Chapter 21

Andrew won his congressional seat in the special election, six weeks after his son was born. Angélique was still too weak to be at his side on election night, but she was at his swearing-in, and so proud of him. He was ecstatic and had won by a wide margin.

The only disappointment in his life was that his father had refused to see the baby, and said he never would. He hated Angélique with an unabating, unrelenting passion, and said that he disapproved of her, which angered Andrew, but there was nothing he could do. His father remained adamant about her. Their life was happy otherwise.

They christened the baby, in January, when Angélique had regained her strength. She looked beautiful, and they gave a party at their home to celebrate the baby. They had been married for a year. And she had sent Tristan a letter from Andrew’s attorney in New York, informing him that the heir and next duke had been born, and as they both knew, the estate would be entailed to him one day, and the title. She would have loved to see her brother’s face when he got the letter, but just sending it was enough to satisfy her. Tristan had banished her, but her son would inherit the title and whatever was left at the time of Tristan’s death, not her brother Edward, if he’d still been alive, or Tristan’s daughters, who couldn’t inherit any more than she could. They would have had to look for a male cousin if her son hadn’t been born. Instead, her father’s grandson would step into his shoes one day. Justice would finally be served.

The time passed easily after that. Andrew won his congressional seat the following year in a landslide reelection. They spent time in Washington whenever Andrew had to be there, and she took the baby and nanny with them. She hated to be away from him. They had wisely followed the doctor’s advice not to have another baby. Andrew was emphatic about not risking her life again.

She had never seen Andrew’s father since before they were married, and she was used to it by now. It was easier this way. She had never told Andrew about meeting him in Paris, and his proposals, and didn’t intend to, out of respect for both of them, however little John deserved it.

Three years after he won the special election, at the end of Andrew’s second term in Congress, he ran for the Senate. Andrew fought hard for the senatorial seat against a fierce candidate, and three weeks before the election, John Hanson’s prediction before their marriage came true. They never knew who unearthed it, but a zealous reporter researched it, and found someone who recognized Angélique and had met her in Paris, at Le Boudoir, and exposed the whole story to the press. She wondered if Andrew’s father had tipped off the newspaper, but she didn’t think he’d go that far, and hurt his son. But the story was out there, the election was as good as lost, and Andrew withdrew from the race, with a dignified statement about his extraordinary, devoted, loving wife. He retired quietly from political life, while his father reminded him bitterly that he had warned him it would happen one day.

Andrew insisted to Angélique he didn’t care. They were happy. She was twenty-five years old, and a happily married woman, Andrew was thirty-four, and their son was three. He had had three years in Congress, and after he withdrew from the election he went back to practice law. She felt terrible about costing him the election.

“It doesn’t matter,” he promised her, although they both wondered who had exposed her. Andrew had tried to do some investigating, but the journalist wouldn’t reveal his source. And so many people had come to Le Boudoir, either once on their travels, or regularly, and had talked to others about the alleged “Duchess” who ran it. She had been famous in Paris, sotto voce, for a short time. And her life was far from all that now. It seemed like a dream when she thought about it. She thought of Thomas, her mentor and protector, occasionally, and wondered how he was, but she could never communicate with him without putting him at risk for some kind of scandal, so she just thought about him and wished him well. She had sent him a note when she got married and nothing since. And he had responded formally with his best wishes, although her note had confirmed what he had feared. That some lucky man would marry her and she would never return to Paris. He had no way of telling her but loved her as much as ever and knew he would to his grave.

She was still in touch with some of the girls. Ambre had married, quite remarkably, and had two children, which seemed unlike her. Fabienne had had one every year and now had four. Philippine had begun a career on the stage, Camille had gone back to her old one. Agathe had a new protector. And she had lost track of the others.

Mrs. White still kept her abreast of what was happening at Belgrave. Both of Tristan’s daughters had gotten married to men with minor titles and small fortunes. Hobson was aging and getting frail but was still alive and the head butler at Belgrave, and Mrs. Williams was planning to retire. And some of the old staff she’d grown up with was still there. Markham, her father’s devoted valet, had retired years before. And Angélique had been amused to hear that Harry Ferguson had discovered his wife’s infidelities, matched only by his own, and had left her for another woman and shocked everyone. He had run off to Italy with a countess, and Eugenia was beside herself. Angélique had heard it all at a party in New York, from people who knew them.

