The Book Of Scandal (34 page)

Nathan’s distance hurt her worse than she could have imagined possible. It was astounding to think how quickly her heart had turned back to his, as if there were a divining rod between them. After more than three long years of grief and abandon, something miraculous had happened. She had found, in the place that she least expected it, what was missing from her heart: her husband.

And now, he seemed as distant to her as Robbie did lying in his grave up the road. From where she stood at her window, Evelyn could just see the top of the cherub.

“This wretched rain won’t let up a bit!” Kathleen groused as she entered Evelyn’s room with a stack of damp linens. “It’s a wonder we aren’t floating out to sea just now.”

If only she could float away, Evelyn thought idly. She’d seen Nathan precisely twice since he’d rebuffed her in his study. The first time at breakfast, when he had politely answered her questions, but had taken the first opportunity to escape.

The second time had been in the nursery. Oh yes, the nursery, the last frontier of her pain. She’d finally found the courage to face it. Granted, it had taken her a few rounds of standing and staring and walking away only to walk back again before she could actually put her hand on the knob. Then another few moments to find the actual nerve to open the door, but she’d done it, opening it slowly and carefully, holding her breath.

Which was why, probably, Nathan didn’t hear her.

It shocked Evelyn to see him sitting there on a child’s chair, his knees practically up around his ears, his face in his hands.

His head jerked up at her sound of surprise, and he stood quickly and surprisingly gracefully from that little chair, looking quite startled to have been discovered. He nervously ran his hand over the top of his head.

“I beg your pardon,” Evelyn said hastily. “I had no idea…I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Please,” he said. “Come in.”

She peeked around the door, saw the baby’s bed with the protective sides raised to keep the child from rolling off.

It was the very bed in which her soul had been scored by the devil’s claw, where Evelyn had held Robbie as he drew his last breath.

Nathan followed her gaze to the bed, and sensing her distress, he walked forward, his hand extended to her. “Come,” he quietly urged her.

His presence infused her with the fortitude she needed; she slipped her hand across the wide palm he held out to her, felt his fingers close around hers. He pulled her into the nursery and stood with her, hand in hand, in the middle of the room, as they both looked around.

It was just as they’d left it: Robbie’s clothes still hung in the little wardrobe, his shoes and boots lined up beneath. The bed linens, faded yellow after all this time, still dressed the bed. His toys were neatly stacked on a shelf where he could reach them, and the bed for his nurse—his constant guardian—remained at the far end of the room.

In addition to a table and four small chairs in the middle of the room, there was a smattering of child-sized furniture and a fire screen painted with animals in front of the cold hearth.

It was just as Evelyn remembered it, every detail. Her knees felt a little wobbly, but she drew a steadying breath, let go of Nathan’s hand, and walked to the shelf where Robbie’s toys had stood silently for almost four years. “I’d forgotten how many ponies he had,” she said with a smile. Pony was practically his first word.

She picked up a stuffed horse and looked out the bay of windows overlooking the small rose garden. The rain was falling steadily, sluicing down the panes of glass. “He used to climb up here and press his face to the window,” she said, as she pressed her hand to the window. She stepped away, hugging herself, the horse dangling from her hand. “It seems damp in here,” she said, looking at Nathan. “Do you suppose the dampness contributed somehow?”

“No,” Nathan said quietly. “It is damp because the room goes unused.”

Of course. Of course. “I have often wondered if there is something I might have done—”

“No,” he said quickly. “His heart was weak from birth, Evie, and it was weakened further with ague and fever. He was never meant to have a full life.”

It hurt her deeply to hear him say it, but she could not disagree. “Perhaps while I was carrying him, then. Remember, I had a bit of ague myself near the end—”

“God,” Nathan said, and put his hands on her shoulders to stop her from saying more. “Look at me,” he commanded her. “Listen to me. I have never in my life known a better mother than you, Evelyn. You did nothing to harm that child. Nothing! If you want someone to blame, blame me. It is far more likely that my years of drinking and God knows what contributed to his weak constitution.”

“What?”

He dropped his hands. “I am to blame,” he said tightly. “I suspected it from the moment he was born.”

