Chapter Thirty-Three
Castle Darmead,
May 30, 1815
“Sophie?”
Sophie jumped. She’d been completely lost in her own thoughts and hadn’t heard Banallt come in. The words on her page gazed guiltily back at her. She blotted her page and set down her pen before she turned on her chair.
“Yes?”
Banallt came in, leaving the withdrawing room door open. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just a pair of buckskin trousers, shirt, and waistcoat. She’d been married before, yet she wasn’t used to Banallt being so at home around her. But then, she’d never really lived with Tommy, had she? His neckcloth was loose, too, and his hair was getting quite long. She liked the disreputable look. “How are you this morning, Sophie?”
He held a single sheet of paper in his hand. She could see the direction written on the outside and the bit of wax left from the broken seal. Quickly, she turned her pages over and brought out a fresh sheet to lay over the stack. She was writing again, not that she would ever publish, but the story refused to leave her. She kept seeing archers standing at those arrow-slit windows, firing on an attacking enemy while upstairs a young woman stared out a tower window, her heart in her throat.
“I’m well, thank you.” Quite often after they’d been apart, a sense of disbelief came over her when they were together again. Such as now. Was this wickedly handsome man really her husband? Or would he one day coldly inform her he was tired of her or tell her his legal wife had returned from Italy, not dead after all? Or perhaps their marriage was a sham. Reverend Carson would be proven to have been a fraud or to have made some egregious error in the recording of the marriage, and Banallt intended to throw her over for a Bohemian princess.
He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. She had a cup of tea on the desk, and half a scone, which she’d brought upstairs after breakfast. He picked up the cup and took a sip. “Good God, Sophie. It’s stone cold!”
“Is it?” She took back the cup. “Shall I ring for fresh?”
“No.”
She had the habit now of separating her relationship with Banallt into its various aspects. What they did at night and in private had nothing to do with moments like this, and moments like this were nothing to do with any other. A different Sophie made love to Banallt. That Sophie’s heart could not be broken. The letter in his hand crinkled. She saw Vedaelin’s signature on the page. Her heart clenched, and for a moment, she was only Sophie Mercer, and her heart was going to break. “Oh,” she said. She replaced the lid on her ink. “You’re going back to London, aren’t you?”
“There will be war, Sophie,” he said. “It’s certain. Wellington is in Brussels and will soon take command of the army if he hasn’t already. He’s demanding cavalry and artillery and God knows what else. St. Michael himself, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Then you must go.” She folded her hands on the desk. Her fairy-tale interlude was over. He was leaving her. Exactly as Tommy had done; with an excellent excuse that would not keep them permanently apart. She hadn’t seen Tommy again for nearly a year. Rumors of his behavior had reached her within weeks of his departure. The occasional bill arrived from some merchant, and she dutifully forwarded it to Tommy with a polite reminder that she had no funds from which to pay for his new gloves or a horse or his six new hats. She’d dismissed the rumors that came to her as nothing but mean-spirited gossip. The thought of Banallt taking another woman into his arms sliced her heart neatly in half.
“No choice, I’m afraid.” He took her scone and ate it. “We’ve not had much of a honeymoon,” he said. “If not for Bonaparte, I would have taken you to Paris and Rome. Florence and Constantinople.” His mouth curved. “Imagine the stories you would think of among the Saracens.”
She forced a smile. “But I am at Darmead, Banallt. My very own castle. Is there anything more romantic?” She was a jumble of conflicting emotions. What if he did not want her so close to London? What if he wanted her to come with him?
“What sort of honeymoon is that?” he asked. “When this business with the little Corsican is over, we’ll have a proper wedding trip, I promise.”
“We’ve been private here.” She stood up and began to straighten his cravat. “Will you take King with you? If you do, Darmead will need someone like him.”
He lifted his chin. “You’re the only one who can manage my neckcloths, Sophie. Why is that?”
“I have an artistic mind,” she said. Proper neckcloths required concentration during the folding. “No starch. How am I to produce anything elegant when your linen is unstarched?”
“I like to breathe when I am at home.”
“There.” She tweaked the two ends of the bow she’d made. “This is much harder than it looks, you know. A la Byron is very dashing. That’s all I can do with you like this.”
He put down Vedaelin’s letter and walked to her dresser to look at his cravat. “I feel a poem coming on,” he said.
She laughed, and he came back to slip his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry to disrupt our lives like this.”
“When will you leave? Not today, Banallt. It’s far too late for you to leave now.”
Banallt frowned. “Sophie,” he said. His eyes flashed. “Have you deliberately misunderstood me?”
“Not in the least.” She took a step back, uncertain of the cause of his displeasure. “Britain is going to war against Bonaparte, and you must return to London.”
He drew in a breath and slowly exhaled. “I am not Tommy Evans,” he said.
“I am aware, Banallt.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t wish to argue. I know who you are. And who you are not.”
“Nevertheless, Sophie, we must return to London,” he said.
