“Go, my darling,” she said into his hair. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He rose and took her hand. “Constance, I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “I know.”
And she did know.
And she was sorry too.
Because neither knowing of his sorrow nor sharing it could change what she must do.
Margaret was waiting on the stairs when Apthorp returned.
“Julian, you’re back. I was so worried.”
She was calmer now, though she still looked as pale and shaky as she had when he’d discovered her in the staircase at midday, wailing.
“I went to visit Lord Harlan Stoke.”
At Lord Harlan’s name her face went rigid.
“The matter is settled,” he said quickly. “He won’t bother us again.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he no longer has a reason to. Come, let’s talk in the study.”
“Of course.”
She sat down on a sofa, posture ramrod straight as usual, hands folded in her lap. Such a lady, his sister. So flawlessly correct. So rigid. As though she could not afford a single mistake after the one that had cost her so dearly. It broke his heart.
“Constance had heard that Stoke has by-blows, and urged Miss Bastian to inquire. Stoke denied it, and evidently Miss Bastian became suspicious and found a letter from you in his things. That’s how she learned about Anne. She came here without telling him. He has spoken to her now, and we have agreed that it is best for all parties that no one know of the connection. Stoke was … not exactly a model of gentlemanly conduct, but he was at least apologetic for causing you alarm. He assured me you can expect no further trouble.”
Margaret sank back with relief. He was glad, but he felt more miserable than he could recall feeling in all his life. He’d gone from Stoke’s back to the Rosecrofts’ to apologize once more to Constance, but she’d already left for Hammersmith and it was growing late. He could not let his sister wait in agony, imagining the worst. But he felt the guilt of his accusation coating him like scum on a putrid lake.
“Oh, thank God. I was so worried,” Margaret said.
“He also said he intends to settle funds on Anne after his wedding, if you will accept it.”
“I don’t want his money. I have never wanted his money.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
She took in a shaky breath. “But I will accept it for my daughter.”
“You needn’t. I will ensure she has a dowry.”
She was grim. “I don’t want to be a burden to you, Julian. Not a greater one than I’ve been already.”
He reached out and took her hand. “You aren’t a burden.”
She shook her head. “You are kind. But not honest.”
Honest. No. Perhaps he hadn’t been. “You’re right. I don’t think I ever said what I needed to say to you, all those years ago.”
She looked up. “And what is that?”
“That I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. That I couldn’t just bloody sort it out. That if our father had lived … That I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. It was my duty to protect you and I didn’t.”
She frowned at him. “Julian, if you blame yourself for what happened, you shouldn’t.”
But she didn’t know the truth. That he’d been relieved to be in London. He’d been happy learning politics, drawing up his waterway scheme, entertaining lovers on Charlotte Street—enjoying his freedom from the endless, tedious anxieties at home. He’d told himself he needed to be here to work, to meet his responsibilities. But more than money, Margaret had needed him at home.
“I could have spent more time in Cheshire, looking after you. I failed you when you needed me the most. I’d give anything to change it.”
“That simply isn’t true. You were off in London attempting to repair the damage Papa left. That was and is your duty; you are an earl. I had Mama to look after me and I had my own conscience. Falling in love may have been foolish of me, but it was my mistake, not yours.”
He stared at her. “I hate that you went through that.”
She smiled. “You needn’t, Julian. I don’t regret the past. I will never forgive Harlan for abandoning my daughter, but I would not trade Anne for all the world.”
“Nor would I,” his mother’s voice said from across the room.
He turned around, and saw she was sitting in a chair in the corner, sewing.
She rose and came to sit beside him and his sister. “We have all of us suffered since your father’s death—none more than dear Margaret—but we are comfortable. We have a happy home. You’ve borne too much, son, and it’s wearing on you. And that is my fault, for leaning on you too heavily when your father died.”
“Neither of you leaned on me. It was my responsibility—”
“No,” his mother said. “You were a child. You are still scarcely more than a child.”
“I am five and twenty,” he corrected her, fully indignant now.
“Exactly,” she said crisply. “And you’ve acted like a man double that in years for the past decade. It’s time you stop trying to find happiness for us and find it for yourself.”
“On that subject,” Margaret said. “I adore Lady Constance. And I have decided to take her advice. I hope you will not mind, but I had Mama write to Mr. Lane Day and extend an invitation for him to visit us this summer. I find him extremely pleasant.” She paused and grinned at him. “And I believe he feels the same way about me.”
He smiled. Lane Day was a gentle, serious soul—exactly right for Margaret. And if they were to marry, they might look after the estate, freeing him to spend more time in London with Constance.
“Cornish is a good man. I will leave him to your capable hands.”
“I hope you will be too busy sweeping Lady Constance off her feet to worry about who is sweeping Margaret off hers,” his mother said.
He winced. “I’m going to have to do better at that. My temper …” He shook his head. “I need to be better.”
“Oh, darling,” his mother sighed. “It’s not that you need to be better. It’s that you need to let everyone else be.”
She stood and patted him on the head, in a way she hadn’t done since he was a boy. “She has a big heart, your Constance. Trust in her to do right by it.”
“Oh, Mama,” he sighed. “I’ve hurt her. Over and over and over.”
His mother smiled. “Love often hurts. But how fortunate you are that you have a whole lifetime ahead of you to make it up to her. Over and over and over. And I’m sure she will put you to the task.”
Chapter 19
Apthorp stood at the head of the church and wished this part of his wedding day were over. He hadn’t slept all night. At dawn he’d been tempted to borrow a horse and ride to Hammersmith, but his mother had been awake and made him tea, observing he looked wan.
“Nerves on the day of your wedding are nothing out of the ordinary.” She’d smiled at him. “No need to do something rash. Let Constance enjoy her wedding morning with her family. Let’s have breakfast.”