Andrew was incredibly kind to Angélique, as always, about his blighted political career because of her and told her that in some ways it was a relief. And they spent the following summer in Sarasota Springs, as always, and little Phillip turned four in the fall. Angélique would have loved to show him Belgrave, which he would inherit one day, but that still was not possible. Tristan and his attorneys had never responded to the letter about Phillip’s birth, but the reality of the entail was there, and where it would lead one day when Tristan died.

And then, just before Christmas, Angélique had a letter from Mrs. White, saying that Tristan was running into serious money troubles, and they were letting go a lot of the staff, but she was still there, and they needed her too much to sack her or force her to retire.

She meant to tell Andrew about it, but he was busy at work, a year after the failed senatorial campaign, and then it was Christmas, and she was busy buying gifts for everyone, and planning a huge party on New Year’s Eve, to celebrate their fifth anniversary.

She had had a gown made specially and couldn’t wait for Andrew to see it. She had hired an orchestra and they were going to dance after supper. They had invited a hundred guests to celebrate both their anniversary and the New Year with them.

She was dressing that night and waiting for Andrew to come home. He was late, as he often was, and had promised he’d be home in time to dress for their party and guests. She had just slipped into her gown, with Claire’s help, and was putting her diamond earrings on that Andrew had bought for her for their fourth anniversary the year before, when Mrs. Partridge came into her dressing room with her face ashen. Instantly, Angélique thought of her son, and feared something had happened to him.

“You’d better come downstairs at once,” the housekeeper said, and dared not say more. And as Angélique came down the stairs in her new red dress for their party, she saw three policemen in the hall, and one of them was a captain. He looked up at her expectantly with a serious expression.

“May I speak to you privately, ma’am?” he asked respectfully, and she led him into the library, where he took off his hat and stared at her regretfully. “It’s your husband. I’m sorry…he was hit by a runaway carriage someone left unattended, leaving his office. He was struck down immediately, ma’am. He…I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Is he in the hospital?” she asked, holding her breath, hoping that he was, no matter how badly injured, which was better than the alternative. The police captain shook his head.

“There were witnesses. One of them said he didn’t look as he stepped off the curb, he was in a hurry and never saw the carriage coming. The lead horse hit him full on and struck him down. He hit his head on the pavement…he’s at the morgue.” She sat down in a nearby chair with a dazed look, unable to believe what he’d told her. It couldn’t be. That couldn’t happen. They loved each other so much. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the policeman said again, as she thought she was going to faint. “Would you like me to get someone? Do you need a glass of water?” She shook her head. She couldn’t speak for a long moment, and then she started to cry. Who could she call for, except Andrew, who meant everything to her? How could she live without him? How would she wake up every morning for the rest of her life if he was gone? Thinking about it, she wanted to die. She couldn’t imagine a life without him, just as she couldn’t without her father eight years before.

The police captain stood there for a long time, not sure what to do, and then quietly left the room as she cried. He went to tell the housekeeper what had happened, and then they left. Mrs. Partridge went to find her in the library, and gently took her upstairs and helped her lie down on her bed, and left Claire with her.

Mrs. Partridge informed the head footman, and when the guests arrived, they were told at the door what had happened and sent away. The supper for the party they’d planned was given to the servants, and the rest sent to the poor, and a black wreath was placed on the door. Mrs. Partridge had asked the captain if they had advised Mr. Hanson’s father, and he said they were going there next, but had wanted to notify his wife first. Funeral arrangements would have to be made, and he assumed Mrs. Hanson would send someone to deal with it in the morning.

Angélique lay on her bed, looking shocked and frozen as Claire sat with her that night as she sobbed. There was no one Angélique wanted to see, no friend who could comfort her. Since the day they met, Andrew had been her whole life.

Andrew’s funeral was a somber affair attended by hundreds of people who had been his friends, gone to school with him, or known him in politics and business. All of his clients were there. His father and Angélique sat in separate pews, and never spoke to each other, although they filed out of their pews at the same time and nearly collided. She was holding little Phillip by the hand, who didn’t fully understand where his father was and why he was never coming back.

John Hanson and Angélique stood at the burial on opposite sides of the casket, avoiding each other’s eyes, and Phillip nearly ripped her heart out, when he asked her if Daddy was in the box, and she nodded. His grandfather had stolen several glances at him, but didn’t address her or the child.

And Angélique never came downstairs when friends came to the house after the funeral. She couldn’t. The only life she had ever wanted was over, and the man she loved more than life itself was gone. She had no desire to go on without him, although she knew she had to for their child.

