Pathetic. She was behaving in a most pathetic manner. She
didn’t need the approval of men. She’d known that before but had lost touch
with it in her passion with David.
She let the blanket fall from her shoulders and straightened
her spine. “Yes, bring him here.”
Mrs. Wilson nodded and hurried away.
Bernard walked the parlor slowly. Funny, how one expects to
see changes after not seeing a former lover for a long time, but he looked the
same. Dark brown hair, large, emotive black-brown eyes. “Good morning, Miss
Darling.”
“Good morning, Bernard.”
“How are you doing?”
“I am fine,” she lied, smoothly she hoped. “Won’t you have a
seat?”
She motioned to the wingchair opposite her settee.
He sat, placing his satchel at his feet. He was never
without his satchel. How dedicated he was to his work. She envied that.
He addressed her again. “And how is your writing?”
“It’s fine.” Another lie.
“That’s excellent.”
“I am to believe you really think so?” She couldn’t prevent
her bitterness from leaching out. So much for showing him how much his opinions
didn’t matter.
“Miss Darling, please—”
This was bordering on ridiculousness. “Oh Bernard, please call
me Jeanne.”
“It is allowed?”
“Of course it is allowed.”
“Then we are still friends?”
“Let’s hope we’re not enemies.”
He raised his brows. “I dare hope not.”
An awkward silence filled the space between them.
“What is on your mind, Bernard?”
“I think Ratherford was a fool to have let you go as he did.
I think he treated you abominably and I told him so too.”
“I suppose I owe you thanks for that.”
“Your stories with will be such a success with the new
publisher, he will be gnashing what is left of his teeth into bloody stumps
with the frustration.”
She suppressed a shudder. “What absolutely frightful
imagery, Bernard.”
“Oh, at least give me a smile. Surely an old friend is worth
a smile.”
She stared at him coolly.
“Even a small one.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger with
a tiny space between.
“What makes you think that Ratherford has lost anything more
than the ill-conceived scribblings of a cold-hearted fraud of an authoress?”
Bernard’s face contorted as though pained. “Oh, Jeanne.”
“I don’t know why you’re here. Come to your point.”
“Yes, of course. But first, please let me explain. There is
nothing wrong with your writing. It is exactly as one would expect from a girl
your age.”
“You said it lacked feeling.”
“It had as much feeling as the life experiences of a
twenty-one-year-old woman would imbue it with.”
Oh, it was well for him to put it like that. Bernard was all
of twenty-five.
“Then why would you say those things to me?”
“Because I had finally admitted to myself that I would never
inspire any passion in you besides that which you pretended. I was hurt. I
wanted to hurt you. What I did was inexcusable.”
She gaped at him, not knowing what to say.
“I saw you at the theatre with your duke. I saw the way you
looked at him—God, you were lovely, as though you had stars in your eyes—and I
realized that no matter what either of us had done, you were never going to
look at me like that. And then I knew that it had all turned out as it should
have.”
She and David were likely never to share the same closeness
and affection again yet she had to smile. Despite his attempts to present a
veneer of cynicism, Bernard was always a fool for a happy ending.
There were no happy endings outside of a book or off of a
stage. People couldn’t be what the other expected. Those foolish enough to love
opened themselves up to disappointment.
“You’re wondering why I came here?” His voice was a bit
shaky, as though he weren’t sure of her reaction. As though her reaction
mattered to him. “I have completed a new play.”
“That’s grand, Bernard.” She returned his smile.
“Well, I hope it is—a grand thing. I am not sure. I tried to
write something deeper, more meaningful than I have in the past.” He stood and
walked to the window then stood there tapping the pane.
“I am sure if you wrote it, it is grand.”
“I wish you would read it.”
“What?”
He turned to face her. His expression was strained. “Would
you read it, Jeanne, and give me your honest opinion?”
His request stunned her. She tried not to show it. “Of
course.”
“You must be honest. You cannot allow me to make a coxcomb
of myself.”
His earnest tone made her smile widen. “I would never allow
that.”