“No, Nathan,” Evelyn said instantly. “No, no, I will not allow you to blame yourself!”

He shook his head, but Evelyn clutched his arm and forced him to look at her now. “Have you believed that all this time?”

He winced, the hard glint of his pain her answer.

Evelyn abruptly took his face in her hands. “I will not allow you to blame yourself,” she said again. “You are a strong, virile man—you gave that boy what good health he had. Had it not been for your strength, he might not have had fifteen months on this earth—he might not have survived his birth.”

Nathan looked at her skeptically; Evelyn nodded adamantly. “It wasn’t you,” she said. “Have you truly thought so? Oh no, Nathan, no. He fought so hard to be born, remember? That was your strength in him. And he fought so hard to live—that was your strength in him, too.”

Nathan clenched his jaw. Evelyn’s heart went out to him, for until that moment, she’d never suspected that he’d suffered the same unending, unanswerable, cruel questions that she had suffered.

“Oh Nathan,” she said softly, and let her hands drift down his chest.

He made a sound deep in his throat and looked at the floor, but covered her hand with his, pressing it against his heart. “It would seem we’ve both been plagued with questions.” Then he abruptly dropped his hand from hers and stepped back, away from her touch. “I will leave you to your private thoughts,” he said.

“Nathan, please don’t go—”

But he was already at the door. He glanced uncertainly at her as he went out, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.

Evelyn felt his absence in the draft that seemed to stream through the room. She hugged herself again and turned slowly, taking in every feature of the nursery.

It was more than an hour before she left, roused from her nap on the nurse’s bed by the damp chill in the room. As she left the room, she gave it one more look, her eyes landing on Robbie’s bed.

She had done it.

She had conquered the last of her old demons. She could, at long last, face and accept Robbie’s death once and for all of time.

Now, she had only to face her new demons.

She was contemplating them when Kathleen came in with the linens, complaining about the rain. As she listened to Kathleen puttering around the room and nattering on about the weather, Evelyn saw Nathan walk up from the river path. He was wearing a cloak buttoned at his throat and a wide-brimmed hat from which little waterfalls fell off the front and back.

“Lord, but he shouldn’t be about!” Kathleen said disapprovingly as she looked over Evelyn’s shoulder. “He ought to stay inside or he’ll catch his death.”

“Mmm,” Evelyn said, and pressed her palm to the pane of glass. It was cold. He must be cold.

“You should tell him so, mu’um,” Kathleen said. “He’ll listen to you.”

“Unfortunately, my husband is not interested in my opinion.”

“Of the ill effects of rain?” Kathleen asked in a tone that suggested she thought it preposterous.

“Of anything,” Evelyn said softly. “He has had a change of heart.”

“What? Oh no, you must be wrong, mu’um,” Kathleen huffed as she turned from the window. “If you don’t mind me saying, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. There’s not a man in England more in love with his wife, mark me.”

“That was before he went to London earlier this week,” Evelyn said, and traced a line down the glass. “And before he met Dunhill.”

The silence was so great that Evelyn turned to look at Kathleen. The poor woman was gaping. “Oh dear,” she managed.

Evelyn smiled sadly. “Oh dear, indeed.”

“You apologized for it.”

It was not a question, and Kathleen’s disapproving tone surprised Evelyn. A million retorts sparked in her brain, but she was struck by the fact she had not apologized for it. At the time, it had seemed an odd suggestion, given Nathan’s conduct. She despised the way society turned a blind eye to a man’s indiscretions, but crucified a woman for hers.

Nevertheless, it hardly mattered what Nathan had done—what mattered was what Evelyn had done and that she was truly sorry for her actions. She was truly sorry she’d ever left Eastchurch Abbey. She was sorry for everything that had happened to them, and sorrier still she hadn’t been strong enough to weather it.

So when Evelyn encountered her husband later that afternoon—under the pretense of having him look at a nonexistent problem with the hearth in her bedchamber, for which she had begged Benton to send the earl—she apologized.

“I beg your pardon?” He was down on one knee inspecting the flue.