The house was like a tomb for the next several months, she rarely went out, and saw no one, although she spent time with her son. She spoke to none of their friends and she had no idea what to do now. Andrew had left her everything he had, their house, his investments, his very considerable fortune, but there was nothing she wanted to do with it, except pass it on to her son one day. Thanks to Andrew, she had become a very, very rich woman, but as far as she was concerned, her life was meaningless without him.

And in May she got a letter from Mrs. White that woke her up. Tristan had admitted that he was ruined. He had nothing left, after Elizabeth’s extravagances and his own, and his arrogant and wanton mismanagement of the estate. Her eyes almost fell out of her head when she read that he had put Belgrave and the London house up for sale. Mrs. White said that Elizabeth was furious with him, and they were barely speaking. He said they were going to move to a small house in London, when both homes were sold, unless the new owners of the estate let them stay on at the Cottage, and rent it. They had nowhere to go, and no money left, and needed every penny from the sale of both properties just to pay their enormous debts. Mrs. White said she hoped the new owners were going to let her stay on—she had been there since she was a girl. And Hobson was going to retire once Belgrave was sold—he said he was too old to adapt to new owners, who didn’t belong there. The title would inevitably go to Phillip by law, but not the estate if it was sold.

Angélique read the letter again, dressed immediately in one of her black mourning gowns, and went to see Andrew’s lawyer the same day. He had another appointment, but saw her at once when she sent him a message that it was extremely urgent. He hadn’t seen her since the reading of Andrew’s will in January, and had been told she’d been in seclusion ever since, in terrible shape. And he thought she looked very thin when he saw her, but her eyes were bright. She told him what she’d learned in the housekeeper’s letter from Belgrave.

“I’m going over as soon as I can, and I’ll need a solicitor in London. Will you help me find one?” She was suddenly energized and nervous and very concerned.

“What are you trying to do?” he asked her, looking sympathetic. “Help your brother with his debts before he sells?” He had no idea of the history between them, and had no reason to. Only Andrew had known. He had told no one else, although his attorney had been made aware that Phillip was the heir to the title and estate, and had sent the letter announcing his birth to Tristan, Duke of Westerfield.

“Certainly not,” Angélique said about helping her brother, looking outraged, and more like her old self. “I intend to buy it, without his knowing I did, if possible. I don’t want him to know until the sale is complete.” Patrick Murphy, the attorney, was startled by the unusual request, but he assumed it would be feasible, if a competent lawyer handled the purchase discreetly.

“Will you be buying the Grosvenor Square house too?”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t need a house in London, and my father never really liked it. But I want my son to know the estate he will inherit one day, and learn to run it long before he does. I can maintain its ownership until he grows up,” since she would be purchasing it from Tristan now. And her father had schooled her well in the running of the estate while she was growing up. She was far more competent than her brother. “I’d like him to live there,” she said quietly of her son, “just as I did as a child. It’s a wonderful place.”

“Will you be giving up the house in New York?” Murphy looked surprised.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I haven’t thought that far. All I know is that I want to buy Belgrave Castle before someone else does.” He nodded. And as she thought about it, she knew that the house she and Andrew had bought together was too painful to live in without him, and that their life in New York was equally so now that he was gone. She had never thought it would be possible, but now that it was, she wanted to go home. “Please see to it that no one buys it before I get there. Explain all that to the solicitor you hire in London. Whatever another purchaser offers, I will outbid them. I don’t intend to lose my home again.” He didn’t know what she was referring to, and didn’t ask. He assured her that he’d take care of it and give her the name of the lawyer he found in London.

She went home then and sent for Claire and Mrs. Partridge, and told them both that she was leaving for England as soon as possible with her son, and she wanted Claire to go with her, if she was willing, which she said she was. She had been happy in New York, but she was young and had formed no strong attachments there in six years, and she liked the idea of going to England and being closer to her relatives in France.

“And when will you be coming back, ma’am?” the housekeeper asked her, looking worried. The staff liked working for her and had been heartbroken to see her so bereft after her husband’s death. They wondered what she would do, if she would go back to Europe, or stay in New York. There had been no sign of change till then. She had barely left the house in five months.

“I don’t know,” she said sadly. “I have some family business to conclude in England. It might take some time.” She wasn’t ready to tell them she was moving yet. She wasn’t sure herself. The housekeeper nodded, and she and Claire both left the room. Angélique called for the carriage after that and went to the office of the Black Ball Line.

