After an endless time Gervase spoke, his voice dead, devoid even of pain. "Don't speak to me of redemption, Diana. Some souls are beyond forgiveness. Surely even you will admit that now."
When language failed in the past she had always used touch to convey what words could not, but when she laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder he twisted violently away from her. "Don't touch me. In the name of God, don't touch me!"
Shocked, she jerked back, huddling on the edge of the bed, her arms clenching across her. Trying to be matter-of-fact, to bring this nightmare scene back to normal, she said, "Your arm needs bandaging."
He had rolled onto his back, his good arm screening the upper half of his face. Utterly hopeless, he said, "Not by you. Get out, Diana. Just get out."
She stood, clutching her torn robe around her as she gazed down at him. She had never been more aware of his strength than now, when he was on the verge of breaking. She had known more than her share of suffering, but she had also known love, from her mother, even from her father when she was very young. Later, Edith and Geoffrey and Madeline had warmed her life. In spite of receiving so much love, she saw now that she had not fully recovered from her experiences.
Gervase had had no one, ever. A father who wasn't there, a mother who abused him in the most unpredictable and poisonous ways. Yet even so, he had not succumbed to cruelty. He had the wealth and power and intelligence to cause great evil, yet he was fair and honorable to those who depended on him. As a lover, he had been more than fair; he had been generous and kind, even tender. Repeatedly he had risked his life for the greater good, both in the army and in the mysterious, thankless work he did now.
Never having known real warmth and love, no wonder he feared accepting it, feared the power she might gain over him. As starved as he was for intimacy, no wonder he had been desperately jealous and possessive, unable to believe in her constancy. No wonder he had been shattered by her apparent betrayal. It wasn't just that he believed her to be treacherous. Her actions had released the dark trauma that lay at the very roots of his soul.
She had never loved him more than now, when she was aware of the full dimensions of his valor. It wasn't hard to be good when circumstances encourage it. How incredibly more difficult it must have been for Gervase, who had been raised by the examples of selfishness and neglect. Yet he had done it, become a far better man than his upbringing had decreed. If not happy, he had been content, had known his place in the world and was living an honorable life.
And in her heedless self-righteousness, her unacknowledged desire to exact a subtle payment for what he had done, she had brought him to this. She remembered the words Madeline had spoken long ago in a sunlit garden: Some people... can be brought to their knees, with all their pride and honor broken by the ones they love.
Diana was bitterly ashamed for having played on Gervase's uncertainties. To feed her own desire for power, she had refused to promise fidelity when he had so desperately craved it. Yes, she had been injured by him, but she had been in a position to know better than to injure him in return, and she had failed.
Diana sensed that he was now in some black place beyond light or hope, and feared that nothing she could do or say would make any difference at all. But she could do no less than try.
Her voice shaking, she said softly, "No matter what you have done, or how much you hate yourself, I love you, because you are worthy of being loved. I think it was fate that drew us together. We have both been wounded, but together, if we try, we can heal each other. You are part of me, and I will love you as long as I live, and beyond."
She could see a quick, convulsive tightening in the part of his face that was visible, but his harsh breathing was his only reply. The abyss between them was too wide to be bridged, and she feared that the damage was beyond repairing. There was nothing more to be said, so she lifted her candle, now burned low and guttering.
She also took her knife. If he wanted to destroy himself rather than live in his pain, she knew he could find a way, but she would not make it easy for him.
Only the knowledge that her presence was hurting him made it possible for her to leave.
Chapter 23
For Gervase, it was a night without end. After improvising a crude bandage to stop the flow of blood, he lay in the shadow-haunted room, unable to face full dark. He had been too profoundly scarred by the fact of his mother's seduction to have forgotten, but for years he had walled off the event in his mind, rigidly suppressing all memory of the details.
Now his spinning head was full of her beautiful, corrupt face, her amused murmurings, her mocking incomprehension of his horror. Medora was a form of the name Medea. Medea, the sorceress who had murdered her own children. He sometimes wondered if she would have been different if she had carried a different name.
He'd never seen her again after that afternoon. He ran away, blindly, heedlessly. When his father's men had found him weeks later, he refused to go back unless it was understood that he would never, ever set foot under any roof that sheltered his mother. His father had raised his brows in mild surprise, but had no desire to know more. It had been a simple matter to leave his son at school or send him to remote properties where Lady St. Aubyn would never go.
Gervase had been seventeen when his mother died, an age when young men are most fascinated and caustic about sexual peccadilloes. In spite of his youth, he had fought two duels before his classmates realized just how unhealthy it was to refer to the late, notorious viscountess within earshot of her son. Gervase had been careful not to kill, since nothing could be said about his mother that was more insulting than the truth, but the duels increased the sick, angry ache deep inside him.
His nightmarish marriage had confirmed his unworthiness to ever live a normal life. It had been fitting to think himself tied to a mental defective, with the punishing guilt of how badly he had used the child. But in spite of his remorse, he had never truly thought of his wife as a person in her own right.
