"This morning."
"Why didn't you invite me?" Elizabeth's distress over the slight was genuine. "I would have come."
How to explain?
Elizabeth had been a friend, like a daughter in some ways, but their employer-employee relationship had invariably prevailed, and Mary's absurd, lengthy affair with Findley had forced her to erect barriers to ensure a distance that couldn't be breached by either of them.
"It happened so fast, Elizabeth," she submitted as a rationalization. "There wasn't so much as a second to deliver invitations," which was a lie. She could have invited anyone she'd wished, but the ceremony had been so special to her that she hadn't been inclined to share it with anyone. Not even Elizabeth.
"What are your plans?" Elizabeth appeared lost and confused over this latest transformation, making Mary rue that she hadn't been more forthcoming.
"I'm quitting my job and moving out."
"Now?"
"Well, it is my wedding night." Her mouth quirked up in a smile.
"Where will you live?"
"With John and Mr. Cristofore. Where do you suppose?"
"How lucky for you," she mumbled, without regard to the implications of what she'd uttered. "But... but how will you support yourself?"
"I've spent little of my salary over the years. I had no need of anything, so we'll have a moderate income from that, and Gabriel has his art, although"—on alluding to the touchy subject, she shifted uncomfortably—"he'll be painting more families and children, and not so many women. Plus, John and I have decided that we must find him a patron, a nobleman who will appreciate and nurture his talent."
"That's a superb idea."
"Isn't it? And I've persuaded John to negotiate a financial settlement with his family. He's never received a dime in almost three decades."
"My goodness," Elizabeth said, "the Preston men will never be the same."
"No, they won't, but as you can deduce"—she patted Elizabeth's hand—"I shall get along just fine."
"Yes, you shall; but how will
we
get by without you?"
"I'm sure you'll manage." She peered around the salon that she'd been charged with overseeing for so many years, but she suffered no regrets. "I haven't had much of an effect on these rooms—or your lives—in quite a while."
"That's not true. You're the best part of us."
"Oh, Elizabeth ..." Overwhelmed by the expression of sentiment, she noted that the emotional swings of the extraordinary day were taking their toll, and she stood, desperate to be off as she was running out of energy for the tribulation she had yet to endure. "I must be off. I still haven't conferred with your father."
"He's in the library. Would you like me to accompany you?"
"No. This should be a private chat."
They strode into the hall, suddenly awkward together, and Elizabeth queried, "Will you visit again?"
"No. But you know where I'll be. You're always welcome."
"Thank you."
Elizabeth moved first, enfolding Mary in a fierce hug, and Mary hugged her back for all she was worth, and when they separated, Elizabeth had tears streaming down her cheeks.
"I can't believe you're really going," she said.
"It's for the best."
"I'm sure it is," Elizabeth conceded, but she was obviously forlorn over being left to face Charlotte's chaos without Mary's support.
Mary sincerely felt sorry for her, but there wasn't any solution she could provide. Findley should have rectified the escalating domestic situation months earlier—perhaps by selecting a husband for his daughter—but in view of Elizabeth's current experiences with a particular extravagant Italian artist, a spouse was likely now an impossibility.
After Elizabeth had been assailed by Gabriel Cristofore's propensities and charm, how could Findley locate a man of whom she would approve?
"Good-bye, dear." Mary embraced her once more. 'Try to be happy."
"I will."
Mary left her weeping in the foyer, and she didn't look back, unsure of how to respond or how to remedy Elizabeth's problems. They were beyond Mary's ken, and moreover, she had bigger matters to attend. Findley would be livid, she was convinced of it, and in case another fervent scene developed, she had to preserve her remaining stamina.
She knocked on his door, utilizing the specific rapping pattern that let him know it was she, and he hastily bade her enter. They'd regularly convened in his restricted sanctum, but she had ceased visiting after he'd announced his engagement, and his delight over her appearance was palpable.
"Mary"—he was drinking a libation, and he tipped the glass in welcome—"how pleasant to have you here."
"Hello, Findley."
He was in the high-backed chair behind his glossy, impressive desk, and she confidently walked to him, the clicking of her heels muted by the expensive Persian rug. She halted directly across and set her bag on the floor, and he assessed it carefully, nervously.
"Are you going somewhere?'
"Actually, I am." She had drafted a letter of resignation, and she laid it on the desktop and slid it over. "I'm resigning from your employ. Effective immediately."
He picked up the letter she'd composed, scanned the contents, then, as she'd surmised he might, he tore it to pieces. With a dramatic flourish, he threw them over his shoulder, and they fluttered down. "Well, I don't accept it. Return to your duties."
"It's not that simple, Findley."
"It most certainly is
that
simple. As if I'd permit you to leave me! What are you thinking? Have you gone stark raving mad?" Never one for in-depth conversation, and never supposing that she'd decline to obey, he dipped his pen in the inkwell, and continued writing on the document that had had him engaged before her arrival.
Se observed him, pondering how speedily love could blossom, how it could abide through so much, how it could wane. Had she ever felt anything for him? Other than misplaced passion? Now that she'd met John, now that she'd ascertained what love and desire were really about, she couldn't recall what it was that had originally attracted her to him. Their affair had begun so long ago that it was difficult to recollect how and why she'd allowed herself to be so intricately bound to him.
Early on, she'd been flattered by his attentions, and too young to know any better, but after the incipient lust had worn off, how did she justify her persevering? Maybe it had been too easy for both of them; maybe there was no viable answer.
"Findley, listen to me." The stern tone in her voice had his head swinging up, and he glared at her as though he assumed she'd already departed. "There's no simple way to tell you this."
