood, and looked over at his sleeping brother. "I hope he doesn't die. But-"

He didn't finish it. Instead, he nodded his head at Verity, and limped away.

The days that followed were much like the first. Verity would stay by Neil's side, and hold his hand, and reply to his nonsensical questions, while Mrs Roper and the old nurse did the real nursing. She wondered how Neil had ever had the resources to be so sane and strong as in the convent. Most days, he woke into a patchwork of reality, in which past and present had been cut up into pieces, and put back together all wrong, with most of the pieces missing. One day, when he was comparatively sane, and knew her name, they had a conversation that sent chills down Verity's spine.

"You must eat," she began, coaxingly.

"I don't want to," he refused. He was in one of his most brutish moods: childish, and stubborn, and angry.

"If you don't eat, you won't get better." She held the barley soup temptingly before him.

"I don't want to get better."

"You mean, you wish to stay in bed forever?"

"No." He pushed the soup away. "I don't mean that."

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. "You want to die."

He glowered at her silently. Mrs Roper had just taken a break, and they were alone in the room.

"I want you to live, Neil," Verity said faintly. "I very much want you to live. Why don't you?"

"This isn't life." He pointed dismissively at the soup, the nurse's table of medications, the bed. "This is death's doorstep, carpeted in silk, and scented with flowers."

She put the tray down on the bed, and wrapped her fingers around his bony wrist. "You frighten me," she said softly. "You are too thin. If your body gets stronger, what is wrong in your mind may get better too... so, you must eat."

He pulled his wrist from her grasp. "My mind isn't broken when I say I want to stop fighting."

"Then it's your heart." She looked away. "The woman who broke it is dead. You know that right now, don't you? You won't find her by dying. But you know that too. You want to go where nothing can be found. If you don't eat, I shall call the footmen to hold you down and force it down your throat."

It was the only time she truly opposed his wills, that day, and in the end, she made good on her promise. Her reasoning was that, if he remembered, she would never have to subject him to more than the threat of it again. During the days when he was sane, he did remember, and even held a grudge for it. But the nights when he lay awake, half-conscious, fretting, and she held his hand and whispered back to him – he trusted her more then, when he did not know who she was.

She thought perhaps there would be some improvement, with time, but he neither got better nor worse, merely through brief bad and brief sane spells. Her triumph was that he did gain weight, on a diet composed of beef tea, and barley soup, and gruel and soft-boiled eggs. In May, buttered toast was added to the menu at his request: he desired something to chew. She thought it was a very good sign.

After that, even, he was allowed to sit up in the chair by the fire, or by the window, and look out, and she would sit with him. One day they were sitting there during one of his bad spells, and she coaxed him through the realization that Giulia was not coming. He thought he was strong enough to leave and go to her instead, and when he rose to try, she had to drag him back to the chair. During the scuffle, he elbowed her in the waist, and she gave a little gasp, and sat down on the bed.

"Oh – Oh, I did not mean – Have I hurt you?" He was instantly the gentleman she knew, contrite, concerned, kind.

"It was just a surprise." She put a hand to the spot. The baby seemed to be kicking in indignation. "I shall bruise – but there is no harm done."

He was red with contrition and sat down with her. "I'm very sorry – but I so urgently want to find my wife."

"I understand, Mr Armiger," She said quietly, for this was one of the days when he found it disturbing to be addressed as Neil, "But you are not well, and you must wait until you are better to go to her."

"I did not harm you?"

"No." She smiled. "The baby is kicking me quite as ferociously most of the day anyway. I am pleased to learn that you have grown such strength."

It was an awkward little silence. When Neil did not recognize her as his wife or lover, he accepted her as having the rightness to belong, but did not seem to place her as relative or servant. She wondered how he explained her advanced pregnancy in his mind. Perhaps that was what embarrassed him.

But she saw, by the growing flush and confusion on his face, that he was once more coming to. He knew who she was, and why she was pregnant.

"What do you need?" she asked gently.

"I feel so ashamed," he muttered, and said nothing further the rest of the day. That night was one of his bad spells again. Verity waited up until the early hours of the morning with him, while he sweated under a fever and went through quick intervals of knowing who he was, or not understanding. Lord Albroke even stayed in the room for some time before midnight when he was perfectly sane, if broken under the hot fever. Breaking away from the poultice for a moment, Neil stared at Verity.

"I married you."

"Yes," she said calmly. "Here, let me wipe your face." She wiped away the sweat on his brow. "Are you warm? Cold?"

"Very cold." He shivered, and she drew the blankets deeper over, a movement that made him shudder with pain. "Then you're my wife."

"Yes," she said calmly. "Do you know my name?"

"I must." What he mumbled next was lost. He shut his eyes, and may have slipped into unconsciousness that was neither sleep nor faint, but some grey horror between.

"Is he remembering before the accident?" Lord Albroke said musingly. "Mr Linfield said he would remember no more."

"I don't know. Perhaps." She had no doubt in her mind that Neil was referring to the nunnery. Thankfully, the physician spoke up, keen to defend his theory:

"He may be quite mad at this moment. I do not believe these are memories."

As though in confirmation, Neil opened his eyes, and stared earnestly at Verity. "Do you know it's not fighting spirit, but valour. Well I've got none of it."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure!" He jerked up in bed for a moment, sending a poultice and the bedclothes flying, and grabbed her shoulders. "Well that's my other sin! Uncertainty!"

His hands were burningly hot against her flesh. His fingers were twisted through the fringe of her shawl, which pulled painfully at the back of her neck. For a moment, she was stunned, and thought perhaps he was mad. But there was nothing of madness in his eyes just now.

"I shouldn't say my other," he mumbled, "Because I've got so many, but it's one of them. I never know one way or the other. I can't come and I can't go. Other people have convictions. I wish I had a conviction. All I have is questions. And no one to ask that isn't a liar."

"I'm not a liar." She pried his hands carefully from her shoulder, and pushed him gently back.

"But that's exactly what a liar would say." A hurt expression entered his eyes for a moment, then they folded shut, and he fell back amongst the pillows. He was not sleeping, not quite yet. He turned and fretted in the grey semi-consciousness.

Mr Linfield came forward, and laid a hand lightly on Neil's chest and wrist for a few moments. "It is time for the laudanum."

Verity watched, heart thumping, as the nurse dosed Neil with the tincture of laudanum. Some time later, Neil stilled, and seemed to be sleeping.

It hurt her, to see him dosed like this. And the times when the physician urged them to resort to drugs, and not let him sleep naturally, seemed to be increasing.

On the way back to her room that night, Richard followed her down the hall.

"I've been thinking," he said softly, when they stopped outside her door. "He has asked about Jane once or twice. She is living in her own home, not very far from here. It might do him good to see her, on a day when he is otherwise well."

"And you ask me for permission?" She tried to smile, but she was tired, and could only think how passionately she hated Jane.

It must have showed on her face. "No. Your opinion. Which I can see is not favourable."

She breathed out slowly. Her feelings did not matter. Neil would have forgotten the kiss, along with everything else. And Jane was fun, when she wasn't being awful. Verity did not hate her so much to have forgotten that.

"It might lift his spirits," she said slowly. "I don't think I'm much good at that."

Richard tilted his head to one side and examined her through half-closed eyes. "Not when your own spirits need lifting. That why I thought of Jane. You can't keep her down. She's incorrigible."

"But she keeps me down," Verity admitted wryly. "When he has a good morning, bring her. But warn me first. I'd like to keep out of her way."

~~

A/N: the next five or so chapters, including this one, have a lot of editing in them, which I may or may not have half-assed today. Was I supposed to put a chapter up today or tomorrow? Can't remember here it is anyway.

# Chapter Forty-Two: An Old Friend

Jane was in her best parlour, plucking the petals from the roses her sister-in-law had cut and arranged that morning, when the butler brought the card in. She glanced at it, toyed with the idea of making Richard wait an hour or two, and then, because she was violently, tortuously bored, decided against it.

"Bring him in." She tossed the card on the table and gathered up the fallen petals in a pile next to them. Elise would make pot-pourri from them later, when she had recovered the offence of seeing them plucked.  

Richard came in, thumping his stick dully against the carpet. He nodded at her, and sunk down in a chair without waiting to be invited.

"Well," said Jane. "I gather you're not here for the joy of my company." She didn't like the look on his face. He looked tired and faintly sad. She sat down on the chaise opposite him.

"I could be."

"You've not visited me in years, Rich. I've chased after you every now and then, but you've never once called upon me. I don't suppose my absence in recent months has made your heart grow fonder. You don't have one."

She was trying to goad him into some kind of energy, even if anger, but it wasn't working. He merely shrugged.

"He's not dead, is he?" she said hesitantly. She had heard that Neil had returned, miraculously, from France, but had not dared visit the Armiger estate and seek him. She had burned his letter of dismissal, balled it up and tossed it in the fire, without a backwards glance, but she could not forget it. She could have recited it, word for word, like a bible verse – old testament, and full of fire and brimstone and righteous wrath.

"No." Richard played idly with the pile of petals on the table beside him. "I'd like you to come with me to Albroke today. Stay for lunch. Talk with Neil."

"I cannot."

"Break your engagements. You have heard he is ill, no doubt, well, today he is not so bad that it will hurt him to have you visit. It might be the last time, Jane."

"Then I shall come to his funeral."

"Damn you!"

The explosion of anger surprised Jane. She had never before suspected Richard of loving his brother, even in that small amount normally taxed as due to blood relatives. But she had been crude.

She pursed her lips. "I'm sorry. I have told no one, and Neil, I am sure, has not, but when I last spoke with him we had an argument. I cannot come, for he has forbade me from his life."

"You?" Richard frowned. "I am sure he would not."

"He did." She offered no elaboration, though Richard looked questioningly at her. "Did you believe I would bring him joy, in his dying days? I won't. I shall only make him furious."

"Even that might be good for him. Fury is some kind of spirit, at the very least. But either way – you must come, no matter what he has said."

"But it does matter. I can assure you."

"It does not." Richard tapped his cane twice against his boot: an old habit that perpetually irritated her. "You know he is sick. Perhaps you do not know that he has lost his mind, and most of his memories with it. Some days he wakes and believes he is a twenty year old boy who must run away from home to Italy, where a woman waits for him. The other days, he knows well that he is not that boy, and that the woman is dead, but little else outside the first twenty years of his life, and these past few weeks. Your argument is of no consequence. He has forgotten it, along with most else of the past nine years."

She had not known. A faint shiver ran over her body, every muscle tensing and releasing in turn.

"He spoke of you fondly once or twice," Richard added. "I shouldn't have come if he hadn't asked about you."

Then he had forgotten, entirely. She did not believe he could ever have forgiven her. Even if it hadn't been for the letter, the look of utter despair he had given her as she left had convinced her that she had hurt him beyond any hope of redemption. Anger and loathing might have faded. Sorrow was indelible.

"Then I will come."

In the carriage on the way, Jane pressed Richard further of Neil's condition. The gossip had not escaped the county, but the Armiger household, including the well-paid if poorly respected servants, had kept a tight lid on the details. Rumours had abounded that Neil was stark, raving mad; that he was afflicted by the final stages of syphilis; that he had lost both his arms and legs in war; that he was quite dead, and it was all a plot of Lord Albroke's. Jane, who was less romantically minded than most, had suspected stomach cancer, the disease that had killed her husband, and was relieved it was not that, while horrified by the prospect that it might be incurable.

"We do not know if he will ever be truly sane again," Richard said, as they crunched up the gravel drive. "We do not know if he will live or die. One month ago it seemed certain that he would die a madman. He is stronger than that time, but sometimes he takes so badly that death seems imminent. And in the end, if he does not recover his mind, he might as well be dead."

On that pronouncement, they alighted from the carriage, and the butler, who was expecting them, opened the door.

"You must wait in the drawing room a moment," Richard said.

"You know I have no desire to meet your father," Jane said drily.

"I was not conspiring such a thing. I need only to make sure he is ready for you."

Jane was deposited in the drawing room, where she walked slowly back and forth, wondering at how little change twelve years had worked upon it. The chairs did not appear to have been moved, except to sweep the carpets. The little red-velvet chair that she had dug her quill-pen into as a child, and been forced to clumsily mend, was still in its place as always to the right of the fireplace. Maliciously, Jane picked at the threads. By the time she heard Richard's off-beat footstep in the corridor, she had the old hole uncovered, and horsehair was poking out from the gap. She stood, brushed her hands on her dress, and was serenely contemplating a garden landscape on the wall when he opened the door. The chair was expensive, and she had a feeling that what had made Richard laugh as a boy would exasperate him as an adult.

"Your mother did that one, didn't she?" Jane said airily. "Rather talented."

Richard glanced at it. "I suppose it's not bad. Come. He is ready."

She followed him up the stairs, and down the familiar hallways. Just being here, after so many years, with so little changed, was doing strange things to her heart. She surreptitiously dug a sharp nail into the flesh of another finger to control herself, but when she entered Neil's old room, and saw him, half-skeleton, wrapped up in his chair, even that could not keep her from gasping in shock.

"It is not very pleasing, I know," Neil said, with a wry smile. "Sit down."

"I'll leave you with him." Richard paused at the door. "Do be nice, Jane."

When Richard was gone, Jane found she did not know what to say. She was overcome by an overwhelming urge to cry: she, a woman who had not cried, but for crocodile tears, since she was seven years old.

"You can, if you must," Neil said gently, reading her thoughts, and the sparkle in her eyes. But it had been too many years. She felt the pressure build up hot and damp behind her eyes, in her throat, but had forgotten how to release it. She shook her head, and smiled instead.

"It's just that you look so... thin," she explained, reaching out a hand and taking his tentatively, half to reassure herself that it was not bone. "I'm sorry."

"I quite understand." His tone was pleasant, if tired. His eyes were crinkled slightly in fondness. He remembered nothing. He truly, miraculously, remembered nothing of their argument. "Apparently, we have been friends a little these past years. My last memory of you..." He frowned. For a moment, panic rose in her heart. But it was only a frown of confusion. "That summer was the best summer of my childhood. I never had so much fun. I've never been so happy – not that I can remember at least. And then you just – left. No one ever told me why."

"I don't suppose they would have." Here, in the old house, memories of that summer whispered around every corner. There had been so much joy here, and so much anger. "I can hardly remember myself – some argument with your father. I did try to stab him. I remember that." She pouted. "I missed."

"You did?" Neil said with interest. "Why? Tell me why. Let's talk of the past – it frightens me to think of the future."

She shrugged. "I can't really remember. I suppose he tried to discipline me – and I did hate being scolded. So I stabbed him – and I was so scared I fled the house."

It was not the entire truth. It was not even part of it. Neil looked disappointed and she wondered if he knew she was lying. But there were some things she could not explain to him – to anybody, except herself, in the very darkest hours of those awful nights she was alone. Richard, she was sure, knew about it. Perhaps his father had told him. But Neil? Neil was a different breed of man. He believed in honour too deeply to ever understand compromise – compromise of heart, compromise of soul, compromise of body. And Neil, dear, stupid fool, would sacrifice heart, and body, and soul without a backward glance, if he thought his honour was at stake.

"I think I remember—a little blood on his cheek. It wasn't much. You needn't have run."

"I thought I might have killed him. And once I got away, I realized I probably hadn't, and that seemed ever so much worse, so I didn't come back."

"But you don't remember what you argued about?"  

Jane shrugged. "I always was a passionate little hell-cat – and your father's got a beastly temper, though he never hit me." No. Lord Albroke hadn't need to hit her. Not when he could stroke and kiss and pet her, and leave her begging for more. What a precocious little fool she had been. And how experienced and old and wise she had felt. Older and wiser, too, in the knowledge that both his sons had been half-way in love with her. She had felt so knowing, privately gloating over her secret liaisons with their father, while they clumsily tried to flirt. She'd always enjoyed believing she had power over men, taking it from them. But at eighteen she had been too young, or too stupid, to recognize when a man had power over her. Until at last the day had come when Lord Albroke had grown embarrassed by her infantile passion, and told her father that he was sending her away – a school, in the country, for a year or two, and then a sum of money. Her father, knowledgeable of the affair, and cognizant of how it might forward her prospects, agreed. There she was. To be disposed of. That was what had hurt the most in the end. Not her breaking heart, but her trampled pride. She had been his possession, not his lover.

"Are you alright?" asked Neil.

"It's just the way you look," she said softly, forcing her lip muscles to relax. "It's quite a shock."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, with his stodgy honour on full display. "Dying is ugly."

"It's living that ugly." She laughed. "We bleed and ooze and seep and sweat and cry and hate and fear and fight – living is ugly. But it's interesting. Death is boring, Neil. Don't do it."

He smiled. "But we must."

"Not when we are twenty-nine," she said firmly. "You're supposed to be a saint to die young – and you're no saint." She thought a moment. "I suppose I'll live to a hundred. It'll be very dull if there aren't interesting men around for most of it. So you must stay."

"I can't say I'm very interesting today," Neil protested. "You were always more interesting than I was. You make things interesting. What have you been up to?"

"Most of London's finest seasonal residents," Jane teased. "That reminds me - have you heard about Lady Fortescue's hat?" And then the past was gone, and there was nothing but gossip for an hour. Stupid, paltry, heartless gossip. Her tongue grew sharp, but never angry. She made him laugh, twice, and rejoiced in seeing the pinch of colour it brought to his cheeks.

The nurse came in, some hour later, and told them it was time for Jane to go, and Neil to receive his laudanum. Jane laughed as she left, and dared enough to kiss Neil's forehead in parting. The nurse cleared her throat, and Neil pushed her away with a frail, but firm hand.

"No flirting," he said. "Not with me."

"It's a sore trial, as you are so very handsome right now." But Jane restrained herself, and left, her heart humming with a strange and pleasant relief. Neil did not hate her. He had forgotten he had ever hated her.

In the hall downstairs, she ran into Lord Albroke. She looked him up and down, noting with embarrassment his thinning hair, his growing fatness, and his general unattractiveness. Oh, more than ten years had passed – but still! That she had ever believe she loved him! And that he had ever scorned her!