Now in this night of purgatory, he could not escape the face of the girl he had known as Mary Hamilton, with her dazed, drugged, terrified eyes. More and more clearly, he recognized under the terror the soft features and haunted loveliness of Diana.
The harsh realities and savage beauty of India had burned away any remnants of his youth. Military service hardened him, and it had been a blessing to feel less. Since returning to England, he had built a satisfactory life, honoring his obligations and finding the chess-like challenges of intelligence work quirkily gratifying.
Until Diana had appeared, weaving sweet illusions of warmth and happiness, then tearing them asunder. His wife, whom he had raped and abandoned, who had returned to become the love of his life, who even now, incredibly, heartbreakingly, claimed to love him.
He had never been more grateful to see a dawn, though it came with glacial slowness, giving the promise of light long before fulfilling it. When Bonner appeared, the valet bandaged his arm with military precision and no comments or questions. Diana had done an excellent job. The slash was long and shallow, messy but causing no real damage.
Briefly he wondered where she had learned to use a knife, but there was much he would never know or understand about the woman he had married. He bathed, as if hot water could wash away the stains of ancient evil, then wrote a note to Geoffrey, postponing their ride with apologies. He was unable to face innocence this morning.
There were advantages to having a reputation for silence, for no one seemed to notice that he was any different than he had been the day before. Except perhaps Francis, who looked at him with furrowed brow. Diana, thank heaven, kept herself out of his sight. At the moment, being in the same room with her would have been more than Gervase could bear.
* * *
Breakfast in the nursery was a cheerful affair, or would have been if Diana had not looked so drained, her fair, fragile skin shadowed with fatigue. It took no great intelligence for Madeline to guess that there had been a clash, and she wondered how his lord
ship of St. Aubyn looked this morning.
Maddy and Geoffrey engaged in a tacit conspiracy to cheer Diana, talking back and forth merrily. After breakfast, Geoffrey slipped off to visit some of the estate children whom he had met on his Christmas visit. Madeline wondered how they would regard him now that it was known that the boy was the heir to Aubynwood; it was bound to make a difference.
As Diana gazed blankly into space, Madeline open two letters that had just been delivered. The first was from Nicholas, full of the most marvelously improper suggestions, and with the happy news that he would be able to return to London sooner than expected.
He was pressing for a definite wedding date, and Madeline was inclined to let him have his way. A year and a day after the death of his wife, perhaps. A very quiet ceremony. She read the letter three times before setting it aside.
The second letter was from Edith, who had taken the mail coach and made fast work of the trip to Scotland. In a firm, inelegant hand, she laid out her findings:
Dear Maddy,
I'm sending this to you since you will know the situation and can judge when it is best to tell Diana. Learning about her father was easy. The local doctor, Abernathy by name, was most forthcoming when I said I was a friend of Di-ana's. She was well-regarded here, and he talked fondly of what a bonnie puir wee lassie she was.
James Hamilton died last year of the same disease that made him mad—the French disease. (Also called sifilis?) Abernathy says the vicar was quite the gay society lad in his youth, drinking and wenching and gambling and all the rest. Even after his marriage, he did not entirely reform. He contracted the sifilis after Diana's birth.
Abernathy says Diana's mother killed herself the day after the doctor confirmed that she was pregnant again. The poor woman already knew she had contracted her husband's illness and couldn't face bringing a diseased baby into the world, nor, likely, seeing herself go mad like her husband was beginning to. So she drowned herself. Even among the stern godly Scots, sympathy is on the side of the lady, and her husband was universally condemned.
After his wife's death the vicar went all queer, getting madder and madder. His daughter had always been called Diana but he started calling her Mary, since he said Diana was a pagan name. When he came back from a trip to the Hebrides without Diana and a faradiddle about her marrying, there was some fear he'd done away with her, but everyone was afraid of him and nothing was done about it. At the end of his life, Hamilton was locked up and raving mad, all his clerical work done by a curate.
Abernathy was delighted to hear that Diana was alive and well and urged her to bring her husband and bairn for a visit. Or if not that, to write to him anyhow, because as her father's sole heir she inherits a tidy fortune. The madder Hamilton got, the less money he spent. Apparently her parents were quite wellborn, but you and I had guessed that.
I'm for Mull and my sister Jane now. Give my love to Diana and Geoffrey.
V'truly yours, etc.
Edith
Madeline read the letter once, then again, before glancing speculatively at Diana. On balance, she thought her friend could do with a distraction, even a melodramatic one. "Here's a letter from Edith. She's been to your village in Lanarkshire. You'll want to read it yourself."
Her words startled Diana out of her abstraction and she accepted the letter. As she read, she turned very pale and was silent so long that Madeline finally asked if she was well.
"I'm all right, Maddy." Diana buried her face in her hands for a time, but there were no tears. Finally she raised her head, her features sad but resigned. "So all of those years my father was suffering from venereal disease. No wonder he cursed lust and considered women a source of contamination."
"He must have been guilt-ridden as well," Madeline ventured. "For contracting the disease through adultery, for giving it to your mother, for being the cause of her suicide."