“Good.” He held his hands at hip level and punched his fist
into the opposite palm. “Sometimes, Jeanne, I really fear that I shall never be
a great playwright.”
“You are a great playwright. A brilliant one.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mean simply that I could bring
in audiences night after night. I mean being a writer whose work can stand up
to the test of time. Don’t you ever think about that? Do you ever think about
what generations from now will think of your work? And more importantly, will
your work make them think?”
Her heart began to beat very hard. She didn’t want to think
of this topic today, let alone discuss it with her old lover and mentor. “I
don’t suppose I do.”
Bernard’s serious expression softened. He came to her and
touched her face. “I forget how young you still are. However, you may think of
these things someday. Or perhaps the love of your duke is enough for you. You
are after all, a woman.”
Now she had neither her writing nor her dear, beloved duke.
A lump formed in her throat and she looked away from. Her vision grew blurry.
“You have such passion for your work, Bernard.”
“Not always, my dear. When I met you, I was going through
one of the darkest winters of my writer’s heart. I was sure that I was finished
as an author. I hated everything I wrote.”
“You’re jesting with me.”
“No, I am telling you the truth. Do you know, it is so much
easier to talk with you now that we are no longer lovers?”
“Is it?”
“Yes, and I am glad for I wanted to tell you these things. I
needed to tell you these things for you are my muse.”
“Your muse?”
“Yes, you broke my heart and woke me from my long, cold winter.
My wounds taught me how to truly feel.” He pulled a manuscript from his satchel
and handed it to her. “Here it is.”
“I shall take very good care of it.”
“I know you will.” He placed a kiss to her forehead. She
heard the quickness of his breathing and knew it was one of his impulsive
gestures. He would fret over having done so later. He was really quite a dear.
“Now I know I shall never have any wife or mistress except my writing.”
After he left, she wondered at such passionate dedication.
Would she ever feel it again? Bernard assumed that she might be content with
David but she knew that she mightn’t have him any longer. And she wouldn’t know
for certain until he came back.
He wasn’t coming back for weeks. How would she bear the
waiting and terrible suspense?
She picked up Bernard’s manuscript and flipped through it.
It was a vast honor to be asked to read it but her heart was not in it.
“Miss Darling, there’s someone else to see you?”
What now?
“Yes, Mrs. Wilson?”
“Lord Toovey wishes to speak with you.”
Jeanne put a hand to her head. “Please tell him I am not
receiving visitors.”
“He says it is quite urgent.”
“Tell him I am not available.”
Mrs. Wilson wiped her hands and wrung her apron. “Very well,
Miss Darling.”
Jeanne glanced down at the manuscript.
The sound of boots on the floor made her look up. Charles
Toovey smiled at her. “Good day, Miss Darling.”
Mrs. Wilson came running in behind him. “I tried to tell him
no, but he insisted.”
“Very well, Mrs. Wilson.” Jeanne’s neck began to ache.
“Shall I bring tea and cakes?” the housekeeper offered in a
conciliatory tone.
“No, that will not be necessary,” Jeanne said, holding
Toovey’s gaze the whole time. “Lord Toovey won’t be staying long.”
Mrs. Wilson left them.
“Aren’t you even going to invite me to sit?”
“No, I am not. You are not welcome here.”
He sat in the wingchair opposite her settee.
Jeanne turned her attention to her book but she could feel
his gaze burning into her. Her heart pounded. That he had pushed his way in
here disturbed her. All right, it was frightening her considerably. Tom would
be back soon but what good would that do? Was he going to toss a peer of the
realm out on his arse?
“Why don’t you like me, Miss Darling?”
“Lord Toovey, the duke would not want you here and you know
it. Will you please leave?”
“Ah, the mighty duke. Of course he has poisoned your mind
against me. I am not guilty of everything Hartley is likely to have accused me
of.”
“Oh no?”
“I didn’t give it to her.”
“What?”
“I didn’t give Thérèse the syphilis, if that’s what you’re
thinking.” He had dropped his voice to a whisper.