A touch of her old wickedness returned. She gave him a curtsy, with the faintest hint of a simper to it.

It was enough of a simper that he stopped in his tracks.

"We did not end well."

"No, My Lord, we did not." She looked contrite. When he laid a questioning hand on her arm, she did not revolt.

"This is a trying time for my family." He hesitated. There was guile in the hesitation, and she, a practised liar, saw it all too clearly and hid the amusement it gave her. "I should like to know that I can count upon an old friend."

"We can always count upon old friends." She stepped closer, until her face was bare inches from his. "Except for the unfortunates, who have only held slaves, and been masters. You can never count on an old slave." She put her hand to his face, where she had once stabbed him. "You have never in your life, My Lord, had more than a slave."

She trailed her hand down his face, down his collar, down his coat, to rest just above his heart.

"I should have stabbed you here," she said ruefully, and turned and walked away.

~~

A/N: I had to rewrite a lot of this chapter to get it right. Originally, Jane did tell Neil she was his father's mistress, and then I just thought even Jane would have more sense than that. But does anybody hate Jane a little less now? She at least is the only character who's come close to killing Neil's father. That's gotta count for something.

# Chapter Forty-Three: Enough Carnage

Verity, warned of Jane's visit, had been waiting on the windowsill of Richard's bedroom, which looked out over the front entrance. As soon as she saw Jane and Richard making their way down the front steps, she left the window-seat, and hustled down the hallway to Neil's room to see if Jane's visit had imbibed him with any real spirit.

"They're going to give me laudanum," he said, when she entered. "You shouldn't sit up. It will tire you."

A week ago, Lord Albroke had hired an accoucheur who had had examined Verity – despite her protest and indignity – and commended her health. He prescribed, to her disgust, a regimen of diet hardly more appealing than Neil's, and daily cold baths. Neither diet nor bathing seemed to have any real effect upon Verity or the baby, but she did not wish to incur Lord Albroke's wrath by protesting them. She had to save her protests for more important battles. The accoucheur's third prescription had been his insistence that she not tire herself, and on learning that her activities included helping to nurse Neil, he had been horrified.

"No more than a few hours a day," he had insisted. "Certainly she cannot stay up the night with him!"

That Verity did not feel tired seemed not to matter. The servants, the accoucheur, the midwives, and Lord Albroke were most solicitous of her comfort – in that one regard. She must not tire herself. Even Neil had become concerned by it.

A flush of anger burned through her. Then Jane's visit had tired Neil, and they were going to make him relax, by flushing his spirit with the deadening laudanum, and by the time 
he 
was well enough to talk to, 
she 
would be pushed back to bed like a grumpy child. And she could see by the sagging slope of his shoulders that he 
was 
tired, but that was all – good, honest, tiredness, the kind any ordinary person might be allowed to sleep off. But no – they would dose him with laudanum, and if Jane's visit had done any good for his spirit at all, the memory of it would be bleached out of him by sleepless dreams and drugs, until tomorrow morning he would only look quietly pleased and say, "It was quite nice, I am sure, it must have been quite nice, to see Jane again," and she would have to listen and smile and nod and say of course it must have been, to see such an old friend, because she dared not excite him, dared not breathe a whisper of her loathing and fear of the other woman.

She caught Neil's hand in a silent plea of desperation – desperate enough that for a moment his tiredness became confusion. His palm was cool and dry in hers. No fever today. "Get up," she demanded. "Come with me."

He was unresistant, perhaps even eager. She helped pull him out of bed, and kept her hold on his hand as they stole out of the suite and down the hallway. At one point, she heard footsteps, and she crammed them both behind the curtain of a window nook. Neil was pressed up against her side, one hand against the wall behind her neck, for balance. The proximity sent an unexpected ripple of warm anticipation through her body. His eyes, barely inches from her own, brightened with laughter, and his lips twitched. With her hands trapped behind him, she pressed her lips to his to stifle his laugh. The footsteps – a woman's – reached the nook, and a chambermaid gasped, and tapped quickly onwards. When her footsteps disappeared behind a creaking door, Verity released her hold on Neil's twitching lips.

"Did she see us?" whispered Neil.

"Only the lump we make behind the curtain. I think she thought we were servants."

"Then we're safe."

He was still pressed against her, looking close upon her. She thought he was even trying to close the distance, but it was hard to tell, because she was dizzy with the hope that he was.

In the distance, below, a door opened and shut. Verity remembered the nurse would be returning with the laudanum.

"We won't be safe here – for long," she said, untangling herself from behind the curtain, and looking out into the hallway. "Quickly now."

She had figured out where they were going now. At the end of the hall was a French window that opened out onto a small roof-top terrace, overlooking the west gardens. Neil's feet were slow and unsteady on the carpet – and unslippered and pale. She held his hand in hers, and half-pulled him along, sure that the nurse or a servant would return any second. But they made it, and she pushed him through, and shut the door safely behind them.

He gasped, and sank to his knees on the flagstones.

"It 
is
 summer."

"Yes." She lowered herself more carefully beside him. The stones were hot from the afternoon sun. Busy black ants were running back and forth across them, looking for a last meal before the day ended. One ran over Neil's finger, and he held it aloft, watching it scurry, confused, about his finger.

"It doesn't feel like summer in my room."

He pushed the ant gently back onto the stones, and raised his face, eyes closed, to the sinking sun over the horizon. There were shadows in every crevice of his face – his temples, his cheeks, his eyes, his chin. The light made the new lines on his face deeper, particularly around the eyes. The scar on his temple flared vividly pink.

And he was smiling.

Verity's anger dissolved, and she was weeping into her knees. She felt Neil's tentative hand at her shoulder.

"Miss Baker, are you hurt?"

"I love you, and you're dying," she sobbed. "Neil, I love you, and I need you to live."  

His hand tightened on her shoulder. She pushed herself blindly towards him, clinging to the collar of his night shirt, and pressed her wet eyes against his breast.

"I am not the man you loved," Neil protested quietly. "He died that night in the storm. I'm just the shell he left behind."

"You're lying! You lost your memories – but your character, your heart – they have not changed." She raised her face to his, blinking away the tears. "I need you."

She kissed him. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, reaching for something that could not be touched. At the back of her mind she thought, this might be the last time I ever kiss him, and she did not pull away after one moment, or even two, or three.

And he, perhaps seduced, perhaps sympathetic, perhaps understanding, put frail arms around her, and pulled her closer.

*	*	* 

On the other side of the house, down below, Jane was slowly pacing the lawn with Richard by her side while the servants readied the coach to return her home.

"I don't know if I did him much good after all," she said, "But I'd like to come back if he wants me."

"He probably will. We'll see how he is over the next few days in any case. How did you find him?"

"Poorly." She shuddered. "Very poorly. It wasn't as bad when my husband was dying – he was fat, I suppose he had that going for him. You couldn't see his skeleton through his skin."

"He has gained a little weight. He was much thinner before."

"Then do you think he will recover?"  

Richard shrugged. "He needs to be kept in a good humour. Half the problem is that even when he is sane, he doesn't care – to eat, to live, to hope."

"Well," Jane said bravely, "I shall flirt him back to health. Men always enjoy that – from me."

"You shall not. Talk with him – of only cheerful things. Of happy memories. Tell him fairy tales, if you must."

"I'm out of fairy tales. I don't believe in happy endings anymore. Perhaps I never did. Or perhaps my trouble is that I know I'm an evil stepsister and don't want to believe I'll get my eyes pecked out by doves while some hated Cinderella marries 
my 
prince." She took his arm lightly in her gloved hand. "Rich, what did happen to his Cinderella? Does she know?"

"She knows."

"And she has not come for him?"

"She has." He paused. "She did."

"And you threw her out." Jane laughed away the faint prick of guilt. "If I hadn't come to your house that day... Perhaps I'm the evil fairy god mother instead. The poor girl. I liked her, after a while, but I hated her too. And she loathed me, but was far too well mannered to let it be noticed."

Richard was silent beside her. Jane narrowed her eyes.  

"What did your father do to her?" she demanded. "He did something. I can tell."

"He –" Richard clicked his tongue against his teeth. "She is living here."

"Here!? But why-" Jane broke off as she realized the only answer to her unfinished question. "No." A belated horror flooded her veins. She remembered Neil's white-faced confession the night she had last seen him: 
morally, I cannot abandon her
. Now she believed she had divined its cause. "She had a baby."

"Not quite yet," Richard said quietly. "It cannot be very long now."

"Oh." Jane broke away from him and plucked savagely at a leaf from a hydrangea. "
Oh!
" She dropped the torn leaf on the ground and began on another. "Poor Neil. Does he know?"  

"When he is sane, he understands that the baby is his." Richard placed his hand on her wrists, and pulled her gently away from the flower bush. "That's enough carnage, Jane."

She looked in dismay at the green stains on her gloves. "Oh dear. It is." She wiped at them delicately. "I didn't imagine, until now – my sordid mind couldn't bear to imagine, I suppose, that they might have a child together. I really don't think she's 
good 
for him."

"No." Richard gave her a long, calculating look that she did not like. "You don't think she's good 
enough 
for him. There's quite a difference there." With his stick, he prodded the leaf on the grass. "Enough carnage, Jane. If you try to influence Neil or anybody else against the girl, if you try to leverage your knowledge of her position against her, I will be the one to forbid you from Neil's life – whatever remains of it. We've done enough damage to her already."

The carriage was finally rolling into the driveway. Jane looked wide-eyed at Richard.  

"You think she's good enough. You!?"

"She's the mother of my nephew or niece. She must be good enough."

It did not occur to Jane that Richard might be lying, or why. Her sordid mind could not bear to imagine such a noble truth.

*	*	*

Neil held the crying woman in his arms, and when she finally broke away and buried her face once more in his chest, he closed his grip tighter around her, squeezing her shoulders gently and resting his cheek on top of her head. She was mostly in his lap by now, and his legs ached with the weight, but he felt unable to push her away. Most clearly, she needed him, and he had always been easily moved by fragility.

He dropped one hand to her belly. His baby. It moved under his touch, a rollicking, rolling move. An elbow, perhaps, or a fist. Of course she needed him. She was the mother of his child. His child, who would very soon be born, for she was so very round with the carrying of it by now that it surely could not be much longer. Again, the baby moved beneath his touch, turning over, finding a comfortable place to rest, or perhaps just exercising its tiny limbs. He was both terrified and amazed by the movement.

Fa la ninna, Fa la nanna...

"Ssh," he whispered. The woman, thinking he was talking to her, quietened her sobs. The voice in his head, for once compliant, grew quiet.

"You do not need me," he said quietly. "You are stronger than me."

"I need you." Her voice was dull with tears. "It wouldn't be so bad, if I thought you were fighting, but half the time, you seem to want to die."

Fa la ninna....

"Because I am dying, and it is painful. It hurts. Every day."

"Living is what hurts. Dying is easy. Sleep your way to death. That's what they want." She looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen with tears. "When Giulia was dying, wouldn't you have begged her to fight – for even a few more breaths? I can't imagine you didn't."

He breathed in sharply, his gut twisting at her words. 

"You told me once," she said sadly. "It was fever – you and – she. Both got it. But she died and you did not. You said you almost wished you had too. But you didn't tell me what those last days were like. If it's anything like me, you disbelieved it at first. You couldn't believe she was dying. And then, when you did, you would have done anything - anything – to keep her alive. And as she began to stop caring, you would have been angry – that she didn't."

He was breathing heavily. The voice in his head was singing louder than ever, but it could not drown out her words. He wanted to push her away, but lacked the strength.

For a moment, the woman in his arms was not Verity, but a beautiful Florentine, with hair like burnt gold, and eyes of the deepest, brightest brown – dulling – dulled...

"Don't," he whispered, "
Non 

parlare cos

ì
..."

And then they were green eyes once more, looking at him in the greatest confusion, and he felt some deep, gnawing pain in his chest, that he thought was his heart breaking. Though there was nothing to break it, on the sunny terrace. Nothing but the shadow of a memory, already slipping away.

The door slammed open behind them and they both jumped. Immediately, Verity was scrambling away from him, releasing her heavy weight from his legs. It was only a footman though, and he was leaning back into the house to shout,

"They're here!"

"They found us," Verity said numbly, sitting back, and pulling her skirts down around her ankles. Neil had the twitching impulse to pull them back up, and did not know where it came from. It was incongruous with his broken heart, but it was most definitely there. And for being there, his heart pained him just a little less, and he found himself cursing the footman for having found them so soon.

The nurse stepped jerkily out onto the terrace red-faced with temper. "That little woman! She mustn't!"

"Don't yell." Neil put his palms against the warm, rough stone, and tested his strength. "It's not her fault. I wanted to sit in the sun. She followed me to make sure I would come to no harm." He knew the nurse did not believe him, but did not care. "It's my fault," he ordered. "She followed me."

Slowly, he clambered to his feet, leaning heavily on the terrace balustrade and ignoring the hand of the footman, who was left with no other option but to offer it instead to Verity, who was still sitting, tear-stained, on the flagstones.

"She cannot be allowed with you tonight, Sir," the nurse said stubbornly, and then, looking properly at Verity for the first time, "Lord! But
 she
 is ill now! To bed!!"

It was Verity who was put to bed first, out of concern for the baby. Only afterwards was Neil tucked up with a cup of laudanum and chamomile.

"It shall strain you greatly," the nurse fretted. "You should not be in the sun! Rest!"

She pressed the cup of steaming chamomile and laudanum into his hands. Neil stared at it numbly.

"Drink up! It will make you sleep!" she said encouragingly. She left the room to fetch her knitting. Neil stared at the cup.  

Sleep.  

They would have him sleep until one day he entered sleep eternal.

With a scowl of disgust, he slipped out of bed on trembling knees and tossed the mixture out the window.  

~~

A/N: This chapter took a lot of editing, and gained an extra 1000 words - but it became one of my favourites in the process. Neil finally gets  a grip. Richard faces off with Jane - and Jane is fooled twice by her own jealousy of Verity.

BTW: an accoucheur is like a regency era gynacologist.

# Chapter Forty-Four: Good Luck

Neil's health continued to improve throughout May and into June. The physician at first doubtfully blamed a stomach tumour for his continuing weight gain, and then, when it became undeniable that he was getting better, began to claim that his prescriptions had made the difference. The nurse boasted that her milk and sherry possets were the cause. Mrs Roper suggested it was barley soup and boiled eggs and toast. Verity didn't know why, but was blindly grateful that he continued to gain weight and strength, even if his still fragile mind worried her. Jane jokingly suggested to Richard that it was flirting that had done the job, and Richard almost forbade her from returning: himself, he thought the change was due to the clement weather, and argued with his father until Neil was allowed to spend his mornings on the terrace in the sun. Only Neil knew the truth, and dared speak of it to no one: a second voice had joined the incessant lullaby in his head, only this one he knew to be memory: I need you, I need you, I need you. The more the lullaby lured him towards sleep, the more the other voice begged him to stay awake and live. The other voice had started out softly persistent, but grew louder every day. It would ring in his ears until he found himself tossing his laudanum out the window, or in the chamber vase, or into the dirt of the potted orchid he had cunningly asked of Richard. It would plead with him to "Get up, get up," until he found himself shuffling about his room, his disused muscles aching with a gentle, persistent hum.

Despite his physical strength, his memory remained as tattered as ever. Sometimes he spent whole days believing Giulia was still alive and waiting for him; knowing, simultaneously, that Verity was carrying his child, he hated himself. Sometimes he remembered she was his wife, and that Giulia was dead, and tried to look upon Verity with fondness, because he understood why she needed him. At other times, when she would lay her hand on his, the touch would frighten him, and he knew not why. It was easier when, in June, she was ordered on bed-rest. He visited her several times, at Richard's insistence, finding the reversal of their roles strange. Her cheeks were pale and puffy, and her belly, under the blankets, was a mountain. The baby would be coming very soon, and the thought filled him with silent dread. Whenever Jane came to visit, he would creep away to the terrace with her, and beg her to tell him stories of her adventures in society, to take his mind away from the baby.

That was where they were now. Neil was leaning back on his chair with his eyes shut. Jane was watching him from her perch on the balustrade, taking advantage of his closed eyes to make a full and libertine account of his figure, stretched out from toe to chin. She enjoyed the muscles of his neck, still too thin, but attractive in line and form, exposed beneath the open-collared muslin shirt that disappeared beneath the collar of his yellow silk banyan. It was the nurse's directive that he not wear a cravat or starch his collar. Jane approved greatly.

"I have summer," he said blissfully. "I have attained summer."

"It's achievement for any Briton, not just a winter sick invalid."

"Tell me a story," he demanded, his eyes still shut against her blatant lechery. She wondered if it would disturb him if he knew. He always had been a prude.

"What kind of story?"

"One of your awful, improper London stories." Then, without waiting for the story, he added, "You know, I think I shall be returning to Italy soon. I am much better. Don't you think I am much better now?"

"You are a little better," she said cautiously, not wishing to encourage him. "I could come too."

"You? It is... Everybody would talk. They always talk about you anyway, don't they? Even I have heard gossip, away in my mercury tower."

"Pray, do not tell," Jane drawled. "I despise gossip. And I do not care what they shall say. I want to go to Italy too. It's unfair that men get all the fun. Take me."

"Giulia would be very offended." Neil paused. "Miss Baker as well."

Then today was one of the days when he believed that Giulia was alive and Miss Baker his pregnant mistress. Jane watched him carefully, her jaw set. She didn't like his theory. It made him feel guilty for betraying Giulia. Poor, dead Giulia. And she was irritated that he was worrying about offending Miss Baker at all. Miss Baker, who had trapped him into marriage, and then fatherhood. Miss Baker, who was so young and pretty and vulnerable.

"You weren't worried about offending Miss Baker when you left her pregnant and went to France alone," Jane said jealously. "Why worry about offending her by travelling with an old friend?"