She discovered that the packet boat North America was sailing to Liverpool in four days, and she intended to be on it. She didn’t want to waste any time. She didn’t want Tristan selling Belgrave to the first offer out of desperation. It was a property that people had coveted for years, and until Tristan took over, it had been in perfect condition and impeccably run by her father. She had no idea what the situation was there now, other than that her brother had run out of funds.

She booked passage for herself, Claire, her son, and his nanny. She got a stateroom next to hers for Phillip and the nanny, and another small cabin for Claire, as she had before. And when she got back to the house, she informed the nanny, told her to pack for him, and told Claire to start packing her trunks.

“What sort of clothes will we be taking?” Claire asked her, wondering. Her mistress had seen no one in five months, nor worn any of her elegant dresses. She was still in deep mourning for Andrew, and wore only her plainest black dresses.

“I’m still in mourning,” Angélique reminded her, “and I intend to be all year. But I’ll need some other clothes for afterward, and maybe some decent gowns.”

“Will we be staying that long, ma’am?” Claire looked at her, surprised, and Angélique was honest with her, more so than with Mrs. Partridge.

“Probably. I hope so. We’re going back to the house where I grew up,” she told her, and realized that this time what she had claimed last time on the ship was true. She had said she was a widow, which had been a lie then, and now she was. And she realized, as she took things out of her closets and laid them on the bed, how long Claire had known her, all the way back to Le Boudoir, and she had never said a word about it to the other staff. Angélique knew she could trust her, and always had.

She had the nanny pack for Phillip, and for the next three days the house was a furor of packing and sorting, and making decisions about what to take and what to leave, but at least she was no longer languishing on her bed. She had a plan, and she sensed that Andrew would have been pleased to see her up and busy again, and he would have approved of her trying to save Belgrave for their son. It was his birthright.

Patrick Murphy came to tell her that he had written to a solicitor in London, who had been highly recommended, and he hoped his letter would reach him before she did. She would be in London herself in three weeks.

She was adding a few last things to one of her trunks the next day, and had just packed all her jewelry, when Mrs. Partridge came to tell her that she had a guest downstairs.

“Who is it?” Angélique was distracted. She had no idea who it was, and didn’t want to see anyone before she left. It was too painful listening to people tell her how sorry they were, when in truth they had no concept of the enormity of her loss when Andrew died. He and their son were all she had.

“I’m not sure who the gentleman is,” Mrs. Partridge said, looking puzzled. “I believe it’s Mr. Hanson’s father, ma’am. He said he was John Hanson. I’ve never seen him here before.” Angélique was startled and hesitated before she went downstairs. Why was he coming to see her now? He hadn’t even spoken to her at the funeral, and had never seen Phillip until then. He hadn’t even acknowledged the boy at his father’s funeral. She almost decided not to go down, and then smoothing her hair and dress, she went.

She found him in the library, looking around the home that they’d lived in for six years and that he’d never seen. He had been no part of their life, only Andrew’s, since they married. And she was sure that the loss of his only son had been hard on him as well. She was shocked by how much he had aged in the six and a half years since she’d known him. She had noticed it at the funeral too, but thought he was just grief stricken. He had suddenly become an old man. He was sixty-seven.

“Good afternoon,” she said quietly as she walked in. He turned to look at her, and was shaken the minute he did. She was just as beautiful as before, although her eyes were deeply sad, and she was very thin. She didn’t want to be rude and ask him why he was there. “I hope you’re well.”

“Patrick Murphy tells me you’re leaving New York.” Other than her servants, he was the only one who knew.

“Yes, I am.” She was still standing, and didn’t invite him to sit down.

“I wanted to say goodbye before you go. I wanted to talk to you a long time ago, but there was never a right time. I’m sorry for the way I behaved when Andrew wanted to marry you. I didn’t realize until he died that my fury wasn’t because you had been the madam of a brothel in Paris, but because you turned down my proposal and accepted his. I never wanted to face that before.” He sat down in a chair then, and looked bereft. “I wanted to marry you desperately and thought you were the love of my life after all those lonely years. And then you married Andrew, and I could see how much you loved each other. I was jealous of my own son.” There were tears in his eyes as he said it, and Angélique was stunned. It was an enormous admission, and she didn’t know how to respond. She hoped he wasn’t going to repeat his offer now that his son was gone. She held her breath, and her tongue. “The reason I wanted to speak to you before you left,” he went on, “was to thank you for never exposing me to Andrew. You never told him that you had met me at the brothel in Paris. He told me that you said you’d never met me before. I was very grateful to you for that. You were very generous to allow my son to keep his illusions about me, more than I deserved. You were honest with him, I wasn’t. And I’m deeply ashamed of that now. It proved to me that you were a good woman, and an honorable one, and I never admitted that to him. You were more honest with him than I. And I wasted so many years being angry at you for being with him and not me. We could have been together for all this time. And now he’s gone, and you and the boy are leaving.”