Even so, hearing that word spoken in a public setting
shocked her. A second wave of shock hit her as the meaning of his words sank
in. “Thérèse has…syphilis?”
She whispered the very last part.
“Yes, she does. Didn’t Hartley tell you?”
It hurt to know that David had held back from her. If what
Toovey was telling her was the truth. But she‘d never show that hurt to anyone,
least of all Toovey. “He speaks vaguely of her.”
“Thérèse only came back to me to make Hartley jealous. I
don’t think she understood that at the time but that was the motive driving her
actions. She wanted everything in the world and one simply cannot gain
everything in this world. She wanted him to marry her. He was never going to
marry her. I still would have, even though she had no dowry and was no longer
pure.
“However, I wasn’t enough for her. She had to have Hartley.
When being my mistress didn’t bring Hartley running back to her, she went to
him and asked him to take her back. He refused. And when he did that, she went
a little wild—teasing, flirting with anything in pantaloons. Then she married
Captain Wellborne.”
Jeanne couldn’t help it. She was listening with
astonishment. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because I want you to trust me. I know Hartley has maligned
me to you.”
“He really didn’t say much of you at all.”
“Do you know why I want you to trust me so much?”
“No, I have no clue.”
He leaned forward, his eyes shining with earnestness. “I
want you to help Isabella with Thérèse. You’re really the only person who can.”
Jeanne frowned, feeling as though she were missing something
here. “Are you trying to tell me that Isabella wishes to speak with me again?”
“As a matter of fact, yes she does. Quite desperately.”
Oh devil take it…well, this would be the absolute last time.
* * * *
An hour later, Jeanne met with Isabella, in the same
backroom at the dressmaker’s shop.
“I need to speak with you on a very serious matter.” Isabella’s
voice rang with urgency.
“What is it?”
“It is Thérèse.”
“Thérèse?”
“Yes, she’s become quite despondent. She believes Hartley
will forget about her. Abandon her.”
“I doubt he ever would.” Jeanne was ashamed of the
resentment that bloomed in her heart at the statement.
“Perhaps but Thérèse is convinced that he will marry you.”
Jeanne stared at Isabella for long moments and then she
laughed. “Oh, goodness. I am the daughter of a commoner. David will never marry
me.”
“Yes, of course you understand that and I understand that.
But my sister is given to wild fancies. Her illness works on her mind in
dreadful ways. Her health suffers when her foolish imaginings deceive her. All
these months you have been keeping company with David, she says she could feel
his distraction. Her health has been slipping the whole time.”
“I am very sorry for it, but what can I possibly do?”
“You could talk with her and put her mind at ease. Please,
you must come straight away. My carriage is waiting in the alleyway behind the
shop. We can leave via the back entrance.”
Jeanne went rigid all over. “No, I cannot do that.”
Isabella lifted her chin and glared down her nose. “Really,
it is such a little thing. Can you be so heartless as to refuse?”
It wasn’t a small thing. The very idea of having to speak
with Thérèse filled her with revulsion and fear. Not because Thérèse was
David’s former mistress but because of her unbalanced mind.
“If she dies before her time because the worry over this has
strained her, David will never forgive himself.”
And then Jeanne knew. She would go and try to ease Thérèse’s
fears. She would do it for David, only for David.
* * * *
“Good afternoon, Miss Darling. Won’t you have a seat?”
Jeanne sat on the edge of the chair and tried not to wrinkle
her nose at the smell of illness that permeated the chamber. It was too hot;
the fire was built up far too much. Yet looking at the emaciated, petite woman
who sat upon the bed, one could well understand the need.
The woman lifted one hand and waved it. “Leave us,
Isabella.”
Isabella compressed her lips.
“Leave us!”
“Now, darling, I don’t think that’s wise.”
“I shall complain to David if you don’t leave right now. And
then he won’t take you to all your balls and routs and you won’t be able to
preen so stridently about being the dear sister of a mighty duke!”
“Oh, very well, I don’t wish to be the cause of you bringing
further grief to Hartley. You behave as though you were his only concern. As
though he didn’t have important duties.”