"Well I do worry – I certainly do." Neil opened his eyes and looked discomforted, and Jane felt a spasm of guilt. It was petty to take her frustrations out on him, when he was so ill and confused. "But you mustn't accuse me of such callousness – I had no idea she was pregnant when I left."

"Is that what she told you? Are you sure she can be trusted?" For what other reason would Neil have refused to accept the freedom annulment had offered him?
 
"You knew, even if you have forgotten knowing."

"I wish you wouldn't say such things." Neil shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't want to talk about this, but I suppose I must defend myself. You are wrong. I could not possibly have known. I might be capable of begetting a child out of wedlock – it seems certain that I am – but do you really imagine I would abandon the woman, leave her alone, without first accounting for her future and security? For the future and security of my child? Jane, I surely could not."

"But-" She fell silent. His argument made too much sense. Stupid, honourable, fool. If he had known Verity was pregnant, he would never have left her, not even if he planned to return and marry her in three months. He would have stayed by her side, and imagined himself to be her knight in rusted armour, never seeing the crown she wore was false. He would never have set foot upon that ill-fated ship, unless she was by his side. Jane felt a stab of loathing for Verity – if only she had 
told 
him – she 
must
 have known.

"You're playing tricks with me, Jane. You know I'm ill, and you're playing tricks. You mustn't suggest such things."  

He never did answer my question that night, she realized. He never said he did or didn't love her. I wouldn't let him answer.

Neil was pacing back and forth on the terrace now, his voice high and desperate. "It isn't true. Giulia – and Miss Baker – I may be a foul man...I am not so foul as that. I might have deceived my wife, I might have seduced Miss Baker, but I would never abandon my child."

"You never deceived Giulia," Jane said brokenly. "You could never betray anyone you loved, you fool. She's dead. She died two and half years ago. Miss Baker was your
 wife
. I knew her as Mrs Armiger."

*	*	*

Confined to her bed, to her dark, dank little room, with the blankets pulled up over the mound of her belly, despite the sweltering warmth of the days, Verity grew irritable and angry. Part of it was the baby, which made her back ache and cramp until she could barely breathe. Part of it was worry. Neil had come to visit her three times, and three times only. She did not like how he looked – not ill, exactly, but scared, somehow, distant. He wouldn't talk to her properly. She was sure there was something wrong.

Cautiously, she slid her legs out of bed, and made her way to the window. About noon. Too late for breakfast, and too early for dinner. She felt well. Surely it was not necessary to stay in bed all day and all night until the baby came. She kept her hands gently supporting her belly as she walked. It felt better to walk anyway. Subtle, squeezing spasms had been arcing down her back all day. Walking eased them.

Five days since she had last seen Neil. She glanced anxiously at the door. Had he been ill, and no one told her? A sudden burst of anxious conviction descended on her, and with it another spasm. Ignoring the fact that she wore only a billowing, crumpled nightdress, she moved to the door, in the awkward, swaying gait her condition imposed upon her. There was no one in the hallway outside. She was half-way down it when Richard's bedroom door opened, and he stepped out, almost running into her. He stopped still, looking her up and down, and then looked away, cheeks scarlet.

"Are you ill?"

"No!" she hissed. "I must see Neil. That is all."

"Good god -" He looked at her again for a moment, and then hastily away. "No. Back to your room."

"But-"

"Miss Baker! You are not dressed!" His cheeks still scarlet, his eyes still fixed away from her, Richard put a hand delicately to her shoulder and pushed her in the direction of her room. Thinking that she could persuade Richard, but not the nurse or anybody else who might come if they argued in the corridor, Verity pendulated back down the hallway with him.

"I must see Neil though," she said, firmly.

"You must get dressed," Richard said, equally firmly.

"But I haven't seen him in days – is he ill?"

"Quite well – for himself." Richard opened her door and directed her through. "A dressing gown, please."

"But it's too hot for that!" Verity put her hands to her back and squeezed hard at the muscles above her hips. The spasms in her back seemed to echo deep inside her, in a place she could not reach.

"At least cover your – yourself."

Reluctantly, Verity pulled a light shawl over her shoulders and arranged so it covered the front of the nightdress. It was a mother's nightdress, the collar of which came open when she undid the ribbon that tied it, but it was of quite sturdy material, and did not, she thought, warrant Richard's prudery.

"If I can't see him, why can't he come and see me?" she demanded. "Please bring him to me, Lord Landon."

Richard was silent.

"Please."

"I asked him this morning. Today, he believes Giulia is alive. He does not want to come. He is ashamed of himself."

"No – he shouldn't be..." She bit her lip. "Is he worse? Better?"

"He is eating well. Sleeping well. His mind – is as it was." Richard hesitated. "Perhaps, we should be grateful that he has never forgotten, at least, that the child is his. His shame won't let him forget that."

"But he shouldn't 
be 
ashamed." She circled the room, rubbing one hand at her back and using the other to keep the shawl over her shoulders. Another cramp was building, deeper this time. "I wish – I wish he could understand."

"Miss Baker, won't you go back to bed?"

"No!" She stamped her feet childishly as she walked. It seemed to ease the cramp. "Does Jane entertain him?" she added bitterly.

"She is good for him. She makes him laugh." Richard was watching her. "She's with him now," he added, miserably.

"I hate that woman." Verity stopped by the window, clenching her bare toes as the cramp peaked, and then slowly released. "I hate that she makes him laugh."

"She's not going to seduce him," Richard said, some of his old acid creeping into his tone.

"She already did! Oh – I didn't..." She wheeled to him. "I don't mean – I was..."  

But Richard had understood. The expression in his eyes was curiously blank, but a muscle in his jaw was twitching.

"Don't tell him. He doesn't remember," she begged. "The last night I saw him – it was only a kiss. It was really only a kiss. But..."

"But it was Jane. I shall tell her not to return."

Verity shrugged helplessly and shook her head. "She makes him laugh." She rubbed her back, wincing. 

"You should go back to bed." Richard touched her arm. "I'll go to him now, and bring him here, and send Jane away."

She shook him off. "Don't bother." She walked, foolishly, to the other end of the room. "I don't need you to rescue me from Neil's antipathy. You can't." She paced up and down in the corner by her bed, kicking at one of its legs every time she passed. "Stop trying."

"For god's sake, stop moving around so much!"

"I can't!" she snapped. "It hurts to sit still." She felt another cramp beginning, not just in her back, but deep within her belly, a pressure rising in her core. "Richard." She put both hands to her belly, and the shawl fell off her shoulders. The pressure rose higher, until she could hardly breathe. "Richard."

"Oh god." The blood drained from his face as the pressure within her deflated.

"I think I should keep walking..." she weaved between the beds. "Mrs Roper said it might help. And... we have a little time yet." She thought of the strange cramps she had been experiencing all day. "Probably."

"I'll go tell – everybody." He took his stick from beside her bed. "It's – this is it?"

"I think so." She breathed out slowly. "I feel quite well."

Richard was half way to the door when he turned back suddenly, and limped over to her. He looped his stick over his wrist, took one of her hands between both of his, and pressed gently.

"Good luck."

*	*	*

Mrs Armiger.

Baker always had sounded wrong.

'
My name is Verity Baker. I shall be at your house at dusk.'

His legs buckled suddenly beneath him. Jane caught his arms, and steadied him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Tell me everything," he demanded. He could see Verity, as she had been, with the sun setting behind her, and that fierce, cold challenge in her eyes. He had wanted her then. He had wanted her when he had first seen her. He had tried -

'
Would you send your beloved daughter to me for a night?'

He had tried to buy her.

She had sold herself to him – hadn't she?

No wonder she made him feel guilty.

"Tell me everything, Jane."

"The baby she carries was conceived in wedlock – you needn't blame yourself for that. But she was underage, and your father managed to get the marriage annulled."

"Annulled."

Another memory came to him. The consistory court, full of men in black suits, with rumbling voices, and flint-like eyes. She had not been there. They would not allow women in. What had it been like, telling her afterwards? He was glad he had forgotten that.

"Then why do I feel guilty?" His head ached. A dirty glass of brandy. Shaking, pale hands. A rooftop, at night, and a woman's warmth in his arms. "What did I do to her?"

Jane was silent. In the desperate beats and pulses of his confusion, the old song began again.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna...

I'm tired. I don't want to talk. It cannot be urgent.

His heart ached, and his legs swayed under him. He sunk helplessly against Jane, burying his head in the puffed white shoulders of her dress, and clutching at her like a child. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"You were always very good to her," she said softly. But he could remember her flashing, angry eyes. "Don't cry, Neil. Don't cry."

Neil heard the door to the terrace burst open, and felt Jane jump. He raised his head blearily. Richard stood in the doorway. His eyes widened with shock, and then narrowed with fury. Jane's arms tightened around Neil for a moment, and then she slowly pushed him away. His knees were shaking. He sank down upon the balustrade.

"Miss Baker has reached her time," Richard announced.

When they did not move, he added, more cuttingly,  

"Neil, your 
wife 
is giving birth to your 
child
."

~~

A/N: ...I got nuffin. Next chapter up within 2-3 days.

# Chapter Forty-Five: Guilt, not Love

"His wife? But-"

"Go home, Jane," snarled Richard. "Get out." Jane stared at him for a moment, looked once at Neil, with wide, horrified eyes, and then fled down the hallway.

Neil sat on the balustrade and stared up at Richard. His brother limped over and shook his shoulder – not gently.

"Your wife is giving birth to your child. Get up. She is going to need you."

His knees still shaking, Neil managed to stand. "My child." A horrible, impossible fear came to him. "Is it mine?"

Richard lifted one corner of his lips contemptuously. "You'll have better cause to ask that if Jane has a child. Yours isn't the only horse in that race."

"I wasn't- I don't-"

"Did she seduce you? On this balcony? In your dressing gown? Did you fall for it!?"

"No!" Neil pushed Richard away from him, the familiar shame settling over him. Shame, and echoes of shame.

I saw you kiss Jane last night.

"No! I didn't!" He twisted, looking for the voice that spoke so hollowly in his ear. But she wasn't there. Of course she wasn't there. She was inside, giving birth to a baby. "But how do I know?" he demanded. "I can't remember. I can't remember a damn thing and everyone says it's my child. How can I 
know
?"

"Because we know! We know, Neil." He lowered his voice and softened his tone. "Come inside. I will have some tea made up for you."

Numbly, Neil followed him inside. He felt as though he was watching himself move down the hall, rather than moving himself. When he was pushed down onto the sofa in his sitting room, he put his head in his hands.

Some time later, someone did come with tea, and Richard sat by him, and they drank. Neil noticed that Richard's cup trembled in his hands. When the servants were gone, Neil said quietly,

"Jane told me the truth. I was married to the girl. That was when she got pregnant. And then the marriage was annulled. It's a relief – in a way. I wasn't dishonourable to her."

Richard rested his cup on his bad knee. "Should I have told you before? I thought it would only shock you. You didn't remember her. There's a lot you don't remember."

"I remembered something." Neil sipped tea. Real tea. Either they had forgotten his cambric diet, or he was no longer such an invalid. It gave him strength. Made him feel like he was in his body, and not just watching himself from afar.

Richard was looking carefully at him. "What did you remember?"

"Nothing good. Something dishonourable."

"It might not be true."

"It is." Neil finished his tea, and put the cup on the side table, and plunged, full-length, on his belly into the couch. He was tired. His cheeks burned. "Do you know how we met?"

Richard was silent for a long time. He must have known, Neil realized. All along, he must have known.

"Do you know?" Neil repeated ominously.

"Jane said something – I don't believe it was entirely true. Miss Baker's father was in debt to you, and persuaded you to accept – her – in payment."

"I made the offer." Neil buried his face in a cushion. "I made the offer myself, Rich. And she accepted."

"I don't believe it. You might have offered – if you were in a black mood – but she would never have accepted. Never."

"She did. And then I married her after. I suppose I had an attack of conscience. I feel guilty still – I always felt guilty about her. This is why, I suppose."

"It cannot be true. She loves you. She would never have loved you if she felt misused."

Neil closed his eyes and breathed into the comforting, velvety mustiness of the cushion. His heart hurt.

Gently, Richard said, "She's the mother of your child, Neil. She's your wife."

The cushion was growing damp and hot beneath him. He was crying.

"It cannot be as you remember," Richard persisted. And then, giving up, "Even if it is – does that matter? Does it really change the fact that she loves you now, and that once upon a time, the time that you forgot, you loved her?"

Did he? It was nice to imagine that he had. It would have been honourable, to have loved her. But he was not an honourable man. He had loved Giulia. He had kissed Jane. He had bought Verity, married her, and got her with child. For her, he felt only guilt, not love. How could you forget what it was to love someone?

Fa la ninna, Fa la nanna

Nalla braccia, della mamma

The door opened, and Neil dared raise his head. It was his father.

"Good god." Lord Albroke rolled his eyes. "It's only a by-blow, boy." He straddled the doorway and considered Neil. "You are looking better. You won't die, so one day you will marry. A real lady. And have a real child. This one shall not matter."

Neil buried his head back in the cushion, and put his hands over his ears.

Fa la ninna...

Several hours later, after the servants had brought them a light dinner that he could not eat, they were in much the same positions. Richard sat nervously in an arm chair, occasionally trying to read. Lord Albroke was in another, quite definitely reading, and Neil lay on his sofa, face in the still-damp cushion, mind racing.

He was trying to remember.

It was a fool's errand, but he was trying it anyway.

He was trying to place Verity's face, somewhere, anywhere in his past, before the storm, and after the phrase, "Would you send your beloved daughter to me for a night?" He wanted to know how he had felt about her. He had to know. In his ears, the song sounded louder. And he still could not see her face.

Somebody went running down the corridor. The door burst open. He looked up, heart pounding.

Mrs Roper, wiping her hands with a towel, stood in the doorway. She was flushed. There was blood on her apron, and blood on her towel, and blood on her hands. No man could ask the question. They could only look at her while she gathered her panting breath.

"A girl," she managed, at last, and sagged against the door frame. "A strong, strong little girl."

The room spun dizzily around Neil. A girl.

"How is Miss Baker?" Richard asked urgently.

"Exhausted. Recovering." Neil heard the words in the distance, and stared numbly at the bloody towel that Mrs Roper still held. It was an awful lot of blood. And on her apron too. And her hands.

"A girl," Lord Albroke pondered. "No matter. Perhaps it is better this way. Neil is recovering his body. He may be able to marry again, in time. A bastard son would be a nuisance for a wife to deal with."

"I can't," Neil said numbly, getting up off the couch, and lumbering to his feet. He was not sure if the room was swaying, or if he was. "I can't."

"You must," Lord Albroke said. "The fate of our title-"

"I already married." Neil staggered. He needed a glass of water. The lullaby in his head was so loud he could barely hear his father speaking, but he could hear beneath it, too, 
I need you,
 and he could not seem to look away from the bloody towel in Mrs Roper's hands.

"She is dead. You will marry again – Lady Brockett is-"

"I already married," Neil said stubbornly, spying the tea tray, and clumsily pouring cold, overbrewed tea into a dirty cup. "I married Miss Baker."

"You did not."

"I did." Neil drank tepid, bitter tea. The shock of the bitterness, and the weight of the liquid in his stomach recovered him. He forced himself to swallow, and dropped the cup back on the tray.

He had a daughter. He had a wife. He was a father. A husband. That was how the matter stood. Guilt and love were mere shadows beneath it.

He turned to his father.  

"I married her that day I went to the convent – she was pregnant. I had to. I married her by special licence and signed a letter to my lawyer affirming my sanity. Richard made me do that bit. I understand why, now. You annulled the first one. What a bother."

He did not pay particular note to the reddening of Lord Albroke's face, but Richard slipped up off the couch and Mrs Roper came warily into the room.

"I'm married," Neil observed placidly. He was a little fear drunk. If anyone had checked him the past few hours, they might have noticed another of his fevers coming on. But the birth had driven it out of their minds. "Bit of a pity. What can you do?"

Lord Albroke turned to Richard, who backed away. Neil was not looking at them. He was wondering when he would have to visit his wife and their baby. He did not wish to see either of them still covered in blood.

"You did this. You made him do it."

"So I did. We should have-" At the sound of flesh against flesh, and Mrs Roper's scream, Neil turned around. Richard was on the floor, clutching his face. His father stood over him.

"You Judas. You Fool. You Traitor."

His father's foot moved back to kick Richard. Neil lurched forward to grab his arms. "Stop! Father!"

Without looking, Lord Albroke elbowed him away. He was still dizzy, and still weak. He stumbled backwards, tripped on the edge of the hearthrug, and fell. He did not feel any pain as his head hit the mantelpiece, but he heard his skull crunch at the contact.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
 Nella braccia della mamma
 Fa la ninna bel bambin,
 Fa la nanna bambin bel,
 Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
 Nella braccia della mamma. 
 

Of course, he thought dimly, Giulia used to sing it – to our baby son. She was singing it to him when he died. She tried to keep him calm, to keep him from crying too much. We knew he was dying.

She sung to him, until he died.

He saw her, with her arms around the dying toddler, tears down her cheeks. She was sick too, then. And eventually she had stopped singing, and placed the toddle gently down in his crib, and kissed his forehead, and turned away. There was no need to talk. They had fallen into each other's arms, and then sunk to the floor together, hot, fever-stricken cheek against hot, fever-stricken cheek.

"He's sleeping now," Neil had said eventually. "He's sleeping peacefully." Or perhaps she was the one who had said it. He could not remember.

Three days later, Giulia had joined his son. Looking down at her body, eyes closed, cheeks gaunt with illness, he had been unable to whisper any platitudes to himself. She was not sleeping. Sleepers woke. She was dead, and he was alone.

~~

A/N: Whew. What a cliffy.

# Chapter Forty-Six: The Sleeper Wakes

A/N: I went through and edited the entire story a few days ago, fixing some plot inconsistencies. Two important ones:

Lord Armiger, Neil's father, is now given a more realistic title, XXX Armiger, Lord Albroke, and referred to as Lord Albroke.