“We?” She’d never thought he meant to bring her with him. The thought made her heart feel light. And wary at the same time.
“I understand you are still mourning your brother.” He brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. “You needn’t entertain or even go out. But you are my wife, Sophie.” He hesitated. “You told me once that people will talk simply because it’s me. You’re right. They will.” He lowered his head. “They’ll talk no matter what I do, whether you stay here or come with me.”
“Of that I am also aware.”
“The truth is, whatever anyone decides to say or not say, I want you in London with me.”
She shrugged. The image she had in her head was Mrs. Peters and the way she’d looked at Banallt. Hadn’t Mr. Tallboys himself said the woman was after him and making a fool of herself? And they would return to London, where that selfsame Mrs. Peters waited for his return. “Very well, Banallt. We shall go.”
“I don’t wish to play the martinet, Sophie.” His frown deepened. “If you aren’t ready to be in public, I understand. I shan’t force you to go if you’d rather not.” He touched the underside of her chin and lifted her face to his. His eyebrows drew together. “What on earth is going on in that head of yours?”
She twisted away from him. “I said I’ll go. Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” he softly replied. “It’s not. Why do you insist on treating me as if I am a rogue who, having secured your fortune, now wishes nothing to do with you?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” she said. She regretted the words the moment they were out.
He laughed. “What fortune of yours have I gained, Sophie, when you refuse me the only one that matters to me?”
“I’m well aware, Banallt, that I am in your debt.”
He threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. “Good God,” he said. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” He looked at her again, but she saw anger and frustration flicker behind his eyes. “That I’ll go to London to gamble away my fortune. Set up a mistress or two and come home drunk every night, if I come home at all, that is.”
“Haven’t you before?”
“Perhaps you’ve not noticed my fortune is quite intact, madam. Just as it’s also escaped your notice that I am rarely drunk. As for mistresses—”
She put her hands on her hips. “I knew when we married that you would not be a faithful husband.”
“Sophie—”
“Please, this is quite enough, Banallt. It’s absurd for us to argue about what we cannot change.”
“Tell me, Sophie, what have I done to make you believe I would treat you as Tommy did? Since I came back from Paris, I mean.”
“I’ve said I’ll go with you. That ought to be enough.”
“Have I been drunk? Spent a night away from here? Have creditors been knocking on the castle walls demanding to be paid? When you came to London, did you hear one word of scandal involving me?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Recent scandal. Not something dredged up from the past.”
“Mrs. Peters.” She had the sense that she was rushing toward disaster. Out of control.
He put his hands on his hips. “What?”
“Major Haggart said she was after you. Mr. Tallboys, too.”
“Tell me,” he said in a tight voice, “when you have come to your senses about me.”
They parted with neither of them happy. She was solidly in the right. After all, Banallt had lived a wicked life. She didn’t need to listen to rumor to know he was no stranger to immorality. She’d seen it with her own eyes. Hadn’t he spent the better part of three years trying to seduce her despite the fact that they both were married at the start? Hadn’t he done all those things and worse?
She left her room not long after, feeling unsettled, at odds with the world. As if some vital part of it were missing. She found King in order to discuss their removal to London, but her mind constantly returned to Banallt. Had she been fair to him? Sophie had the uneasy feeling she hadn’t been. Truthfully, since he’d come to Havenwood with his ridiculous and heartbreaking proposal of marriage, he’d behaved nothing like the man she’d known at Rider Hall. Her throat closed off.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes, King?” As with Banallt, she had to look up to see his face. The butler looked puzzled.
He cleared his throat and said, in the manner of someone who is, in fact, repeating himself, “The books his lordship sent down from London, we’ve just finished shelving them. Now that you’re going back to Town, should we crate them up again and send them back with you?”
“What books?”
“In the library, ma’am.” He smoothed the line forming between his eyebrows. “He said they were for you.”
“Best show me what you mean.” She followed him to the second-floor room that had the look of a withdrawing room converted to a library. And there, in the middle set of shelves, were all the books she’d written and twenty more books by authors who did not reveal their names and others who did: Mrs. Radcliffe, Eleanor Sleath, Charlotte Smith. Dozens of the favorites she and Banallt had discussed over the years were here. He’d remembered every one. She touched the bindings and pulled out the second volume of The Nocturnal Minstrel. Tears burned behind her eyes again. A thread of stubbornness wound through her. She would not give in.
“Ma’am? Shall we send them back to Hightower?”
She sat hard on a nearby chair and clutched either side of the book. She looked up at King. He was rubbing the top of his ruined ear. The Mercers had kept the contents of the Havenwood library, including books that had long been her beloved favorites. And he’d remembered them all.
“Lady Banallt? Are you all right?”
She looked up, barely restraining her emotions. “No,” she said. “Not at all. I—I think we’re done for now.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll call if I need you. Thank you for your help, King.”
“Milady.” King peered at her, and she was sure, with his piercing mud brown eyes, he’d seen right through her. Whatever he saw when he looked into her face, he bowed and left the parlor.
