Someone to Care
Page 53

Well. When one asked for honesty, one had better be prepared for just that. Viola tried to frame a suitable answer but could not think of anything to say.
“Please be honest,” he said, echoing what she had said to him.
“No,” she said. “What we did was very selfish, Bertrand. I will not try to explain to you why I felt the overwhelming need to escape for a short while and why I took the opportunity when it presented itself. There is no reason why you would care. I did not know that you were waiting so eagerly for your father’s return home—I believe you were waiting just as eagerly as your sister was. It seemed harmless, that escape, of no concern to anyone but the two of us. I ought to have known better. I have thought recently about something John Donne wrote in one of his essays.”
“No man is an island?” he asked, surprising her.
“Yes,” she said. “I ended up hurting my family, and your father ended up hurting his. He is not entirely selfish, Bertrand. As soon as he saw Abigail outside that cottage, he believed he must make reparation. And as soon as he saw you and your sister, his resolve was hardened. It was not for himself he made that announcement and not for me. I thought at first it was for me, to protect my reputation. But I do not believe he would have said it if Abigail had not come with my son-in-law and the others. He did it for your sake and your sister’s and Abigail’s. I am sorry. No, that is too easy to say. Apologies usually are.”
“He said that you fell in love with each other years ago,” he said. “Was that true?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “But I was married then—or thought I was—and we both respected that marriage bond. Both of us. There was nothing between us then, except those feelings, which we resisted by avoiding each other.”
“Thank you,” he said after a short silence. “Would you like to walk around to the dower house?”
Abigail and Estelle were wandering about the outside of it.
Should she tell him, Viola wondered, that she was not going to marry his father? Or would that be unfair to Marcel before they had worked out how it was to be done?
“Yes,” she said, but before they could resume their walk they both turned at the sound of footsteps crunching on the leaves behind them. It was Marcel.
She had avoided him last evening after they had returned to the house. She had not seen him this morning. He had already been shut up with his steward when she came downstairs to breakfast with Abigail, dreading seeing him again.
He looked as he had in Devonshire, dressed warmly in his many-caped greatcoat and top boots, his tall hat pulled firmly onto his head. And her insides turned over even as she despised herself for the pleasurable awareness the mere sight of him aroused in her. No, it was not pleasurable. Not when it was something that involved only her body while her mind and her very being told her otherwise. If she was in love with him, then being in love was mindless and not at all something to be desired and reveled in.
His eyes held hers before moving to his son. And in that look, unguarded for the first moment, she read something that pulled at her heart and shook her resolve yet again, though she could not put a name to it. Pride? Love? Longing? Did he see something of himself in the boy? Something better than himself?
“Thank you, Bertrand,” he said, “for entertaining our guest.”
His son was stiff and formal again as he inclined his head. “It has been my pleasure, sir,” he said.
Marcel looked across the lake to where his daughter was pointing upward toward the chimney or roof of the dower house, or perhaps an upper window while Abigail looked upward too.
“Would you like to see the dower house?” he asked Viola.
“Bertrand was about to escort me there,” she said.
“Good.” He offered her his arm. “And I have brought the key. It is a pleasant house. Sometimes I think perhaps I should move there if my aunt does not wish to. With my children. And you.” His eyes came to rest on her as she slid her hand through his arm. “What do you think, Bertrand?”
“I think being the Marquess of Dorchester imposes obligations that necessitate your living at the main house, sir,” his son said as they set off along the path about the lake.
“Rather than the dower house or anywhere else,” his father said. “One cannot escape duty, then? Or ought not?”
“I can only speak for myself, sir,” his son said. “Living at the dower house—or anywhere—with you and your wife would be a dream come true for Estelle.”
Viola felt a slight twitch in Marcel’s arm.
“You do not believe in dreams?” he asked his son.
Bertrand did not answer for a few moments. “I believe in dreams, sir,” he said. “I also believe in the reality of the fact that very few come true.”
Marcel’s eyes moved to Viola. “And what do you think, my love?” he asked.
“Dreams cannot come true if the dreamer does not have the resolve to make them reality,” she said.
“The resolve,” Marcel said. “Is it enough?”
No one ventured a reply, and the question hovered like a tangible thing over their heads.
Seventeen
Viola had gone upstairs with the young people to see the bedchambers. Marcel could hear them talking up there—all four of them. He had missed that time when his son’s voice had changed from a boy’s to a young man’s. And he had missed the change in his daughter from demure, rather colorless girl to eager, forceful young lady, though he suspected that change had been far more recent. Indeed, perhaps he had not missed it at all. Perhaps it had begun with her disappointment that he had not come home when he had said he would come, and the resulting anger had propelled her into adulthood.
He had remained downstairs in the drawing room—if the room in which he stood could be dignified with so grand a name. It was a large sitting room but cozy too—or would be if a fire were burning in the hearth. As it was, he was glad he had kept his greatcoat on when he removed his hat and gloves after stepping inside. He stood gazing through the large window upon woodland and the lake and the boathouse and more woodland beyond. Something about it all reminded him of the cottage, where he had been so happy.
Happy?
That was a strange word to use. He had enjoyed himself there. Enormously. He could have stayed for another week at least without being bored or restless—if she had not grown both, and if their families had not descended upon them when they had.
He had also been happy there, damn it all. He pushed his hands into his pockets for warmth and listened to the voices, though he could not hear the actual words, coming from above, and he felt like . . . crying?
What the devil?
What the devil had he done with his life?
He had enjoyed it—that was what.
Living at the dower house—or anywhere—with you and your wife would be a dream come true for Estelle.
I believe in dreams . . . I also believe in the reality of the fact that very few come true.
Dreams cannot come true if the dreamer does not have the resolve to make them reality.
It was strange how one seemingly insignificant decision could cause turmoil and upset the whole course of one’s life. Less than two months ago he had decided quite upon the spur of the moment to send André home with the carriage while he stayed to speak with the former Countess of Riverdale, to persuade her to spend the afternoon with him at the village fair, to coax her into spending the night with him. One small decision, quite in keeping with what his life had been like for the past seventeen years.