Richard now has the title Richard Armiger, Lord Landon, but he'll be called Richard from now on anyway.

Neil was a youngest son and youngest sons, thankfully, don't get titles, so his name is unchanged.

~~~~~

 	 	"Wake up – Wake up, Neil. He's bleeding so much."

"Head wounds always bleed. He's waking. Here."

Neil opened his eyes. Mrs Roper was kneeling over him. Richard was standing behind her,  cheek red and swollen, hair on end.

"Can you hear us?"

"Mmph." It took him a moment to remember how to speak. "Yes." Words returned to him, in chaotic, unutterable fragments. "Giulia died – I remember how she died. If you'd met her..." He struggled to sit up, his head swimming. "How long have I been down?"

"Not even half a minute." Mrs Roper pressed the bloody towel to his head. "We're going to send you to bed."

"That would be nice." His head ached, but the world felt clearer, emptier somehow. "Did he hurt you, Richard?"

"Not much." Richard passed a hand gingerly over his cheek. "He only hit me once."

From down the hallway, there came the faint sound of a baby crying.

"She's a loud one," Mrs Roper said. "You can see her later. I'll bring her in to you. Can you stand? Come on."

Somehow, she got him to his feet. She helped him to his room, where he fell thankfully upon the bed. The old nurse appeared. His head was washed and dressed, and he leaned hazily against the piled pillows and let it ache. Richard restored order to his collar and hair in the mirror, and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"You have a daughter." He smiled a little. "I have a niece."

"I know." Neil fell back on the pillows and shut his eyes. "You had a nephew. He died. Did you know?"

For a moment, nothing. Then, softly, "Yes. I didn't want to shock you. It seemed that you had forgotten he ever existed."

"I did. And just now, I remembered," Neil said wonderingly. "I knew he was going. We all had the fever. I could not bear it, to watch him suffer, day after day. She would sing this lullaby. Italian. I loved that little boy, and when he was dying, I loved him just a little less, every day. I'm a coward, like that. But I didn't even think to fear that she would die, until she was, and by then it was too late. I felt it completely. It broke me."

"You remembered all that?"

"Unless I dreamed it." He shook his head, and winced. "I didn't. It is true."

"I'm sorry."

Neil lay on the bed, staring into space and thinking. He was relieved by one thing: Verity had never been his mistress, but his wife, and that was when he had got her with child. He had no reason to doubt Richard and Jane's tale there. But the memory – that awful memory that had returned to him, of how he had tried to buy her, and how she had accepted - followed swiftly on the heels of his relief.

She could have told me about it, he thought savagely. She should have. I thought I had loved her. And he decided to demand the truth from her – all of it, from the beginning. Including, he thought with revulsion, if he really had ever kissed Jane, if there had been any nascent affair between them.

Some hours later, they brought the baby in to see him. She had been washed of blood, and wrapped in white muslin. Verity, he was told, was still recovering. He could see her later, when he got up again. She would be in bed for several days.

He held the baby, so impossibly tiny, and so impossibly innocent, and tried to feel something. There was nothing but the fear that he would break her. There was no flash of love. But he was conscious that it was, of all things, not her fault. There was a wisp of damp dark hair on her head, and she was sleeping.

"You had better take her back to her mother," he said. "Tell her that she did well."

His voice displayed no animosity or reluctance. If it was somewhat unenthusiastic, the servants and his brother and Mrs Roper put it down to the blow he had received on the head.

*	*	*

Verity lay in bed in her room. The curtains had been drawn. A light fire had been lit, despite the warmth of the day. The baby slept in a cradle at the end of her bed. She worried that it was too warm for the baby. Her own limbs were heavy and slick with sweat, though they had washed her after the birth, and dressed her in clean linen. She was too tired to push back her blanket. She was too tired to be happy, and too tired to sleep, and too tired to move. When the door opened, she could hardly turn her head towards it.

"Neil?" She wanted to see him. She had wanted him all through the hours of labour, wanted him when the baby came at last, wanted him when she collapsed into bed afterwards. And all she had were hired women and the accoucheur, and Mrs Roper.

It was not Neil. It was Lord Albroke.

He walked slowly into the room, and looked down at the baby sleeping in the basket. He contemplated her for some time, but did not touch her, and his expression did not soften. Verity tried to sit up, but couldn't.

"I could have forgiven you if it was a boy," Lord Albroke said softly. He was not looking at her.  

She did not have the energy to reply, and did not know what to say. She did not know what she was to be forgiven for. Ponderously, Lord Albroke went on:

"Neil told me that he married you in the convent. What a farce."

She was not too tired to feel afraid. Finally, Lord Albroke met her eyes.

"That paper that you made me sign. That was very, very cunning. I don't suppose you'd to care to burn it? No. And I thought I was getting the hard bargain out of you." He gave a short, cold bark of laughter. "I've never been outfoxed before. A lesser man might quit the game, at this point."

Finally, she found her voice, and rasped, "A greater man – would never – have started."

Lord Albroke ignored her. "And it looks as though he's not going to die. Do you know that? I was so sure he would die. But he won't, not for years. Which means that you are his wife, and this is his daughter." He came back around the bed, and stood over her. She struggled. She wanted to shout for the nurse, but could barely speak.

"Sir..."

He put his hands casually around her throat and squeezed lightly. "If he was a widower, I might be able to tolerate it a little more. I can always hope that death takes you first. But I'm not much of one for impotent hoping." His hands squeezed tighter. Dark spots began to bloom in Verity's vision. She looked up at him and wondered, wondered – if he really could do what he threatened. If he really was doing it. His brow knotted together in fury, and the whites showed around the edges of his eyes.  

Then, without warning, he let her go, and she fell back on her pillows, vision dancing, gasping.

"You win." Lord Albroke looked down upon her, cold loathing written on every muscle of his face. "You may have my son. I wash my hands of him."

As he left the room, Verity shut her eyes, and gently fainted.

*	*	*

When Neil woke from his slumber, it was past midnight. The room was still lit, and a meal was waiting for him on the table. He got out of bed, and sat down, and ate with a ravenous hunger. It had been years, it seemed, since he had been hungry. Half-way through his meal, he put down his sandwich, and stopped, and listened.

Silence.

"They're gone," he said to himself.  

It was true. The voices in his head, the competing Italian lullaby and English plea, had disappeared. For good, he believed. His head felt clear for the first time in months. Yes, he had a headache, but it was an ordinary sort of headache, from hitting his head. He felt as though the stream of conflicting voices in his head had solidified into the one clear voice he knew as his own.

He finished his meal, and as he did so, began to remember. Not much, it was true. But the spaces and times around that statement '
Would you send your beloved daughter to me for a night?' 
began to solidify.

He could see the little shabby cottage – what an awful place – and remembered the odious Mr Baker. Trembling hands. Blood-shot eyes. An alcoholic. Sold his daughter. His daughter who had agreed to be sold. He remembered the flash of challenge in her eyes as she had said she would accept. Yes. He had offered to buy her – in half-jest – and she had agreed to be sold. And that sordid transaction had escalated, and become a marriage, somehow. He didn't know how. He could remember no further than Miss Baker – Mrs Armiger appearing at his front door, haloed by a setting sun, bitter anger in her eyes.

He did not know if he would remember more. The blow to his head seemed to have knocked some things loose. But the rest of the matter was as obscure as ever. But 
she knew. 
And had told him nothing.

He made his way down the black corridor to her room. The fire was still dimly burning in the grate, and it was stiflingly warm. She stirred on the bed as he stood over her.

"Neil."

He had meant to challenge her. He had meant to demand the truth. But there was the faintest sheen of joy on her face, which even in the dim light was deathly pale. He could say nothing to break it.

"Did you see her?" she said, in a voice as thin as paper. "Did you see her?"

"Yes."

She slumped back a little. There was no energy to spare for a smile.

There was nothing in the movement, nor in the sight of her listless face, that should have made him feel guilty, or sorrowful, or full of agony. Nothing he knew. But he did, most powerfully, for a moment, feel all of those things.

No. He could not press her. His anger washed away in a flood of inexplicable pity. He could not ask her. Not tonight. Not until she was better.

She tried to smile at him, and again it collapsed. A moment later, she closed her eyes, and drifted into sleep. He stood over the bed watching her, and wondered how much of what she told him had been lies. It seemed that everybody had lied to him. Jane had lied to him, he realized; Richard had lied; his father had lied; Verity had lied.

She moved a little in her sleep, and again the motion elicited some aching emotion from him. Memory, he realized. I've watched her sleep like this before.  

It came to him, then, that he didn't have to ask anybody. He was nearly well enough to travel. He would return to the places where the memories had been made, and look for them there.

~~~

A/N: This is the end of part four of the novel. What's left is only the concluding part and epilogue :) Nearly done!

# Chapter Forty-Seven: Fare Thee Well

Afterwards, Verity did not know how she ever survived her confinement. Though Neil and Richard visited her and the baby every day, she could not help but feel alone and afraid. She was not allowed to leave her room apart from to attend the water closet. The curtains were never opened to let the sunlight in. Her diet was an insipid gruel encouraged by the accoucheur, who took the baby's health as a measure of his personal success and blamed Verity's malaise entirely on herself. He insisted the cure was less light, fewer visits, and less food. The only reprieve was that Lord Albroke, disgusted with both his sons and Verity, had decamped to his daughter's place in Bath, and intended to stay there until Michaelmass.

When her confinement ended, Verity thought she might finally get relief, but to her horror, she learned, the first day at breakfast with Neil and Richard, that Neil, whose recovery had continued fiercely throughout the past month, was taking a carriage and returning to Houglen at the end of the week.

"But you are not well enough!" she protested, taking in his still gaunt figure. "You still have fevers!"

"My mind is much better than it was," Neil argued, buttering toast. "I am no longer confused the way I was before. I know who I am, and who you are. But my memories are still vague, mostly missing. I have a feeling if I return to Houglen, where I made them, I will recover more of them."

"Besides," said Richard, "You can't stay here more than a few months, Verity. My father will be returning, and you should not be here when he does. We never managed to sell Waverly Manor. Neil will be able to begin to prepare it for you and the baby again."

But Verity, staring forlornly at Neil, could only help feel that he was trying to escape her. "Why can't you prepare the house, Richard, and leave Neil here with me?" she begged. "Please, Neil. Please."

But Neil shook his head. "I can't remember anything here – and I must remember. I must know. I've already delayed it too long. I should have been in Houglen as soon as I could travel. I was only waiting until you and the baby were stronger."

"Take me with you, then," she pleaded. "We'll all go together."

Neil touched her hand gently. "You can't travel yet. I'll be waiting there for you – for both of you."

 The day he had left, he had kissed the baby in her arms, and only given her a slight, confused nod. There was some distance between them since the birth. She didn't know where it had come from. And she could not forget that the last time he had left, he had not returned. She kissed his cheek, with tears in her eyes, and held back from begging him not to go. For hours after he had left, she sat at the front window with the baby in her arms, hoping against hope that his carriage would return, and he would tell her he had changed her mind.

The weeks that followed were worse than her confinement. The baby needed feeding every few hours. Her breasts ached, but she stubbornly refused to let a wet-nurse take the task over. She was hardly sleeping, and fast losing the plumpness she had gained during her pregnancy. She felt drained and tired and sad. For all she had looked forward to the baby coming, for all she knew that she loved it, she found herself lying exhausted in her room all day, and sleeplessly wandering the empty halls at night. This was not home, for her or the baby, and she needed Neil – who had left her behind. Richard was poor compensation. He attempted to read novels to her, and invited her for walks in the garden, but he was a poor conversationalist, and all she wanted was Neil. She was sure it would all be better when she saw Neil again.

In August, Neil sent a letter, brief, and to the point: If Verity did not disagree, the baby should be named Anne, after her grandmother. Verity did not disagree, but was distraught that he had neither returned, not told her to come to him. She was churched, the baby was christened, and life returned to normal at Albroke Manor. The very drab and horrible normal.  

In early September, though she was not yet truly strong enough to travel, Lord Albroke sent a letter saying that he would reoccupy the house in two weeks. Richard read the letter to her at breakfast, and then tossed it on the table. He gazed doubtfully at her.

"You are not yet well. It's a long journey."

Verity shook her head slowly. "For god's sake, let me go to him. Let me go today. I don't need time. I need him." She pushed a scrap of bread miserably around on her plate. "And he has abandoned me."

"He's trying his best," Richard argued weakly. For a moment, there was silence. "He's a damn fool. A damn coward." He reached out his hand for her, though better of it, and dropped it to the table. "I'll go with you."

It felt like it had been years, not months, since she had left the ugly little town. Her spirits rose as they drove through the familiar streets. Her heart began to pound painfully when they crossed through the gate of Waverly Manor. But as they rounded the drive, she saw something that made her spirits die again.

Jane's carriage was standing in front of the entrance.

"What is she doing here?"

"I have no idea." Richard was frowning. "I heard she was heading to the continent."

The front door was open, and they went into the house without being announced. Verity stood in the front hall, Anne clutched in her arms, and tried to control her racing heart.

"I'll see if I can find them," Richard said. But his voice echoed in the hall, and rapid footsteps approached from the drawing room.

"Richard? What are-" Neil appeared in the doorway. "Oh. It's both of you."

He was looking well. His cheeks were beginning to fill in, and his posture was upright and strong. Verity felt dizzy, and dizzier still as Neil came over to her, and rested two fingers on Anne's cheek.

"She's grown so big already. She was so small before, like a kitten." His voice was sad and wondering. "It was only six weeks. Six weeks, and she grew so much."

The dull sadness of Verity's past few months suddenly sharpened into acute anger. "Six weeks is more than half her entire life so far," she snapped.

Neil's eyes met hers in surprise. His face clouded with hurt. Before they could speak, Annie opened her eyes and began to wail. Verity jogged her up and down, relieved by the interruption. "I need a private room – is my bedroom prepared yet?"

"Yes. But the crib is in mine."

She turned and went up the stairs without looking at him, but a moment later, she heard him running clumsily up behind her. He passed her in the hallway, and opened the door for her. For a few minutes, he milled around aimlessly, while she set the baby down in the crib, divested herself of her travelling coat, and began to undo the hooks at the front of her dress. When he realized what she was doing, he blushed.

"I – er – I'll see you downstairs, then." At the door, he stopped, but did not turn to look at her, as she opened out the neck of her dress and jostled the baby into position. She could see his ears were red. "I did not expect you to come so soon – I'm not ready – the house isn't, I mean. Are you staying?"

"As long as you are." She winced as Anne latched onto her breast, but it was not from the pain. "Please tell the servants to prepare my room. I should like to sleep there tonight." Her room, next to his, connected by a door. 

"The baby's crib shall go there too," she added. "We can work on a nursery later." She knew it was bullying, a little, to talk this way, as though they had decided together, when she was deciding for both of them. But she needed to make it obvious that this was her home too. The old spark of jealousy and fear had reignited on seeing Jane's carriage out the front.

"I – I have had work started on a nursery," he muttered. "I'll show you later."

He left and shut the door. 

*	*	*

Neil, upon leaving the room, held the wall for a minute to steady himself. While speaking with Verity in there, he had been reminded of the time they had argued, and she would not speak to him. He could still remember no further: he had kissed Jane, and thus Verity would not speak to him. These past months, they had cursed him, these memories that flickered just below the surface of his consciousness, but never emerged and made their form fully known. Only his emotions came echoing out of them: unease, and guilt and fear.

I should ask her, he thought. I should ask her about that night – she will tell me, if I explain. But somehow he couldn't. He had come to Houglen thinking to remember himself, and still he could not be sure. And the last gatekeeper to the truth was Verity, who had come after him, thin, and tired, and angry.

He made his way slowly downstairs, to where Richard and Jane were sitting in the drawing room. They were silent as he entered, but he got the feeling they had been arguing in whispers before he arrived. Richard's cheeks were pink. And Jane – what was she here for? He eyed her distrustfully as he sat down. He had not seen her since before Annie had been born. Verity had accused him of kissing her. Had it been an affair, or just some foolish flirtation?

"I'm sorry I was so long," Neil said stiffly. "Your carriage is still out the front – are they waiting?"

"They're taking me to Edinburgh," Jane said. "I've got passage to Copenhagen."

"What on earth are you doing in Copenhagen?"

"I have no idea," Jane said cheerfully. "I've heard it's a terrible mess over there, and I'm fond of getting dirty." She smoothed down her skirts. There was something agitated about her movements, but Neil had no energy to spare to decipher it. "I just came to say – goodbye."

"Well – when you return, you must visit me again, of course." Neil tempered the invitation: "I'll be busy of course, with the baby, but I'll try to find some time."

Jane's smile chilled a little. "You've got some now, don't you? I might like to talk to you, just a little bit, alone, for a few minutes, if you don't mind. Richard?"  

Richard, who had assumed his usual unpleasant expression, shrugged. "Don't get too dirty, Jane," he warned, and left.

Neil watched the door close behind him. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, hoping there wasn't so that Jane wouldn't ask him to fix it.

"A little." She smoothed her skirts again. Then, confused, she stood up, went to the window, paced, and seemed like she did not know what to do with herself.  

"I should like to help." Neil did not. He could hardly help himself and his wife and daughter, let alone anybody else.

"You -" She twisted, to look at him over her shoulder. It was a pose that took the most advantage of her natural beauty, but in that moment, both she and Neil were completely unaware of it. "Neil. I've got this fear in my head now, about seas and boats – I'm worried I won't come back." She laughed a broken laugh. "It's silly of me. But I'm scared this might be the last time I see you. And I've always been -" She broke away and looked through the window again.  

Neil stood up, and moved ever so slightly toward the door. A love confession was nothing he could handle right now. And it seemed to be dangerously drawing close to it. Beautiful, beautiful, charmless woman, he thought desperately. She was exactly the kind of girl you did fall in love with at fifteen. Exactly the kind of girl who never achieved any greater affection. Affection demanded vulnerability. There was nothing vulnerable about Jane. She could command adoration and admiration alone.