Quiet surrounded her, a hush that whispered of unhappiness and a life threatening to take the wrong path. The walls here were so thick one rarely heard sounds from other rooms. She could quite easily be the only woman left in the world. It was possible, she believed, that if she walked out of this room, she’d find she’d traveled back in time to the days when archers positioned themselves at the windows, hands on their longbows, eyes narrowed as they aimed at marauders attacking the castle. Or perhaps she’d walk into some other life, a not so distant past when she had been unhappy and convinced there was no other way for her to live.
During her marriage to Tommy, she’d never once thought she ought to tell him she wrote. In fact, she’d known that he must never know. Her survival depended upon her deceiving her husband. And once she was supplementing her income with her stories, meager as that income might be, she knew she could never tell her husband. Banallt had known from the start, and he hadn’t derided her successes. He’d also kept her secret. Tommy never knew that she wrote as Mrs. Merchant. Tommy had taught her never to share. Never to be herself. And she had let that poison take over her life. She shivered at the life that conviction had put before her.
“Here you are.”
She jumped, startled because she’d not heard anyone come in.
Banallt.
The sense that she had stepped out of time stayed with her, despite the fact that Banallt wore modern clothes. Her head felt light. The neckcloth she’d tied for him was askew again. She clutched the book on her lap. “Are we leaving tonight?” she asked.
“No. Tomorrow morning is soon enough. King said you weren’t well.” He knelt at her chair, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Are you all right?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She tried again. “It seems I just did this, Banallt.”
“Did what?”
“Prepared for a sudden removal to London. John had political duties that called him to Town. Because of Bonaparte.” She grasped Banallt’s hand. Her chest tightened unbearably. “He never returned. Never came home.”
“Sophie,” he said softly. “Sophie, darling.”
Still holding the book, she leaned forward and brought his hand to her cheek, leaning her head against his palm. “What if something happens to you, too, Banallt?”
“You’ve no worries for the future.” He sounded distant. Cold, even.
She dropped his hand and shot to her feet. The book tumbled to the floor, and she left it there. “Is that what you think I meant?”
“You’ve been left destitute twice. By Tommy, then by your brother.”
“But that isn’t what I meant. Not at all.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, as if that would keep her from flying apart. Her body trembled and she wondered if she was going to break down right now. She was in love with him, and now she worried that she’d realized it too late. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve been so horrible to you.”
He smiled and shook his head. He held out his hands. “Shh, darling. Come here. It’s all right.”
“But I’ve been horrible to you all along.”
He reached for her and drew her into his arms. “Nothing I haven’t deserved.”
“Do you really love me, Banallt? Me? Sophie Mercer, who writes novels and imagines too much?” She licked her lips. “And who sometimes does not imagine enough?”
“Haven’t I told you already?” He held her head between his hands. “I do love you, Sophie. Believe that, if you believe nothing else I say. I am your faithful hound.”
She inhaled a breath that rattled in her chest. “Banallt.” She stepped away and gripped handfuls of her skirts. “I feel as if I’ve lived a lie. I didn’t want to believe you’d changed, because if you had I’d have to face the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That I love you.” She put her hands to her mouth. “I’ve been in love with you for a very long time. And if I love you, then you can hurt me, and I never wanted anyone to have the power to do that again. Especially not you.” He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand. “Please, no. Let me finish. I was sitting here, before you came in, thinking that I had a choice to make. The most important choice of my life. I could go on as I have been, letting you get this close and no closer, and if I did that, you would never be able to hurt me, because I’d not have let myself love you. And we’d probably go on, getting on well enough but not as you deserved.”
“Sophie—”
“Please, Banallt. Or I could risk everything and let you love me. I could love you as you deserve. And I thought, when you came in, that perhaps I was too much a coward. Because you could break my heart.” She wiped away a tear. “But you brought those books here. Why?”
He shrugged. “I thought you’d want them.”
“You’re right.” She scrabbled in her pocket for her handkerchief. “Good heavens. What if I’d stayed a coward?”
“The one thing you’ve never been is a coward.” He put his handkerchief into her hands.
Sophie threw herself into his arms. “I love you, Banallt. I do. I have for quite a while. I’m sorry I was awful to you.” She was crying unabashedly. “Please don’t let it be too late.”
He pulled her tight against him. “Hush, now. It’s not too late.” He stroked the back of her head. “Darling, we had a spat. Such things happen to a married couple. If we differ, it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving you.”
She put her arms tight around his neck. “I love you. I do love you.” She buried her fingers in his hair and brought his head to hers. Sophie kissed him even though she was trembling. Even though she was afraid and the future was never certain. When they stopped, he kept his arms around her waist.
“You do understand, Sophie, the scandal we’ll cause in London?” he asked.
“Scandal? What scandal is that?”
A wicked grin appeared on his mouth. “Among the ton, it’s always a scandal when a husband and wife make no secret of loving each other. It’s simply not done.”
Her heart felt full. Overflowing. “Well, then, Banallt, let us cause a scandal.”