Diana nodded slowly, her eyes distant. "It would have been enough to drive him mad even if the disease didn't. After my mother's death, he terrorized me with his ravings about sin and corruption and the evils of worldliness. And yet, as the letter says, he'd been very fashionable in his youth. After going into the church he gave up silks and velvets and all the other trappings of wealth, except for a gentleman's pistol that he carried for protection."
She sighed, her face deeply sad. "He was very quick to condemn others, yet he succumbed to temptation himself. For a few moments of carnal pleasure, he destroyed himself and his family. Such a tragic waste."
Her voice broke for a moment before she could continue. "He must have suffered greatly from his guilt. And he must have known that he was going mad."
"It's generous of you to feel compassion after all he did to you," Madeline observed.
Diana smiled wryly. "It's far easier to be compassionate now that he's safely dead. I've lived a whole lifetime since I saw him last, and it has been a much better life." She folded the letter into precise quarters. "When I was little, he wasn't a bad father. Stern, but not unkind. Sometimes he was even affectionate. I'll try to remember him like that. I hope he is at peace now."
"And your mother?"
Diana closed her eyes in pain at the question. "Now I understand why she was so distraught before... the end. She left no note. I think she must have decided on impulse that she just couldn't face the future, and walked into a pond wearing heavy winter clothes." She shivered, then opened her eyes. "The official verdict was death by misadventure so she could be buried in holy ground, but everyone knew that she couldn't have drowned there unless she wanted to."
"Can you forgive her for leaving you?"
Diana nodded, biting her lip. "Mama knew how to love, generously and wisely. She taught me to read, to love music and books. Most important, she gave me a sense of spirituality quite different from my father's harsh, condemning religion. It was from her that I learned that love is more important than hatred or revenge. It was because of her that I was able to survive my farce of a marriage as well as I did."
She smiled wryly. "Not that my conduct has been all that saintly. I was angrier than I knew. But it wasn't hatred or anger or desire for revenge that dominated my life, in spite of what my husband believes."
Gently she clasped the folded letter between her palms, her eyes distant. "I would never have emerged from my childhood with any health or sanity if it hadn't been for my mother. You remind me of her." Diana drew a shuddering breath. "That's why it was so hard to comprehend why Mama would kill herself. With what Edith writes, finally I understand. May God have mercy on both their souls."
Then her face crumpled and she began to cry, with the healing tears of release.
* * *
The Count de Veseul deciphered his letter with mixed emotions. He had proposed a plan to his superiors that was so brilliant and subtle that he would carry it out whether they approved it or not, just because of the pure, wicked pleasure he would find in the execution.
Only the imbeciles at the Horse Guards would have wasted Arthur Wellesley's talents for so long, and only those same imbeciles would actually bring the Victor of Vimeiro up before a court of inquiry for a treaty that the general had not negotiated. The fools did not deserve Wellesley. In France he would have been a marshal by now.
Veseul admired Wellesley. He was perhaps the only soldier in Britain who might threaten the emperor, and that knowledge made it so much more pleasing to bring him down. Wellesley was vulnerable now, and it would be simple to manufacture evidence to taint his name. When Veseul was done, the best the general could hope for would be a lifetime rotting in Ireland, mediating potato wars.
It was gratifying that Veseul's superiors were properly impressed with the count's proposal, but their enthusiasm meant that he would have to return to London prematurely, the very next day, in fact. He had only a few hours left to seek out the elusive Lady St. Aubyn and take his pleasure of her.
He should have attempted Diana Lindsay the night before, but Lady Haycroft had come to his room and, what w
ith one thing and another, the night had passed quickly. Her ladyship liked pain as few women did, and there was a special pleasure in that, though her willingness removed the joys of conquest.
This morning, when he was ripe to try an unwilling woman, the blasted viscountess had sent a message down that she was indisposed. More likely she was avoiding her stone-faced husband. Veseul knew she was not in her chamber because he had expertly picked the lock, only to find the room empty.
It would take time to locate her. He had planned a far more elegant campaign, spinning a delicate web that only she would see. Now he would have to move in haste. The crudeness would be unaesthetic. But not, however, without enjoyment.
* * *
Gervase looked up wearily when his cousin entered the estate office. He had been busying himself with routine matters that would be better handled by his steward, but it was a convenient excuse to remove himself from his guests, who were having a fine time and hardly noticed his absence.
Francis, however, was not so easily avoided. Choosing a chair right in front of the desk, he sat down. "Good day. Gervase. Do you have time to talk for a few moments?"
"If I don't, will you leave?" Gervase asked dryly.
"No," was the cheerful reply.
His expression easing, Gervase settled back in his chair and prepared to hear what Francis had to say. He had never considered it before, but his cousin had a quality of calm acceptance that was like Diana's. Sharply he changed the direction of his thoughts; he could not bear to think of his wife. "I'm glad you could come to Aubynwood. I haven't been at my most social, and I appreciate the fact that you've been acting the host in my absence."
"Quite all right." Francis waved his hand casually. "I know you've had other things on your mind, such as having your wife and son here publicly for the first time."