"I've always been the kind who leaves without goodbyes," she finished slowly. "I'd like to say goodbye this time. And fare thee well."

*	*	*

Richard knocked on Neil's door, and entered at Verity's call. She was standing by the window, adjusting a final hook on her dress. Annie was in the crib, drooling contentedly onto her new pillow.

"She just wanted attention," Verity said fretfully. "I should think I give her enough."

Richard stood over the baby and ticked her belly through the linen dress. She chattered nonsense with delight. "I think she needs her father's attention too – I'm glad we came." He stood back, and watched her. The gentle, late afternoon light made her look younger, softened the strained lines around the corners of her mouth and eyes. "What if I leave you here, just you and him? Would that be best?"

"Do you think?" Her eyes brightened. "You have been so kind. You have always been so kind."

"Not always. Most certainly not always." She laughed, and the sound tore his heart just a little.

"Why did you change your mind about me?" she asked suddenly. "You changed so quickly that I didn't believe it at first. I thought you must be lying, or trying to trick me. I couldn't believe it was kindness. Why?"

Richard considered her, swinging his stick slightly. There were times when it was best to keep a secret, and times when it wasn't. But he didn't think it would break her to know, not now that she was safe with Neil again, and it was breaking him, slowly, that she didn't.

"Because I love you."

Her eyes opened wide. His tone made it all to clear that it was not brotherly love he spoke of. Recklessly, he pressed on,

"I fell in love with you the day I met you – and by then it was far, far too late. I've always known that. And I never expected anything by it, either. But it's true. And I won't repeat it either, not ever again. It is what it is."

She took a step back, her arms pressed close to her side.

"I don't expect anything by it," he repeated. "But I wanted you to know."

"I don't know what to say." She was blushing, just a little. "You're not leaving on that account, are you?"

"No. It hurts me as much at a distance of five inches as at five hundred miles. You mustn't pity me," he added, seeing the look on her face. "I say it hurts – but it is a good kind of hurt. And I don't think I could love you if you pitied me."

"I've never pitied you," she said bluntly. And he knew it was true. By the time she had stopped loathing him, they were too close for her to waste condescending pity on him. "Richard, I'll send word if anything goes wrong here, but I think it is best, if you do go. Here we were together, just us, and if it's just us, and Annie, then he might begin to remember some more. I can see he's stronger, physically. He just needs time."

"Yes. And you were always better for him than we were." Richard bowed, his knee aching, over his stick. "Then I suppose this will be goodbye for a time. I'll take the carriage to the crossroads, and stay in the inn. The first night will be important."

"You're very-" she broke away. "Thank you."

He did not move as she stepped briskly towards him, stooped a little, and kissed his cheek. But he was smiling, and could not stop smiling, as they went back downstairs. Jane and Neil were waiting in the entrance hall. They looked up.

"I'll be leaving too," Richard said, trying to hide his smile, and failing.

"Already?"

Richard shrugged. "There's a very comfortable inn in the village, and you two have much to talk about. I don't wish to impose. And I am returning to Albroke tomorrow anyway."

Outside, it had begun faintly to rain. He looked at the butler: "Tell them to send for my carriage again, if Mrs Armiger's things have been unloaded."

"I shall take you to the inn," said Jane. "Let your horses rest tonight. Mine are fresh."

"Well – thank you. That will make it easier. Georges, send for my things alone, then. My travel bag."

The footman ran off. Richard went with Jane to the front steps. The four of them stood there for a few minutes, waiting. Jane admired the baby with an excitement Richard was sure was entirely faked. Jane had never liked children. He wondered what she and Neil had spoken of. When the servant brought his bag, and they were safely in the privacy of the carriage, he asked her, with a savagery that dimmed only a little of his optimism:

"Did you fail to seduce him again?"

She flushed. "That's not very nice, Richard."

"He is married, Jane. Leave them alone."

"I am. Why do you think I'm going to such a godforsaken place as Denmark?" she replied pertly. And then, removing her gloves and folding them neatly in her lap, "I didn't even try. I thought I was going to. I thought I was going to confess my love to him, like some innocent schoolgirl, and then, when it came to it – I realized I didn't. I have never loved any man. The closest I have ever been is fondness." She laughed. "Insipid fondness! I fear I have no heart, Rich. None at all."

"You might grow one later in life," he suggested. "Some people do." He did not add that he had. That was private.

The eyes that looked up at him had some faint tears in them. She shook them away. Realizing that she was rather more wounded than she let on, he touched her hand. It closed around his. A moment later, her head dropped to his shoulder.  

"Marry me," she said bleakly, "And keep me sensible."

"Absolutely not."

She laughed a little, her head shaking on his shoulder. "Well then, run away with me, and let me drive you crazy."

"Veto," he said firmly. "There are thousands of men in Copenhagen, Jane. Thousands."