'Tell me what?"
"I got married today."
"You what?" He rose up as though he would stalk around to her, but his legs gave out, and he sank into his chair. "You can't mean it. Say it isn't true."
"It is." As evidence, she held out her ring so he could inspect it.
"How could you?" He did advance on her then, hastily moving to her side and taking both her hands in his. "You've been angry with me since I married Charlotte, but I thought it would pass. I thought you'd eventually forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive. You did your duty."
"Then why?"
He was earnestly perplexed, as he had been during every heated discussion they'd had, and she was sorry for him, but she couldn't save him. He'd engineered his fate.
"I merely need more out of my life."
"But I love you, Mary! I've always loved you!" He squeezed her fingers so forcefully that she worried her bones might crack, and he waxed on as though he hadn't heard a word she'd articulated. "You know how much I love you still! From the very beginning! You remember the day I came to Norwich, don't you? Your mother had died, and you'd been given her position. I hadn't seen you in years, since you were a girl, but there you were, all grown. I barely recognized you. You were wearing that blue dress I liked, and your hair was up. I decided, then and there, that you were the loveliest creature I'd ever laid eyes upon."
"Findley," she scolded, "let it go."
"How can I? I've been waiting for you to change your mind. All these months, I've been hoping you'd welcome me back to your bed, to your life! I've been so patient! You can't say that I have no chance left. I've apologized a thousand times, and I'll apologize a thousand more if that's what it takes!" He was nearly begging. "I
had
to marry Charlotte."
"I grasp that fact, Findley. Charlotte never signified to me."
"Then why do you persist? You know what Charlotte is like: she's a child, a spoiled, pampered child who could never give me what I need as a man. You keep stating that you understand why I wed her, so why can't you grant me your pardon?"
They were mired in the circle in which they unceasingly landed, with Findley declining to acknowledge—or even try to comprehend—her insupportable plight. Previously, she'd wasted many words, attempting to clarify or account for her actions and opinions, but she'd been through this repeatedly! It was her ancient history. Her destiny awaited in the carriage that was parked out front There was no reason to hash it out, once again. Findley never listened anyway.
"Good-bye, Fin." She picked up her bag and forced out the next Her gratitude was mostly bona fide—if she disregarded me rest of what he'd accomplished at her expense. "I appreciate the opportunities you gave me, and the faith you had in my abilities."
"I won't let you go." Vehement, undeterred, he pulled himself up to his full height. "I'll have you locked in your room till you come to your senses."
"You're being absurd." She rolled her eyes at his predictability. No one ever told him no or contradicted his
wishes. "My husband is waiting for me outside."
"Your
husband!”
he derided snidely, spitefully, and he seemed assured of the base sort of scoundrel who'd have her. "Who's the lucky fellow? Anyone I know?"
"You two are well acquainted." Casually, she drew on her glove, covering her ring, and eager to gauge his reaction to the next. "I'm Mrs. John Preston. You recall John, don't you? Years ago, you two quarreled. If I remember correctly, it was over your abominable treatment of Pamela."
"John... John Preston?" The tidings were so outrageous that he collapsed slightly, leaning for support against the edge of the desk. "You married ... Preston?"
"Yes. Isn't it splendid?"
"What's that knave doing back in England? No man's wife is safe! I should have him deported!" Baffled, bewildered, he asked, "Did you do it intentionally to hurt me?"
"When I made my decision, I didn't think about you at all." She strolled to the door, men turned. He looked older, crushed, defeated. "All those times, Findley, when you sneaked up the back stairs to crawl into my bed, you constantly insisted that the secrecy was imperative to protect my reputation. But guess what I finally figured out."
"What?"
"You were protecting your own. You never wanted anybody to know that I was your lover." She strode across the threshold. "Shame on you. I was always worth it."
As a parting shot, it wasn't bad, and she was grinning as she paraded down the hall. Loudly, he bellowed her name, but blessedly, he didn't follow.
As she entered the foyer, she was glad that none of her staff was lingering so she wouldn't have to explain or say farewell. She was seeing herself out, just reaching for the
knob, when the door burst open, and John marched in, impatient and mad as a hornet.
"Your thirty minutes are up!" he curtly declared.
Laughing, she stretched on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the mouth, not caring if Findley or anybody else witnessed her behavior.
"Let's go home," she said, and she slipped her hand into his and led him out.
But I love you, Mary! I've always loved you!
Charlotte sucked in a piercing breath, feeling as though she'd just been punched in the stomach. Her ears were playing tricks! She'd misheard! This couldn't be true!
After Elizabeth's brusque dismissal, she'd been too furious to loiter in her room like a naughty child being punished. What she'd really wanted to do was to lash out, to vent her unruly temper that had spiked to a new high.
She'd never been more livid, and a colossal dose of revenge was called for. Aware that Elizabeth and the housekeeper would be gaggling like a pair of hens in the Receiving Parlor, she'd gone to eavesdrop next to the flue that conveyed so many secrets to the upper floors. But who could have expected this horror?
They were lovers! Her husband and her housekeeper!
Why ... they'd been carrying on right under Charlotte's very nose! In her own house! The audacity! The gall!
The earl habitually chided her that she was a failure at her marital obligations, but to learn that the hideous oaf had deigned to review her dreadful bedroom deficiencies with his paramour!
How could he condescend to such a flagrant, monstrous breach of fealty and privacy? His criticisms had caused her sufficient chagrin and embarrassment. How could he compound matters by announcing her personal ignominy in such a repulsive manner?