“I apologize,” she said again, clasping her hands tightly together. “That is to say, I am very, very…sorry for…for everything,” she stammered, casting her arms wide.

Nathan came to his feet and studied her a moment. “I don’t quite know what you mean.”

Lord, this was difficult! “I am very sorry, Nathan, for having hurt you.”

He just looked at her.

“I am sorry that our son died and that I wasn’t able to bear it properly. I am sorry that I went to London and…and…” She waved her hand at the words she couldn’t bring herself to say. “I am sorry that our brief reconciliation didn’t last longer than it did, for I…” She paused, trying to find the words that were significant and important enough to express what she was feeling, and finding none that suited, she foundered.

Nathan frowned lightly. “There is naught wrong with the flue, is there?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll have Benton’s fool head yet.”

“It was my doing. Benton quite clearly wanted no part of it, but you know that I’ve always had the power to persuade him.”

He was watching her, his expression stoic.

Evelyn shook her head, trying to clear it. “That is neither here nor there, really. I just wanted to speak to you, but I scarcely see you, and I…I forced him to do my bidding, and now you are here, and I should very much like you to know how sorry I am while I have your ear. Truly sorry,” she said earnestly. “More than I can ever express, really.”

“I see,” he said simply. But his gaze went to the music box that still graced her mantel. Evelyn had forgotten it until this moment. She surprised herself by striding across the room, taking up the music box, and hurling it to the tiles before the hearth. It broke into several large pieces.

“Good Lord,” Nathan said.

The dancing couple, still intact, rolled to a stop against the tip of Evelyn’s slipper. She suddenly despised that dancing couple, and in a symbolic gesture, she stomped on it, crushing the porcelain as well as the heel of her shoe. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” she said with a whimper, and fell onto a chair to remove the offending shoe and rub her foot. “There, you see?” she demanded.

“I do indeed.” With his hands on his hips, Nathan looked down at the debris, and Evelyn hoped she was not imagining the hint of a smile on his lips. “Well then, I—”

Whatever he intended to say was interrupted by a knock on the door. Nathan moved to answer it before Evelyn could stop him and opened the door to Benton, who bowed apologetically.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but the sheriff has come at last.”

“About damn time. I shall be with him momentarily.”

Benton nodded and quickly disappeared. Nathan glanced back at Evelyn. “We shall continue this conversation later,” he said, and glanced at the broken music box. “Have a care where you step,” he added.

With a groan, Evelyn sank back against her chair as he strode from the room.

H aving completed his morning chores, Frances Brady asked his grandmother, who looked after him most days while his father worked, if he might go and tend to the baby’s grave. She made him wrap a scarf around his neck to ward off the chilly morning breeze, but sent him on his way, after extracting a promise that he be home at the noon hour.

Frances made his way through the woods along his favorite path. He found a limb that had fallen from a tree during the storm that made the perfect sword. He fought invisible enemies as he went, ducking behind trees only to lunge a moment later and spear his invisible opponent. By the time he reached the edge of the woods and the abbey church, he had lost interest in the limb and discarded it. He emerged from the woods with his hands in his pockets, and unwittingly allowed his long, forgotten scarf to trail behind him.

When he saw the man appear from around the corner of the church, he smiled. He’d seen him about often enough. The man smiled at him, too, and held up a hand in greeting. “Master Brady, is it not?”

“Aye, milord,” Frances said. He had no idea if the man was a lord or not, but he had learned long ago, after one lord had boxed his ears for calling him mister, that it was safer to call all men lords.

“Lindsey said I’d find you here.”

Frances stopped and peered up at the man. He had small brown eyes, wore a greatcoat of fine wool, and had a hat pulled low over his eyes. He clamped his hand on Frances’s shoulder. “Lindsey has a task for you, if you are able.”

“Aye, milord.” Frances was always able to help the earl. He admired him very much and often wished he’d been born to him instead of his father, who toiled from sunup to sundown and was rarely in good humor.

“He would that you ask Lady Lindsey to meet him in the cottage at half past ten. He has a surprise for her.”

“The lavender?” Frances asked, brightening.