Jane sighed. There was a hint of theatricality in it. Her spirit was returning to her. It never stayed down for long. "And it is bound to be that every one of them is twice as charming as any Armiger – but equally certain, not a one even half so interesting!"

~~~

A/N: This is Jane and Richard's last appearance in the story - well, Richard appears in the epilogue too, but that doesn't quite count.

# Chapter Forty-Eight: The First Night

When Richard and Jane had gone, Verity and Neil went back upstairs to his room. Annie, in her crib, was lying on her back and eating her fingers. She eyed Neil shyly as he stood over her.

"She slept for hours coming up," Verity said wearily, sinking into a chair. "I suppose she wants to play now."

"Can I pick her up?"

"Of course." Verity waited until he was holding her before adding, "She's going to drool all over your shirt though."  

Neil winced as Annie began a scientific investigation of his cravat, but made no move to stop her. She gummed it thoughtfully, and then spat it back out.

"A true connoisseur," Neil said drily. Annie looked up at him, but was strangely silent. He jogged her up and down. "No talky?"

"Has she – forgotten you?" Verity said, dismayed. "Oh, Neil."

His face fell. "I suppose – it really has been more than half her life, that I've been gone." He dropped an apologetic kiss on her head, and she at last sputtered a confused syllable, and began to cry.

Verity got to her feet, and hastily took her from Neil, and began soothe her. Neil stood back, his hands hovering awkwardly by his side.

"No, it's your papa, darling," Verity cooed. "He's just your papa."

After a few minutes, Annie began to quieten, and chew her fingers again. She spat some strange, bubbly nonsense at Verity.

"She'll get used to you after a few days," Verity said, kissing her and motioning Neil to take her back. Cautiously, he cradled her in his arms, and this time she seemed a little less shy. She began to gum his cravat again.

He walked slowly about the room with her in his arms. Watching him, Verity felt the noisy misery of the past few months begin to quiet inside her. Neil caught her eye, and smiled.

"I have a feeling..."

"What feeling?"

"It's a faint sort of memory. I think my son would chew my cravats too."

They were very silent for a moment. Only Annie's contented gurgling sounded in the still room. Verity didn't know what to say, whether to encourage him to talk more, or to comfort him. But he didn't look sad. He was still smiling, as he touched Annie's nose, and mouth, and chin with his forefinger, muttering nonsense to her, and receiving nonsense in return. Eventually, he said,

"I don't remember much, you know. A few things. More, since I came here. But I don't think I'll ever get it all back. Do you remember what it was like to be a child? Before the age of six or seven? It's like that. Vast amounts of fog between fragments of memory, some clear, and some faded."

"I'm sorry."

"
I'm 
sorry. I wish I could remember you better. I know so little about us." He tapped Annie's nose. "There, there it is." She squawked with delight and reached for his hand. "I know so little about me."

Neil dressed for dinner that night. Perhaps he had no option, given the state Annie had put his clothes into. Verity, when she came down, felt her heart beat faster at the sight of him in his old dove-grey suit. Had he known it was one of her favourites? He must have forgotten such a benign detail. It was only coincidence. Herself, she was dressed in a staid and practical dark linen. The demand of nursing Annie had forced her to assign all her loveliest dresses to the back of the wardrobe.

It was still light outside, and the curtains were open. Verity stood by the windows and looked down at the view over the valley.

"It's been an age since I've seen this," she said softly, as Neil pulled a chair out for her.  

"I remember you standing there once before."  

"You do?" She turned hopefully to him, but he was frowning.

"You were very..." She waited expectantly, but he only shrugged. "Pretty. I remember thinking that you were almost too pretty."

The old Neil would have twisted it into a compliment, but the new Neil only held her chair until she sat down, disappointed. He sat next to her, and the footman poured a glass of wine for each of them. She sipped slowly, allowing its strength to seep through her. It was strange, to have so much she wanted to tell him, so many thousands of words clouded in her head, and be unable to utter a single one of them. He was leaning back a little in his chair, his arm on the table, watching her. Perhaps he felt the same way.

They were both on their best behaviour throughout dinner. She found herself laying her fork just so on her plate, and dabbing her lips delicately with the napkin. Neil was very attentive with the wine bottle, and very graceful with his cutlery. There were occasional, brief conversations, and long lapses into silence. She inquired of his health, the town, and the weather. He told her her felt much better, the town was quite as normal, and the weather had been good. She drank too much wine, out of nervousness, and was a little giddy when they finally stood.

"I don't think I shall have coffee," Neil said. "Unless you would like it?"

"No. I am quite done." She took his arm. "Show me the nursery."

The light was fading outside, but not gone. They went upstairs, and he lit a candle against the dimness, and showed her to a room at the very end of the second floor corridor. Once, it had been a guest bedroom. Now, there were bars on the windows, a freshly fitted carpet, and new paper hangings on the wall, in a fir-leaf and sparrow print.

"There's no furniture yet," Neil said apologetically. "I'm having a man make it. I didn't inherit any from my mother, and I didn't dare ask my father if he would send his old nursery furniture down."

"No. He would not have done so." She circled the room. "It is well decorated, and very large – I had thought you might have used the green bedroom. It's a better size for one child, and closer to my room. But I suppose you were thinking of the future."

"The future?" Neil stood by the door with the candle flickering in his hands. "No. I'm afraid I was thinking only of the now. The green bedroom tends to damp. And a nurse would prefer a large room."

"We don't need a nurse," Verity said firmly. "I am quite capable."

"I know you are. But you might want one, one day." He raised his candle, so that the light arced up the walls. "Does it satisfy you?"

She had a feeling he was trying to change the subject. "It's very good. I look forward to seeing the furniture you have commissioned."

They checked on Annie, who was sleeping in her crib, and went down to the library together like usual. Except, it wasn't like usual. They sat down at opposite ends of the sofa. Verity curled her legs up under her, and Neil put his arm along the back of the chair and stretched out his legs. He gave her a wry smile.

"Where do we stand?"

"I don't know." She considered him carefully. "You look very well. You look much better. I'm glad to see that."

She was in the awkward position of being furious with him, and being desperate to please him. The six lonely weeks in Albroke had been intolerably cruel to her, but she was aware of some reserve swelled up between them, and wanted to break it down again. Anger did not seem the answer to that. She swallowed her feelings: anger, and love.

"What have you remembered?"

"Vague moments. Once upon a time, we did not sit quite so calmly on this couch." His lips twitched. "I remembered that – just now."

She could not smile. "Anything important?"

"I think so. Some things. I walk into a room and I remember slips of conversations I had there, or things I saw." He faltered. "It's a strange feeling. Disorienting."

"But you haven't... regressed? You know who you are, who I am? What year it is?"

"Yes. Always. There are things I know here that I don't even remember ever learning. Which pew we always sat in in church. That large house in the valley is your grandmother's. I don't like her – I haven't met her since the accident, but I know that I don't like her. You don't look surprised. You don't like her either. I thought so." He nodded to himself. "And then there are the moments, the things that happened, that come to me, sometimes on no provocation, and I have to decipher why I remembered them. Like the apple trees, which aren't blooming now. I remembered the blossoms and didn't know why. Then I realized - there were apple blossoms blooming outside the church on the day we married. It was a sunny morning, but then it rained, later."

She nodded tearfully. "Yes."

"It wasn't quite a love match." He paused. "I was quite content, the day we were married. I know that, when I think of the apple blossoms. But it wasn't a love match."

"Not then. Later – later it was different."

"I don't remember much of the later. Maybe it will come back, now you're here. I hope it will."

"I can tell you."

"I want to try to remember first. By myself." He shifted, crossed his ankles. "I have remembered from before I met you, too. I was lonely here. I was very lonely. I was grieving Giulia. I've forgotten a lot about her, too. But I remember what it felt to lose her. Raw, hopeless disbelief. I came to this town, hating the entire world, and everyone in it, because the two people I loved most were dead. I think, when I met you, I was still that man."

She was silent for a long time, but he was watching her expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"Yes. You were. And then you changed."

"And now... I have changed again."

"Who are you now?"

"A confused and frightened man, with a wife and child he must look after."

"Then why did you 
go
?" she burst, at last. "Why did you leave us in Albroke and come up here? Neil, I couldn't bear it. I was so alone. Six weeks. I thought you would never-" She took a deep breath. "You abandoned us."

"I didn't." Then, fiercely, "I didn't expect to live – I thought I would die before you had the baby, do you understand? I thought the best I could do was marry you and die. But I didn't die. And then I found myself married, with a baby, and I didn't know how I'd gotten there. And I came here to look, to see if I could find out how. You were quite safe. I was quite safe."

"
Safe!?
" She was beginning to raise her voice. She forced herself to speak quietly. "Neil, I've seen you nearly dead time and time again this past year. Don't tell me you're safe. And don't tell me that looking after us is keeping us safe. Looking after a wife and child... it takes more than that."

"Richard promised me that he would take care of you two. I needed-"

But she was getting up, and moving to the door. She knew that if she stayed there would be no holding back the flood of anger and hopelessness within her – and she didn't want to unleash it upon him. Not like this. Not the first night of being together as man and wife in nearly a year.  

"Verity."

"Later. Later, Neil. Tell me later."

He was up off the couch too, but making no move to come after her. "Don't shut the door," he said urgently. "Don't shut it."

She didn't. Not, because he had asked, but because she was afraid she would be unable to prevent herself from slamming it. She did not think twice about the strangeness of his urgency, either. Not even after, when she had calmed down.

Later that night, after she had changed for bed, and fed Annie and put her to sleep, she was blowing out the candles, when she saw that there was a still a light coming from under his door. Her anger had passed into a sort of prickly heart-weariness. She knocked, and on his answering call, opened it.  

He was just finishing washing his face, and turned to her, cheeks still damp.

"I hate when we fight," she said softly. "We do, you know. But I don't want to go to bed without... saying at least, good night, and being amicable."

"We fight." He nodded, his face tense, and dumped his towel on the wash stand. "I have remembered a few arguments."

She shook her head ruefully, came closer, and wrapped her arms around him. After a moment, his arms came up around her in return.

"I should have done this when I first saw you," she said softly. "I missed you. I missed you so much, Neil, I couldn't bear to stay there a moment longer."

His arms tightened on her back, pulling her closer. He said nothing – no word of apology, no argument, no agreement. A moment later, they pulled apart, and his hands slid over her shoulders and down her arms to take her own.

"Welcome home."

~~

A/N: This chapter was a pain in the butt to edit. Hard to make Neil both sympathetic and kind of... well, behaving less thoughtfully than normal, say. At least when we're in Verity's POV.

# Chapter Forty-Nine: Quest for the Past

Over the first weeks of Verity's return, Neil tried his best to play the part of a husband. He breakfasted with Verity; he attended church with her; he spent the mornings with her. It was no more than playing a part – for the both of them. They spoke as though actors on a stage – only he felt as though an understudy, forced into a role for which he was not ready, whose lines he could repeat, but not fully understand.

He was not yet very well. Though his mind was now clear, his body was still weak. At night he still sometimes suffered fevers. At the end of the day, his knees trembled from the effort of walking. He dared not ride his horse, nor drive his carriage. His weekly visits to church tired him, and he could stand to be spoken to for only the barest of minutes before leaving, confirming the villagers' opinions that he was a snobbish, uppity sort of man.

Mostly, he had come to Houglen because he was afraid. He had sought memories, and thought he might discover them here, but they were elusive to him, and he still did not dare ask Verity for the truth about him. Sometimes he wondered if it mattered. No doubt the truth between them had changed. Perhaps it was best if he allowed himself to forget, to try to love her, and to love their child.

With Verity at home, it was not long before Lady Duvalle called upon them, and, upon learning that Neil was not going out except for church, invited herself to tea. She gave her approval to the baby, frowned when she heard about the hasty convent marriage, and sallied that at the very least the marriage should be publicized in the newspapers – months late but better than nothing.

"There shall be another baby before long, of course," she said, wiping a speck of butter from her gloves with a frown. "A boy is vital."

Neil looked at his wife, who was pink-cheeked as she bounced Anne on her knee. There had been no kisses, no embraces, no love making between them. It angered him to think that he had to have a son – a son, when he barely had a family.

"It is too early to think of such things." He nibbled a slice of sandwich, but put it back on his plate, barely tasted. "I should like to recover more of my health first, and Anne is hardly three months old yet."

Verity nodded her head in agreement. "Neither Neil nor myself are very well right now. To simply live quietly here, with Anne, is much better for all of us. We cannot even think of having another child yet. Let alone, persisting for a boy."

When Lady Duvalle had left, and Verity was putting the sleeping baby to bed, Neil cornered her.

"You're not well?" he accused.  

She looked up at him from creased and shadowed eyes. "I'm not ill. But it takes a lot out of one, to have a baby. And she is so often awake at night. It is more accurate to say that I am tired."

"Should I hire a nurse?"

"No!" She put a hand to his arm. "Please – I like taking care of her."

"And me? You are up with me some nights too."

"I should be up with you if there was a nurse or not." She hesitated. "Unless you do not want me to be there."

He did not answer that. He went over and played idly with the sleeping baby's toes.  

"If you don't want me to attend you when you are ill – or at any other time." She approached behind him. "Neil. You need only tell me. I would understand."

"No you wouldn't. You would uncomprehendingly do as I bade and pretend it did not pain you."

"Well," she said, offended, "Sometimes you are so incomprehensible that that is the best I can do with my intelligence."

She had raised her voice, and the baby was stirring a little. Neil rocked the crib gently. "Ssh. We mustn't argue in here."

"No." Her voice softened. "I will do as you wish."

"I don't wish to see you so tired. That's the only reason I suggest it."

"But when you are ill, if there was a nurse, I would lie awake fretting all night anyway. I worry too much, I know, but it is easier when I am by your side."

"Then stay." He watched the baby drift off again. "I don't like it when we argue in front of her – I have an idea, that we have argued here before. I remember it, something about it. Through the door, you told me that you did not want to talk. I have some idea about..." When he turned to Verity, her face was white. "Did we argue often?"

"Not often." She sat down on her bed rather suddenly. "If only you could remember the times we did not – that was when you left, that day. We had fought – the night before. I don't want to remember it. I don't want you to remember it."

Her voice was raw. He wanted to know the truth about that night, but she looked so forlorn that he couldn't bare to ask her.

The next day, still suffering a headache, but driven by his desire to understand his past, he had his carriage take him alone to Lady Duvalle's house. He had not visited since the accident, but on entering, he felt one of those strange, senseless deja vus that had been assaulting him so often in the village. The butler sent him through to the library, where Lady Duvalle was writing letters.

"A little early for a visit from a man who is not yet in society," she said archly, setting her quill down. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes." He sat down on the sofa. "Lady Duvalle, I am sure you have heard the gossip about my – health."

Her lips moved in and out consideringly. "Are you here to confess that you are dying? It would be a pity. My granddaughter, my great granddaughter, both need you."

"I don't think I shall die." He plucked at the gilded trim on the cushion. "I am a lot healthier than I was. But I have – forgotten – most of what has passed for the past eight years. Back in this town, I have begun to remember, but not all of it. Particularly, how I came to meet Verity in the first place. I can't ask Verity to explain it to me. But you must know."

The old woman pursed her lips. "You are asking me a difficult question, Mr Armiger. The truth never takes the same form twice between two different people's eyes."

"Tell me how I came to marry her- the first time." Sick of her prevaricating, Neil threw down all his cards: "I have remembered some of it – I as much as bought her, from her father, for one night – what happened, that night?"

"Only you and she know," Lady Duvalle said. "She told me nothing untoward occurred. You told me yourself that she left your house that morning still a virgin. And I suppose you would know. You were the only two there. If you ask her about it, she will not lie to you, I am sure." Lady Duvalle's cheek twitched. "Of course it ruined her reputation, regardless of the truth. The village learned of it and assumed she was a whore. Her father was a drunkard – do you remember that? You do? A drunkard, and a gambler. He was in debt to some very bad sorts. And of course people were reluctant to help Verity after what they thought she had done. Her father attempted the same kind of sale to another of his debtors – only this one attempted to collect."

Neil's stomach seemed to turn over inside him. His hands began to shake.

"Attempted," Lady Duvalle repeated. "He tried to rape her. He failed. It wasn't your fault. Don't look so horrified. She stabbed him, and ran away. It was winter, and snowing. She was injured, and fainted in the snow. You were the one who rescued her."

"I?" He stood, and paced madly in front of the fire. He was burning with horrified anger, mostly, at himself. She had told him nothing of it. Of course she hadn't. How would you even begin such a conversation? "I rescued her?"

"Indeed," Lady Duvalle said drily. "I had tried before then to get you to marry her. You had refused. But I think you must have cared for her – quite deeply - for it was you who hunted for her that night, and brought her to my house, in your arms. That night, while she sweated in her sickbed, we arranged that you should marry her. I won't say you weren't still reluctant. I won't say you were in love. But you agreed to marry, of your own free will, both of you."

Again, Neil remembered how fragile she had looked on the bed after she had given birth, and how it had made him remember... something. Sudden, the something came back to him: her white face, listless, on white pillows. 
Oh, alright. Let us get married. 
 

"Did we ever love each other?" he asked violently. "I know that I loved my first wife – I do not even know if I can love Verity."

Lady Duvalle was silent. Neil steadied himself on the mantelpiece. His knees were beginning to tremble.

"Did we?"

"Only you and she know. And only you can answer for your own heart. Perhaps, Mr Armiger, you should abandon your quest for the past. Look to the future: Can you love her there?"

He shut his eyes. Perhaps that was what scared him. The future was so much less ambiguous than the past. It was merely an extension of the now.

And in the now, he did not love her.

When he got home from Lady Duvalle's, his headache was a throbbing weight in his skull, and his cheeks burned. The woman he did not love took one look at him, and sent him to bed, where she nursed him all night long.

~~

A/N: Poor Neil. Just needs a great big hug. And probably a full course of anti-biotics.

# Chapter Fifty: Dear Verity

Neil became awake by degrees of growing consciousness of his own discomfort. He wanted to keep dreaming. He had been dreaming of a time when he was very young, when Giulia was still alive, and when he had thought he had known what it meant to feel safe. But no matter how many times he tried to slip back into the dream world, the hot dampness of his surroundings and the ache in his head reminded him, naggingly, of reality. Finally he surrendered, and opened his eyes. The window. If he opened it, maybe the heat would stop.

He sat up, frail and trembling. The room spun wildly around him. It was some time in the night. Candles were lit, and the curtains were drawn.

"Open the window."

His wife did not heed his cry. He turned his head, throbbing, towards where she always sat when he was ill, in the chair by his bed.

She was sleeping. She was slumped over the bed, her dark head resting on her arms, her pale face hidden.  

"Hey," he croaked. "Open the window."

But she would not wake. Her chest swelled silently in and out. She held a rag in one hand, that she must have been using to wipe his brow. He went to shake her awake, and hesitated. How long had she been there? As long as he had been sick. And he had been sick – four days? Five? For he had been sick. After returning from Lady Duvalle's, he had come down with the vicious cold that was circling the village. It had knocked his frail health to its knees again, and brought his wife to her knees beside it.

He let her sleep on, and struggled his way out of the fever-damp bed. When he managed at last to get out of the tangle of sheets, he sank slowly to the floor on impotent knees.

He sat there for a while, catching his breath. It was better there. He was out of the sticky dampness of his own sweat. A draft came along the floor, and cooled his aching limbs. Finally, he managed to stand, and totter over to the French window.  His hands fumbled blindly with the latch, and the window opened, and he stumbled out onto the balcony, and only caught himself on the balustrade.

"That was very silly," he reproved himself, and realized he was a little out of mind right now. He sank down on the floor of the balcony, and rested his head against the stone wall. The night wind cooled his cheeks. The raging fire within him began to flutter out, and the pounding in his head dulled.

What had he been dreaming about? Giulia. He tried to remember the dream, but it had vanished on him. All he knew was that she had been there, and that he could not go back to her.  

She was gone. He had nothing of her but his childhood memories of Florence, and the times she appeared in dreams, and the vaguest, vaguest threads of memory that swelled and subsided within him. A memory swelled. He had kept Giulia's things, he had brought them to England, if they could help him remember... He launched himself off the floor, feeling weak, but as though most of the fever had been emptied from him, and swayed back into the room.

Verity was still sleeping, half on his bed, half in her chair. She had not moved.

He went on past her, and past the bed, to the japanned cabinet where he had kept his things from Italy. He knew it, as though he had never forgotten. Giulia's dresses, they were -

He stared in confusion at the empty shelves. There was nothing in them, but a greenish silver dress, sloppily folded, some jewellery boxes, books, and a few mementos. For a moment, he thought his memory was at fault again. He could clearly recall dozens of gowns in all colours. Perhaps he had not stored them here – perhaps.

He burned them.

The clarity of the memory convinced him that it was true, the flames leaping up over the burgundy silk, the violet muslin, yellow ribbons, and all. He had burned his wife's dresses, all of them, but for the green and silver. He pulled it out now, and draped it over his lap. For a moment, he could recall Giulia wearing it, dancing – and then the woman in the dress was not Giulia, but Verity. She had worn it. That night. That first night.

The memory was vague and incomplete. But he knew the result: he had burned his wife's dresses, after seeing a living woman in one of them.

Clumsily, he folded the dress and pushed it back on the shelf. There was an ache at the back of his throat that had nothing to do with fever. He swallowed and breathed out slowly. He didn't regret burning them. On the contrary, he was grateful that his past self, in that time he could not remember, had had the strength to do so. He doubted his current self would have been so courageous.

He pushed the doors of the cabinet shut. There was a book on the floor. It must have fallen out with the dress. He stared at it. 
Didone Abandonata.
 The libretto of the opera. One of the final lines came dancing out of his memory, clear and firm as the ground beneath him:

E folgori e saette, e turbini e tempeste rendano l'aure e l'onde a lui funeste. Vada ramingo e solo; e la sua sorte cos
ì 
barbara sia, che si riduca ad invidiar la mia.

"And to him make fatal the lightning and thunderbolts, the wind and storm, the gale and waves. Alone let him stray; let his misfortune be so great that mine own envies it." He laughed, until he began to cough. He had been reading this, yes, the day he had driven to that fatal ship. And the wind and the rain, and all else, had been fatal to him.

"I would rather your misfortune than mine," he remarked, to the sleeping figure in the chair. She did not stir. "You at least know what yours is."

He picked up the book, and flipped through it, trying to find the passage. It fell open to the middle, however, and two pages stuck up stiffly.  

He parted them carefully. Paper crinkled and tore. A thinner sheet dropped to his knees.

His heart lurched suddenly. It had nothing to do with fever, and nothing to do with opera. A feeling of anger and hopelessness flooded him – and fear. He picked up the letter with shaking hands. He had written on both sides of the paper, and cross-form, to save space. It took him time to decipher his own writing, and when he did, he read it, as though it had been written by a stranger.

Dear Verity,

I'm going to get this all wrong. This is only a letter and I need to talk to you. I really must talk to you. But knowing I'm going to get it all wrong, please read it anyway.

I'll start with the accusation: that I kissed Jane. My defence: I plead guilty, and beg forgiveness. I was a fool. I was lustful, and prideful. I believed she loved me, and I enjoyed the idea of it – not because I have affection for her – but because I am a fool who thinks himself the better for enticing women's hearts. I did it, and I was wrong to do it. If you fear it was anything more than that, please believe me when I say it was not. It was only that one kiss, and I do not, and never have loved her. Do you understand my weakness for what it was, then? Not the unfaithfulness of a lustful or amorous man, but the unfaithfulness of a vain one. You might argue it makes no difference. I certainly have insulted you beyond measure, trivialized your affection for me, attempted to make a game of love. I'm sorry. I cannot apologise enough. But I have never lusted or loved Jane. I have not given my affections to her. You own my affections in their entirety.

And so I must tell you the depth of that entirety. 
 

Ours was never intended to be a marriage of love. Ours was a marriage of compromise. Intentions go fortunately astray. I know how you love me. I have known for a long time, in the tone of your voice, and the touch of you hand. I believe you love me still, though you have sent me away without a word. You would not be hurting so greatly if you did not. Verity, please, believe me when I say I am sorry. My heart hurts for having hurt you. And my heart-

I wish I could tell you this is person. I would stammer and stutter and you would make me feel a fool, but a letter is so inadequate a vessel for sentiment. It isn't enough. I don't know how to – I will try again. I will abandon the poetry. I am no good at it, and it is not as apt as plain, undressed truth:

I love you.

I know I said I never could love again, but I do. I love you. Verity, I love you, I love you, I love you. Can you believe me? That I love you, and that I'm sorry? Can you forgive me my transgression, and accept my feeling? It came upon me so slowly, and so strangely, that I did not know what it was at first – but, perhaps it was not slow at all. I loved you, at least a little bit, from the moment I saw you standing by my window at dawn. And it kept growing greater, from then on. I didn't know. I only ever knew what it was to love passionately, to love with the energy of youth, and that energy is spent, and now I have only the quietness of age. I did not recognize it for what it was.

I should have known when we first made love that I loved you. You were so eager and I – I blamed my affection on appetite. You can call it a man's appetite for carnal delights. And I did, always, lust after you. But that was different. By then it was love, and I was blind, and could not see it as such. Perhaps it was my pride. I sometimes thought I was betraying Giulia by marrying you so quickly after her death. I hope it doesn't wound you that I still love her. I didn't know that a heart was capable of loving twice, in the same space. I do love you. After I kissed Jane – which I repeat, though it wounds me, and wounds you too, because I know I was wrong, and am begging you to understand, and forgive if you can, the extent of my transgression – I sat on the steps of our house – 
our 
house, not mine – our home – and I despaired at myself. I knew I was going to have to tell you. I didn't know you'd seen. I have never hated myself so much, nor loved you more. I knew then, that it was love. I knew too late. I'd cast all manner of excuses upon it, given it all sorts of nicknames, but only love could hurt that much, only knowing that I had betrayed the one I loved.

Don't disbelieve me. I beg of you. I shall return in three months, and repeat these words: I love you. I have always loved you. And then I'll marry you – if you'll have me. Please, my love, marry me. Forgive me, and marry me, and love me. This must be the third or forth time I've asked you. But it's the first time I'm asking because I love you. Because I love you, and you love me, can we forgive each other, and be married – a real husband and wife? I want to love you for the rest of my life. I shall love you, regardless – but I want to love you in happiness, under the bonds of matrimony.

We did not meet each other in happiness; let us go now together into it, and stay there together until we die.

With all my heart,

Neil

He had loved her.

He was crying. He wiped the tears from his eyes, but they kept welling up, and it was a long time before his vision was sharp enough to read the letter again. It didn't change the second time, but now he noticed phrases that gave him more comfort than hurt. And now he realized that she had never read it – likely, had never known it was there. Vaguely, he recalled pressing the letter between the pages – foolish, foolish, how utterly foolish of him!

He got to his feet, and walked over on his still trembling knees to look at her. She turned her face in her sleep, and he saw how tired she was, and his heart ached.

He had loved her.

And despite everything, he could not remember what it was to love her. The woman sleeping before him was as though a stranger. A beautiful stranger, who all too clearly adored him – an adoration that frightened him, until now, because he did not know whence it came.

He sat on the bed and watched her sleep. It seemed impossible that she could sleep, in such a position, between the chair and the bed, but she must have been too exhausted to feel any consciousness of the discomfort.

"You should go to bed," he said softly. "And let me hire a nurse."

She did not stir. The natural thing to do would have been to wake her, and show her the letter. He realized now that she had never known that he loved her. Loveless, she persevered in adoring him. Loveless, she had carried his child, and stayed by his side, and held on tight. Loveless, she had loved him.  

But he couldn't tell her. He could not bear to tell her he had once loved her – when that love was lost long ago. It was too, too cruel. It was better for her to believe she was never loved, than know what she had lost.

She moved in her sleep, and he made up his mind.

~~

A/N: I guess this is the chapter everyone's been waiting for. Finally Neil gets the letter. Finally, finally, finally.
 
I'm also curious - when people say this book made them cry, do they mean actually, or is it just hyperbole? I'm hanging out to bring someone to tears, proper tears, and I'm pretty sure this chapter was my best shot at it.

# Chapter Fifty-One: Innocence

There was only one more thing to be decided, after the letter. Not decided, perhaps, but discovered. Neil confessed it two weeks later, when they were working in the library after putting Annie to bed.

"I want some help – remembering something."

Verity looked up from the cap she was embroidering for Annie. "From our past? What do you want to know?"

"I don't want you to tell me – I want to 
remember.
" He set down his pen, and closed the accounts book. "I have remembered a little, all along, about the first time we met. But only a little. I want to know all of it."

Verity's face fell. "Oh. Neil, it was... not a good beginning."

"I remembered as much." He came over and sat down on the couch with her. "I tried to – in a word – buy you."

"Neil..."

"Didn't I?" he pressed.

"In a word, yes – but it needs more than a word to describe it." She continued to weave her needle in and out of the blue ribbon, sewing it round the brim of the cap. "My father was more to blame than you, I fear."

"But I was to blame."

"Not so much I did not forgive you." She gave him a half-smile, and dropped the cap in her lap, so she could reach across and touch his hand. "Don't give me that look. What do you remember?"

He forced his frown to relax. "Everything, I think, until I open the door and see you standing there. Verity – will you go and ring the doorbell? I want to see if I can remember what happened next. Sometimes, when the now echoes what came before, memories come to me."

She looked very thoughtful for a moment. "I'll go. But if you don't remember, I'm going to tell you – it can't be as bad as you imagined. Your imagination is always too dark and vivid."

When she had left, he leaned back against the sofa and breathed in and out slowly to calm the nerves growing in his belly. A few moments later, the bell came ringing furiously through the hall. She kept ringing, as he ran for the door, and he felt a faint echo of irritation – how he had hated her for it last time. He was almost laughing as he pulled the door open.

The effect was different this time, because it was well past sunset, but seeing her there, he had the eerie, unreal feeling that they existed both in present and past simultaneously, as though time had melted into itself, and they stood independently of it.

"And then..." Her eyes had been bright with anger. Her cheeks flushed. It was incongruous to see the reality before him, when the memory was suddenly so concrete in his mind. "...You looked so proud. You don't look proud now."

She looked faintly sad. "I was proud." She stepped through, and he closed the door after her. Memory came to him like grains of sand through an hourglass.

"I sent you upstairs – to be dressed. The dress is in my cupboard. Will you go and put it on now?"

"Must I?"

"It's coming back to me – please."

Her lips were pressed tightly together. "Very well. You were waiting in the-"

"Library. I know."

It was not a long wait, but long enough for the nerves to rise like acid in his belly. When she appeared again at the door, he rose to meet her on feet that hardly felt the ground beneath him. The dress brought out the colour in her eyes, but it was almost indecently low in the bust and high in the ankles. Giulia had been shorter and more generously proportioned. She had been wearing it, last, at a dance the autumn before they had been ill, laughing, spinning, smiling.

It was an unexpected memory. He stared into the distance, trying to burn the image into his mind. Verity's voice brought him back to the present, or at the very least, the closer past.

"Neil?"

"We go to the dining room."

"Yes."

She took his arm, though he remembered that she had not taken it that first night. But he didn't stop her. Her touch was like an anchor, as though if she weren't there he might drift away into the past, and lose himself there.

In the dining room, she let go, and stood before him. "You're not going to make us eat dinner again, are you? The servants will be put out."

"No." He considered her. "You slapped me."

Her cheeks went pink. "Yes. I thought-"

"Do it again."

Her hand came up, and instead softly touched his cheek. "No."

"Verity, please."

"I slapped you." Her fingers traced the line of his cheek bone down to his mouth. "I'm not doing it again."

But he didn't need it, to remember. His cheek tingled from her touch, and from the memory of the sting.

"And then we sat down for dinner."

"Then you explained, and I decided I would tolerate you," she corrected. "And then we sat down for dinner."

"Tolerate." His lips twitched, despite his unease.

"I found you very charming – when you weren't making me nervous." She smiled back at him. "We explored the house afterwards."

"Yes." He could remember phrases of their conversation, trailing back to him. He had conversed; she had listened. He had wanted to impress her, he recalled vaguely, and more vaguely, he had the impression that he had, somehow, succeeded. "Something happened. Didn't it?"

"Yes. Come with me."

When they were half-way up the stairs, he realized they were going to the roof. The attic room had become a store place for extra, miscellaneous furniture, and he had to shove to get the window unstuck. When they were out on the roof under the night sky, she shivered, and he held her close to warm her, and because he was afraid that either one of them might fall.  

"We stood here, and looked over the valley," she murmured into the breast of his jacket. "And then you kissed me. It wasn't a very nice kiss. You were very – lonely."

"I remember. I remember." He looked into her eyes, which seemed to be begging for a kiss again, and denied them. "I thought... lust, a little honest lust, might... help me. It didn't."

"You cried," she said bluntly. "You began to cry straight after. I felt sorry for you then."

"Sorry for me? You had the grace to feel pity."  

"You were quite pitiful, then." She stepped back a little, and raised a hand to the collar of her dress. He knew what she was going to do.

"Don't!" His cheeks burned in the chill night. "You don't need to. I was stupid  - stupid."

But she had already undone the buttons at the breast, and was pulling it over her head. She shoved it towards him, standing in nothing but her chemise and stays and drawers. It was a chemise of very fine linen, and her form was clearly outlined beneath it. He remembered, the last time, she had been wearing only drawers. And she was different now. She was not so thin. Her hips were broader from the baby, and she was softer all over. The differences seemed very endearing and very important to him. All the Neils, of past and present, and particularly future, were interested in precisely defining those differences. He met her eyes with difficulty. She was smiling the sort of smile which was hardly less than a laugh. She shoved the dress towards him.

"Take it. Go on. Though last time I wasn't wearing a chemise or stays. Do we demand such realism today?"  

Goosebumps were pricking up along her bare arms and shoulders. He found himself unable to speak. It was as though she had read his mind. No, he realized, only his eyes – and she had enjoyed the reading of them.

"We do?" she teased.

"We don't! I remember enough – you must have been mad – we must both have been mad!" It was awful of her to joke about it like that. Suddenly, he was ashamed, both of his feelings now and of his feelings then. "No, don't, please."

"It's alright." Her smile faded. "Don't get upset, Neil. We went indoors, after that. You said you would find clothing for me."

They crawled back into the attic and he forced the dress into her hands. "I've remembered so far. It's enough. Let's stop this." His heart was beating fast. He did not know what happened next, but if what he had felt tonight was any indication of what he had felt then, he could guess.

"Neil." She pushed the dress against his chest. "You haven't put me through this farce to make me give up now. We went to your room. I still was not dressed, and you held this."

They went back down the halls, Neil following Verity's footsteps. When they were in Neil's room, she pointed to the bureau.

"Your old black dressing gown. Get it."

He dumped the green dress on the bed, and went numbly to the bureau. It took him time to find the dressing gown in the drawers, because it was folded away behind some outdated waistcoats and neckties. When he turned to face her, with it in his arms, the last few grains of the hourglass of his memories came slipping through, in a rush, the way hourglasses end. He stopped still under its force.

The terms of your agreement were not so specific as to that.

She had scorned him. She had very thoroughly put him in his place. A strange buzzing mixture of shame and overwhelming relief came over him.

"Neil?"

"Yes. Yes – I know."

 He stumbled closer, and held out the dressing gown for her, still mechanically playing out the act. She slipped her arms through, but before she could tie it, he pulled her into his arms and held her tight. Her arms were pressed uncomfortably between them, but he couldn't let her go. He waited until his heart stopped pounding before speaking,

 "You cheeky little woman. I could have died of shame, when you said you would not kiss me."

She struggled a little, wrested her arms from between their bodies, and wrapped them around his back. He could feel her own heartbeat, pounding in her chest, pressed against his. His hands, on her back, pulled closer. Another memory came to him.

"You were at the window, after, too... I was even more ashamed then. You looked so beautiful."

"The next morning," she said. "I wanted to make sure you wouldn't ask for the money. We didn't have it."

He released her, at last, and led her to the couch, where he sat down, holding her hand. She was leaning towards him, cheeks flushed, lips parted expectantly. He was tempted to kiss her, but it was at odds with what he knew had to happen next. He contented himself by holding her hand.

"Thank you for helping me remember," he said softly. "There's something else – something I can't remember, because I wasn't there."

Her eyes widened curiously. "What?"

"Your grandmother told me there was a man who tried to... rape you."

He felt her pulse quicken. Her face went white.

"It was the one thing I was glad you had forgotten about. That's over, Neil – it's long ago. Dead history."

"But I know. And I need you to know that I know." He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "Is it the worst thing that has happened to you? Or was that your father? Or was it when I – was dead, and you were pregnant? Whatever it is – you're my wife and it's my tragedy too. All of your tragedies are mine to share. I need you to know that you can share them with me."  

Her face was still very white. Slowly, she leaned forward, toppled, like a tower on sinking foundations, and rested her forehead on his shoulder. He pressed his hand to the back of her head.

"And I share yours?"

"You've already taken most of mine on your shoulders yourself, I think," he said softly. "Let me return the favour."

She shifted again, and huddled against him. He patted her gently.

"They were all terrible," she said quietly. "It's my happiness I want to share with you. And share yours. That's what a wife does."

"That too."

"We were happy. There was a brief time. We were incredibly happy. Shortly after we were married. Before your father started the annulment. We were happy then."

"I know."

"You remember?"

"No." He had almost been caught out. There was no need to tell her about the letter yet. "I mean, of course we must have been."

He felt her warmth against him and breathed out slowly. Now that he knew the truth about that night, he could see how little it had mattered. It was what had come before that had been important: the awful dark impulse that had led him to propose the deal. The weight of the crime was on his soul. It wasn't her innocence he had needed to confirm, but his own.

Her weight on his shoulder was comforting. She was staring into space, remembering what he could not.

"We'll make new happy memories," he promised her. "We haven't lost it."

The smile she gave him was sad and unbelieving. He didn't attempt to persuade her. He knew he could be proved right only with time.

~~

A/N: Had to rewrite this chapter entirely. Have 
not 
done final proof read for typos! Or more than a cursory edit! Typos will abound. Probably. If they're that many I'll do one tomorrow. I can't do it tonight because I just had a spider crawl out of my bed, while I was in it, and I need to go burn the house down now.

# Chapter Fifty-Two: A Series of Moments

Time was a series of moments, which became hours, which became weeks. They were mostly quiet, painful, and comfortable moments, if pain could ever be comfortable. Verity grew used to it, constantly prickling her side. Perhaps she had been born with it, and only dreamed what it was like to live without it. Her day was nursing the baby, and if Neil was ill, nursing Neil, or if he was not, spending her time with him in silent companionship.

He was not often ill these days. After his late-autumn cold, he recovered well. He continued to gain weight, and his fevers grew less frequent. He was keen to walk the grounds, even in the chilly weather, to teach his lungs to brace again. He was not keen to be cosseted and cosied. Sometimes Verity would walk with him, up and down the garden paths, carrying Anne, carefully swaddled, in her arms. They never talked much. When either was tired, they would find a place to sit down, and she would carefully press the baby into his arms, and he would jog her slightly, if she was awake, or just sit and watch her sleep. It broke Verity's heart every time, watching the tenderness with which he held their daughter, the tentative caress of his fingers.

"Do you love her?" she asked, one chilly day in November, when it was beginning to seem like winter.

He met her eyes for a moment, wide with surprise. "Yes." He dropped his gaze again to the baby. "How could I not? She's ours."

The two words were unexpectedly painful to Verity. Perhaps he saw something of it.

"I treated you so coldly after she was born – I'm sorry. I – I was very confused. I wanted to help her, but I had to leave, and come here, because I needed – to remember. Do you know, I had a son, and I hardly remember losing him? I remembered it, right after they told me she was a girl. When they put her in my arms, the only thing I could feel was fear that I would hurt her. I couldn't love her at first. I was so scared, and confused. But I wanted to protect her – and I ran away, here, from her, and from you. I'm sorry."

Verity bowed her head. "Thank god you came to love her."

"I'm sorry," Neil repeated helplessly.

In early winter, Anne took ill, with one of the coughing, crying illnesses babies get. Verity nursed her through several sleepless nights, full of the strange terror of loss. Babies were so delicate. Neil, in the next room, shuffled in several times in the night, to check on them both, to take vigil with her, or to walk up and down with the fretfully coughing baby in his arms, and give her a chance to rest. One morning, she woke up to find him sleeping on the bed next to her, in his dressing gown. It was almost like before the shipwreck. She pulled the blanket gently over him. And then the baby started crying to be fed, and waked him.

"I think she's getting better," Verity said in relief, jogging her. "She's hungry. Hold her while I loosen my nightdress."

And he had held the baby, and Verity had untied the neck of her nightdress to feed her. When he handed the baby back to her, his cheeks were pink.

"You've seen all of me before," Verity reminded him gently. "Even if you don't remember it. And I can't stand on ceremony. I won't. If you come into my room when I am sleeping, you must accept seeing my private moments."

"We are husband and wife," he said. "I just... did not expect you to undress."

"There is not much other way to do it."

Verity went to stand by the window, and face away from him. Dawn was breaking. The servants would be up soon, and she could leave the baby to their attention for the morning, and sleep. She was safe to sleep now, properly, for hours. She felt as though she hadn't slept in weeks. There was always someone to take care of.

She thought perhaps she had offended him, for he was very quiet while she stood there. But he neither moved from the bed, nor averted his eyes. After a moment, he said,

"I'm a little embarrassed, I admit – but it is still the sweetest thing I have seen in my life."

On Christmas Eve, Neil took her out with him in the carriage, and made her leave Annie at home. Any other time, she might have protested, but it was snowing heavily, and a wind was rising. He had a job to convince her to come with him at all, especially when he refused to tell her where they were going.

"Are you sure we should be going out?" she asked him anxiously, in the carriage. "You had a fever last night, and it is such awful weather."

"Yes," he insisted, and pulled the coach blanket over both their knees. "I was well this morning, and I shall not get better huddled in bed. And you need to see something beyond a sickroom, or you'll catch it too."

It emerged their destination was her father's old cottage, which had been all but abandoned after his death, for the landlord had been unable to let it. When the groom opened the door, and she saw where they were, she looked at Neil in horror.

"Come. It will be quite alright." He jumped down from the carriage and took a lantern from the groom. "We won't be long, George. Wait in the carriage, out of the snow."

There was little choice for Verity but to follow Neil through the snow into the cottage. When they were inside, her chest tightened, and she drew a breath in sharply.

"You do not like this place?"

"I have many bad memories here." She shook a little, staring round at the empty room, yellow under the light of the lantern. "Why did you take me here?"

"It's your Christmas present."

"Flowers would have sufficed – or weeds, if none are in bloom."

"You misunderstand.  The cottage is my present to you. I have bought the deed. It is yours."

For a moment, Verity was dizzy. "Oh." She made a motion towards him, but contained herself. "Ohhh. Please. Please, Neil – I would like to leave. Please – can we leave?"  

"Yes. Of course." He was white, confused. In the carriage, he said quietly,

"I am sorry. I can see I have done wrong."

"No – it's just that place – I don't like it." She reached out, and took his hand. Her own was still shaking slightly. "It was a very thoughtful gift – if you would, have the place destroyed."

"You want it gone?"

"Yes." She tightened her grip on his hand. "Demolish the building, and let the wild flowers grow there. Neil – it was the unhappiest house in the world. The best thing, is to let it be forgotten."

The cottage was gone the next week, though not as if it had never been. Verity remembered – and always would, though the colours of her memory were fading with time.

It was not many weeks later that she finally realized he was not going to die. More than a year since she had been told he was dead, nearly a year since she had heard he was not dead but dying, and every morning at breakfast he stood before her, still a little thin, but not too much, with colour in his cheeks, and the scar on his temple fading. It was that realization that snapped Verity. After a year of ceaseless tension, of ceaseless care-giving, of ceaseless hoping, the tension suddenly left her. She was in church at the time, standing and singing the hymn, when she noticed just how strong Neil looked, just how steady his voice was, and just how faded the scar at his brow was. The fear of him dying left her, and with it, the strength that had carried her through that fear. She faltered in her singing, and reached out to him as her breath left her. She touched his arm. He turned. And then she fell, and his arms came around her just in time.

"She's fainted, she's just fainted," Neil said, as their pew neighbours stopped of singing, and leaned over. The rest of the service, unconcerned over such a common event, continued to sing. "Mr Simpson, will you run and tell my carriage to be fetched? I must take her home."

She revived on the carriage ride home, leaning against Neil's shoulder. He was holding her hands, in her lap.

"I'm really not ill," she said slowly, as they arrived home. "I'm just..."

"Spent," he finished softly. "Not that I haven't been able to see it for months. All this time, you've been running after me, and you haven't had time to catch your breath. I 
am 
going to hire a nurse. Don't argue. Annie is crawling everywhere, and you need some hours of peace. Just a nurse, not a wet-nurse, mind."

He helped her out of the carriage. "Now, do I have to order you to bed?"

"I don't think I need to go to bed – I feel much better."

"Then I must. Rest. Complete rest, for one day." He went with her to her room, where Annie was being attended to by the chambermaid who picked the longest straw that morning.

"But I don't need to sleep," Verity fretted.  

"Then you can stay awake, in bed, and rest." He pushed her firmly down upon the bed. "I'll take Annie with me in my study. We'll be fine there, together. You haven't looked in a mirror. You don't know how pale you are."

To her surprise, he bent and kissed her temple. It was the first time he had kissed her since she had arrived back in Houglen. "Please," he said. "Just a few hours of rest."

It was later that night when they were both down in the study, playing with Annie before bed, that he confessed to her he had stopped trying to remember the past.

"I think I've got all I will, anyway. There's a collection of half-formed memories there, some feelings, that still swim to the surface, but I don't think anything will bring it all back."  

They were sitting on the floor, and Annie was crawling between them with a soiled linen dolly in her mouth. There had been much argument between Neil and Verity as to what the dolly was. Neil thought it was a camel. Verity, who was suspicious of the existence of camels, believed to be a chicken. It satisfied neither description, for it had three legs, and possibly two heads, but Annie was taken with it, far more than she was any of the nicer toys given her.

Verity plucked at the dolly, but Annie held firm. "Then, you'll never know all that happened between us."

"But for what you tell me." Neil distracted Annie by pulling out his buttonhole and waving it before her. She grabbed for it, and in her excitement dropped the dolly. Her next amusement was to tear the buttonhole to pieces. Verity abstracted the dolly and hid it behind her, where it would be forgotten. "I can't remember the good things, you know. It's mostly the sad, and frightening things that stuck with me. But you can tell me the good things."

Annie had torn the wildflower to shreds, and was beginning to look for further entertainment. She gabbled in her own private language, and crawled to Neil, and when he picked her up, began to chew on his cravat. Hastily, Verity brought out the dolly again. The distraction was complete, and the silk was saved. Neil brushed it down ruefully.

"It is definitely time to put her to bed – if she will sleep."

"Tonight, she's going to make trouble. I can sense it."  

"Which is why you do need a nurse. At least for the mornings, to give you some peace." She still didn't like the idea. Reading the look on her face, he added, to distract her, "Tell me something good that happened to us."

"Well..." She thought hard. "What was very good, I thought, the first time, really, that I thought I might fall in love with you – it was on the boat to France. I was dreadfully sick. I can't stand voyages. But one night, one of the last nights..." She felt her cheeks burn. "It was the first time you ever really kissed me. I don't know why you did. You were about to leave the room and then you turned back and kissed me, fully. And then again after that. I hadn't really wanted you to kiss me, I thought we might never..." She picked up Annie, pulled her onto her lap, and juggled her a little. "It was the first time I realized that you were taking me seriously- and that I liked it." She was aware that it was the kiss on her cheek that had awakened that memory, and shot an urgent glance at Neil, but he only looked rather curious.

"I suppose that fits," he said, and she did not understand. "It fits now too." He smiled at her. "You hadn't really wanted me to kiss you. I suppose that changed."

She let Annie go again, and the child crawled steadfastly over to Neil, her eyes attached determinedly on his cravat. Neil's eyes were sparkling with humour, and Verity was almost sure that he was flirting with her.

"I didn't 
think
 I wanted to," she corrected. "I didn't know what you were like. You were very patient, and very gentle. And very good at it."

Neil disentangled the baby's grasping fingers from his cravat. "She has a taste for white silk. I have a feeling she will be very expensive to dress when she is older." Suddenly, Verity did not believe that he was flirting with her. She felt a little embarrassed. He was only curious.

But perhaps there was more to it after all. That night, after putting Annie to bed, he kissed her on the cheek before he went to his own room. That night, and every night following. It never went further than a kiss on the cheek, and she constrained her own desires to press herself against him and take it further herself, but, importantly, it was never forgotten.

~~

A/N: Just one more chapter and an epilogue! Technically this is the last chapter already, but only the first half of it.

# Chapter Fifty-Three: Come True

Time was a series of moments, which became hours, which became weeks. They were mostly quiet, comfortable moments. The pain had faded away, so gently that Verity hardly noticed when it left. But there was still that friendly new distance between her and Neil, an ocean of smiles and hand-touches and cheek-kisses between friendliness and love.

They reached the end of it one night, without her even noticing the moment they touched the shore. She was sitting on the couch, Annie asleep against her chest, while he read aloud from a novel. She had her eyes on their daughter, and only looked up when she realized he had fallen silent, long ago.

He had dropped the book unfinished on his lap, and was watching her with an unfathomable emotion in his eyes. She could not look away from it, and dared not name it.

Nobody moved. No words were spoken. Silence, warm and welcoming, filled the room. But everything, in that long moment, changed.

It ended, unmarked, and she found she could speak.

"Let's take her bed," Verity said. "I'll carry her. She's already asleep."

"Yes. I suppose it's getting late."

He came with her, and they put the baby to bed, as usual, and Verity followed him to the door to say goodnight, as usual, and he leaned in close to kiss her on the cheek, as usual. Only, it was not as usual, for he did not kiss her. He paused, instead, his lips a bare inch from her skin, and gazed consideringly at her. The thing she dared not name was still in his eyes, and again, she could not look away from it. Finally, he dropped the kiss, this time, not on her cheeks, but on her lips.

"Come with me," he said softly.

She seemed to float after him, his hand still at her sleeve. Softly, he closed the door on the sleeping baby, and a moment later, pulled her into his arms.  

She was dizzy with happiness. Her knees were weak. His arms around her might have been the only thing holding her up.

"Oh," she said, when he broke away at last. "
Neil
."

He seemed to be beyond words. But his eyes spoke volumes. His hands came up to delicately brush her hair back from her face.

He kissed her again. There was something in his kisses, some exploration, as though he was finding away across new territory. But it was becoming more familiar to him all the time. She tangled her fingers in his hair and let him explore.  

There was another interregnum while he held her close and only looked at her. This time it was not her eyes. His gaze traced its way down her neck, lingered anticipatively at her bust, and then followed the line of her waist and hips. One of his hands traced the line of her spine, sending dizzying stars in its wake, before settling on that hip. Finally his eyes met hers again.

"My god you're beautiful."

In answer, she kissed him with a passion inflamed by months of loneliness. She pulled him coaxingly to the bed, but he stopped her by kissing her hands.

"Wait." He stepped away a moment, and began to undo his jacket. "I find myself so devilishly constrained."

"Here." She laughed. "It is normally that I help." She took the task over, and helped him out of his jacket, taking the chance to caress his shoulders and arms. With little regard for his tailor, she tossed the jacket on the sofa. He took the moment to kick off his shoes.

"Normally?" He swooped to kiss her again. "Verity, my dear, I confess I have forgotten most of this too."

"Oh." She began to untie his cravat. "Let me remind you." She pulled off his cravat, and parted the neck of his shirt, and kissed his collar bone. Her fingers worked away at the buttons of his vest, between a staccato barrage of kisses. At last that could be discarded too, but she paused at his shirt, running her hands up and down over the silk, feeling the warmth of his flesh radiating tantalizingly beneath it. His muscles shifted under her palms. She squeezed his waist greedily, and pressed herself against him as she kissed him.

"Take it slowly," he warned, through heaving breath some minutes later. "I've forgotten, you see."  

He might have forgotten, but his touch seemed to remember what his mind did not. They discarded their clothing piece by piece, exploring the new inches of skin revealed each time thoroughly, before finding the next impediment and conquering it. She kissed every new scar on his flesh twice, as though blessing it.

*	*	*

Verity awoke the next morning to find him playing with a curl of her hair, and watching her with the same, unnameable thing in his eyes. She smiled, a little shy, somehow, and he kissed her bare shoulder.

"Why now?" she asked curiously, rolling forward so that she could press against his heat under the blankets. "Why, after all this time, so suddenly?"

"There's a very good reason," he murmured, kissing her neck. "It wasn't sudden. All these months, I've been waiting, waiting..."

His kisses were trending south, which had a silencing effect on the conversation, and a distracting effect on her thoughts. She gasped, and decided she was quite willing to be distracted. It was what she had waited for, after all.

Before she could received either satisfactory distraction or answer, however, a baby's shrill cries pierced the early morning silence.

Verity was out of bed in a moment. She took his dressing gown from the chair, too large for her, and slipped it over her shoulders. "I'll be back."

She was back in a few minutes, with Annie clutching determinedly to her right breast. Neil was in his dressing gown, and just shutting the door of his japanned cabinet. He looked over his shoulder at them both.

"I hope you won't be offended," he said carefully, "But I do wish I could remember what it was like before the Little Interruption."

She laughed. "It was very good." She stroked Annie's hair, while the baby fed. "When she can walk and talk, we can leave her in the nursery. It will be a little more peaceful." She sat down on the sofa, adjusting Annie carefully. A moment later, Neil sat next to her, and put his arm along the backrest, just behind her shoulders.

"The problem," mused Verity, "Is that what the Little Interruptions interrupt, is precisely what leads to more of them."

"It's a wretched curse," Neil said seriously, "But they have some merits, I am sure." And then, hesitatingly: "It frightened me a lot at first, but I don't think I ever told you how happy it makes me that we 
do 
have Annie – and that she's healthy, and strong... and that you are too."

"I could tell. The way you hold her, and talk to her. I could tell." Annie was growing bored of feeding, and Verity shifted her a little. "Are you done? Done already?" she teased. She jogged her a little, and Annie garbled softly. "Look. She's going to sleep again. Lazy little sod," she said affectionately.

Already, the baby was dopily closing her eyes.  

"Put her back to bed for a bit," said Neil. "I want to talk with you about something – and I think it's best if she's not here."

Curious, but not concerned – not after last night – Verity went back and rocked the crib until the baby fell into a doze again. When she returned, Neil stood up, and fumbled something out of the pocket of his dressing gown, and held out towards her.

"What is it?" she asked curiously, taking it from him. "Oh – it's in Italian. This book." She looked up at him, a sudden shiver of horror running over her. "You were reading it the day you left for France – the day before the ship."

"Yes," Neil said slowly. "I imagine I sent Georges to give it to you."

"Yes." She turned it over. "Why?"

He took it back from her. "I don't remember all of it, but I imagine it went like this. I was riding to Portsmouth. I took this book with me, but I don't think I read it. I had a letter to write. We had argued the night before. I remember that, very confusedly."

"It was the morning." Verity found her hands were shaking. "We argued just that morning. And the letter..."

"The letter. I must have written it to you in the carriage. I vaguely remember it. Because of the argument. I don't think you could have read it."

She shook her head. "What letter? I never got a letter."

"It was stuck in the pages of this book when I found it." He hesitated. "Months ago. It wasn't right that you should read it then. But I think now, it will be tolerable."

With stumbling fingers, he flipped through the book, extracted a loose, crinkling sheet of paper, and handed it to her. She began to read. After a moment, her legs went weak, and she sat down suddenly on the couch. He sat down next to her, but said nothing, and did not touch her. When she reached the end, she returned to the beginning, and read it again, more carefully.  

At last she could bear to look at Neil again, but he was blurry-edged, from the tears in her eyes.

"Why now?" she begged. "Why not when you found it? If I had known..."

There were tears in his eyes too. She could see him trying to blink them away. He reached out, found her hand, held it.

"I thought it would hurt," he said brokenly. "I thought it would hurt too much, if you knew all that you had lost."

"Then why?" she begged, half-knowing, and not daring to believe, as she had seen and not dared to name the expression in his eyes. "Why now?"

"Because I was waiting," he answered, at last, "I was waiting for it to be true again."

Her tears were in danger of blurring the precious letter. She dropped it to the side table, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of his dressing gown.  

"It is true," he said gently. "It came true again. I fell in love with you."

Her efforts failed, and she burst into tears, and fell, clinging, towards him. His arms came around her, and pulled her closer. He kissed her, again, and again, and again, muttering with each kiss:

"I love you."

~~

A/N: yes, that 
is 
the end. Well, there will be an epilogue, tomorrow.

# Epilogue

Richard felt his heart lift as his carriage turned the corner of the drive and the rambling old house came into view. It had been a horrendous six weeks. The least awful thing about it had been the actual moment of death. But the moments preceding– of sickness; of bitterness; the talk of long-broken promises; the snarling recount of fast-held grudges, held no less closely in the last of his father's days – they had been unbearable. And the moments after – the awful, sycophantic relatives and friends; the so very kind and sympathetic spinsters, with one eye on his fortune, and the other firmly closed against his ugliness; the so obsequious lawyers, with their quiet footsteps and quiet voices and quiet, conspiring smiles– they had been worse. And at last, he was free, and among the people who mattered: his brother, and sister-in-law and niece.

His carriage crunched to a stop on the gravel drive, and he got out rather cautiously. His leg had been troubling him even more of late, with the snap of chill autumn weather. He stretched it discreetly as he waited for someone to answer the doorbell. After a few minutes, the door swung open inwards, and the butler bowed.

"You'll tell my brother I have called." Richard stepped gratefully into the warmth of the hall.

"You may wait in the drawing room," the butler said magnanimously. "I shall see if Mr Armiger is at home."

But there was no opportunity for Richard to wait. Footsteps, very little ones, pattered in the mezzanine above, and a pair of bright green eyes peered through the bannisters at him.

"Uncle Wichard!"

Richard braced himself. The denizen thundered down the stairs and threw herself full bodied into his arms. He balanced her on his hip, wincing as she ran sticky fingers over his  cravat.

"Did you bring me a present?" Annie demanded, plucking at his cravat. "Why is it black?" She had found his mourning band. "Daddy has one too. It's ugly."

"Death is ugly," Richard agreed. "And you know you shouldn't be asking me for presents. It's not polite."

"But you did bring me one?" she said coyly.

"Perhaps." He adjusted her weight, and Neil appeared at the top of the stairs. "I arrive unheralded. Apologies. There was no time to send a letter."

"I'm glad you've come. Here. Let me help." Neil came running lightly down the stairs and plucked the toddler from Richard's side. There was nothing in him now of the invalid of three years ago. Nothing, except the thin white scar arcing down over his temple. "You mustn't ask for presents, Annie," he chided gently. "Not until after you've said hello at the very least."

Not in the least bit abashed, Annie waved at Richard. "Hello."

"Good morning," Richard said solemnly. But did not put his hand in his pocket, yet, for the little ribboned candy box that waited for her.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come," Neil said. "I didn't mean to saddle you with all of that – but it was a very difficult time for Verity, and I couldn't leave her."

"I understand." Richard hesitated. "I have heard no news. Is she well? Would congratulations be premature?"

"She's very well." By the broad smile on Neil's face, Richard knew the baby had been born. "I'll accept your congratulations, with thanks. A boy," Neil admitted. "They're both doing very well. You can come up and see them. She's still in confinement. It has only been two weeks."

"I'd like to – that's why I came. And it was a relief to get away."

"I'm sorry," Neil said again, as they went up the stairs. "I would have come – something to dilute the unpleasantness of it all."

And in the end, thought Richard, that was all it had really been – unpleasant. Not sad, not horrifying, and certainly not full of love. It had been an unpleasant, sticky, sweaty, mess, of decaying body, and decaying mind, and a heart so decayed by its ill-lived life that by the time death came for it, there was nothing left to rot. The black band on the two brothers' arms were nothing more than social convention. It had been a great deal of unpleasantness, and it was over now.

Neil held the bedroom door open, and Richard stepped through. As usual, when he saw her, his heart skipped a little beat, and his breath disappeared for a moment. He nodded his head, and smiled, at the woman curled up in the blanket on the sofa in the sun, with the little baby in her arms.

"We were just having breakfast," Verity said. "Please, you must be hungry, if you have travelled."

"Thank you." But Richard ignored the food and sat down next to her, to examine the baby, and give himself the secret luxury of examining her face. She did look well. "He's beautiful."

"Thank you." She shifted a little. "I'm so glad he's sleeping. He's an awful wailer, do you know? Whenever he's awake." But her voice, or the movement, seemed to have woken the baby. His blue eyes opened slowly, and he blinked at Richard. Then, true to her word, he began to cry. She jogged him slowly. "Oh, sshh, darling, shhh."

Annie, who had been watching with awe, climbed up on the sofa next to Richard. "Stinky," she whispered loudly, crawling over his knees. "Stinky!"

"There were discussions," explained Neil, "About what to name him."

"I think I sense some jealousy there," Richard said innocently. He put his hand to his pocket, and retrieved the present. "Look, Annie, who do you think this is for?"

Annie breathed in deeply. "
Me!
 Thank you, Uncle Wichard." She took the present in one eager, grubby little fist, and used the other to clumsily hug him. He patted her back gently.

"You're very welcome. Do get off my knee, darling." He pushed her gently off his aching knee.

Annie, investigating the contents of the box, was quiet. By putting her forefinger in the baby's mouth, Verity had achieved something close to peace.  

"We were thinking we might name him Richard," she said shyly. "If you liked."

"I – I'm flattered." Richard grimaced a little. "But with my deepest respect, I would rather you didn't. I like my niece, and I'm sure to like my nephew, but I'd rather not share a name with him all the same. He deserves his own."

"Well, that settles it," said Neil. "No Richard, and certainly no Neil. Annie, is there anything other than Stinky?"

Annie looked up from her prize, which was still eluding her, with all its ribbons and ties. "Podge," she suggested, after a moment's thought. Annie did not like porridge.

"I think perhaps not that either," Neil said delicately. "We shall find one. Eventually."

"Now that I've met him, I'll have some coffee and breakfast." Richard leaned over, and kissed the proffered infant on the forehead. "He is very sweet. I'm happy for you both."

There was an interval of small talk, and coffee and cold toast. Then the baby began to cry again, and Richard and Neil left so that Verity could nurse him in private. They went down to the library.

"So," Neil said. "Father's gone, and you're the earl. What do we do now? Do you need us for anything?"

"No. I think I'll manage to see it through by myself. I've been managing most of the estate this past year anyway. I came up for a different reason. I'd like to return your portion to you."

Neil's eyes opened wide. "What?"

"The portion that father cut from you when you ran away."

"But we don't need it. We're perfectly content with what we've got."

"One daughter," Richard said persuasively, "A newborn son, who, I remind you, is my heir, after you. And I shall never have a child, nor, it is likely, a wife. You might go on to have a dozen children. The money should certainly be of use to you and your family. But I have no need of it, not for myself."

Neil seemed to be deciding, kicking monotonously at the hearthstone.

"I'm only returning to you what would have been yours by rights if we had not treated you so poorly. Take it, Neil."

Finally, Neil stopped kicking the hearthstone. "We owe a lot of our happiness to you already," he said bluntly. "I'm very grateful. I really am. And I shall put it to good use."

"I know you will."

"The one thing I'd really like," Neil said eagerly, "Is if you did find a wife – I'd like to see you happy too."

"I'm as ugly inside as I am out," Richard said cheerfully. "I know I am, for all society gossips so."

"Well they're quite wrong." Neil's lips twitched. "You're only ugly outside, Rich. And even then, it's not so bad an earldom and a fortune cannot make up for it."

"Then it is so bad, then it is worse. And you see quite why I wish to waste my fortune on the households of disrespectful, feckless younger brothers. I've got to do something to get the fortune hunters off my back."

"Marry a good woman, and they will leave you alone."

"The good women are all taken. The fortune hunters are the only ones left. But most of all," Richard said, more seriously, "I'm quite content as I am – You say that I have given you happiness, but you have also brought me happiness – you, and your wife, and your children. You mustn't think I'm lonely, down with the ghosts in Albroke. Or, to be quite precise, you mustn't fool yourself into believing a woman I didn't love would make me any less lonely. And there isn't one I can love."

There was a hidden wound there that Neil would never know, for Richard knew it was quite impossible to explain how much he loved Verity – and how loyally he would go on loving her, fully knowing that it would never be returned, and even, in his own way, being perfectly happy to do so.

But Neil, unconscious of this, was only laughing. "There is," he declared. "You just haven't found her yet. You haven't even tried to look."

THE END

# Final Note

Hi Guys! Spiszy here!

Now that I've finally published all the chapters of 
Lady in Rags
, I want to say a big thank you to everyone who ever read, voted, commented, or added it to their library. I wanna say an especial thank you to the few people who stuck with it from almost the beginning a year ago. You guys are awesome. I had no idea how much support I would get on Wattpad. It really blew me away.

I also want to say that the ending of the epilogue is a pretty big hint that I'm planning a story so that Richard can get his happy ending too - well, I am. I've had quite a few people ask me about that, and I like Richard a lot too, so he's going to get his own story. It'll probably appear some time end of next year. But I'm not going to put any firm date on it yet, because I have only just started planing.

I also had a few people ask me if I'm ever going to publish or remove this book from Wattpad - the answer is No, in both cases. I have absolutely no intention to publish
 Lady in Rags. 
And, since so many people liked it, I'm certainly not going to remove it from Wattpad.

So what am I going to do next?

Well, I'm going to write more books. At least four of them. And then I'm going to come back and publish them on Wattpad. But what I'm not going to do is publish them chapter by chapter as I'm writing them - which is how I published about the last half of Lady in Rags. I'm going to complete them first, edit them, and then post them. At the moment I've got one half-finished and another fully planned out and ready to go. I probably won't be ready to be putting either one up here until February or March next year. And in the mean time, over the next couple of months, I won't be checking Wattpad very frequently, and even in the times when I do, honestly, it's really easy to lose track of comments in my inbox. 
If you do have something important to say, or something that you really want to make sure I hear, please PM me. PMs are the only thing I can be sure I will see.

Anyway, I'm really happy you guys enjoyed the book. Thank you again for reading :) I don't think I ever would have completed it if I hadn't had an audience, and I don't think I would have ever realized that I could write a finished novel if I hadn't, well, finished one.

<3 Spiszy