“But you were right that I destroyed his political career,” she said regretfully.

“I don’t think he minded,” John Hanson said honestly. “He never seemed unhappy to me, not for an instant, while he was married to you. And the political ambitions were more my idea than his.”

“Thank you for that,” she said softly. They had cleaned the slate and settled old scores. It was a good way for her to leave. The war was over.

“Will you be coming back from Europe?” he asked, worried, and she wanted to be straightforward with him and not lie.

“Probably not. I want to see how Phillip likes it there. But I’d rather he grew up in my old home. It’s a wonderful place for a child. Better than New York.”

“But can you go back after all this time?” He didn’t think she could—from what Andrew had said. And the lawyer had only said they were leaving—he didn’t say why.

“I’m trying to buy the estate from my brother,” she explained, and he nodded. And then he looked at her with pleading eyes.

“May I see the boy? He’s the image of his father at that age.” She hesitated and then nodded, and left the room to go and find him. He was in the nursery packing his favorite toys with his nanny. He was excited about going on the ship, and Angélique had been telling him all about it.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she said quietly as she walked into the nursery and sat down on a small chair next to her son, who was so exactly like his father, just as his grandfather said. It comforted her now to look at him and know that Andrew would live on through their child. And she could look at him every day and see the man she loved.

“Who is it?” Phillip asked her, curious about their guest.

“He’s downstairs, and he’d like to see you. Your grandfather, Daddy’s father.” The child looked surprised. He had no grandparents he knew. Three were dead and one had refused to see him all his life, which he didn’t know and had never been told. Andrew’s father was simply never mentioned. He didn’t exist in their life. Until now.

“Have I ever seen him before?” Phillip asked.

“He was at Daddy’s funeral.”

“Why didn’t he talk to me then?” the child inquired.

“He was probably too sad, just like we were. But he’d like to see you now, and I want you to come downstairs with me to meet him.” She held out her hand, and he took it and followed her out the door of the nursery. They went down the stairs together, and Phillip walked into the library ahead of her, and stopped when he saw John Hanson.

“Hello, young man.” John smiled at him and reached out to him, so Phillip would approach. “I hear you’re going to be taking a trip on a big boat.”

“I am.” His grandson smiled at him, and told him all about it.

“That sounds like a lot of fun to me. And you’re going to England.”

Phillip nodded as they chatted. “I’m going to see my other grandfather’s house. One day it’s going to belong to me, and I’m going to be a duke,” he told him conversationally, as though that were entirely normal. His grandfather smiled.

“That’s very impressive. Do you think you’ll wear a crown?” his grandfather teased him, and Phillip laughed.

“I don’t know. My mama didn’t tell me that.” And then he turned to her. “Will I, Mama?”

“No.” All three of them laughed.

“But I’ll get to ride horses and go fishing in a lake.”

“That sounds very nice. Do you suppose I could visit you there one day? Or maybe you could come back here and visit me.”

“If you come to see me, you’ll have to take a boat too.”

“I do that sometimes. Or maybe you and your mama could come to London sometime to see me when I work there.”

Phillip nodded. It all sounded a little complicated to him. “I think I have to go and finish packing now. I’m taking a lot of toys.”

His grandfather held out his hand again, and Phillip shook it, did a little bow, and then scampered out of the room and up the stairs.

“He’s a wonderful boy,” he said to Angélique, and then with sad eyes, “I’ve been such a fool, and missed so many years.”

“You came to see him now. That’s a start,” she said, touched by the meeting and that he’d come to see them and humbled himself to her.

“May I contact you when I come to London? I’d like to see the boy.” She nodded. It would be good for Phillip to have at least one grandparent, and John had just been nice to him. She knew Andrew would have been pleased. It had taken a long time to come around. Five and a half years.

“You’re welcome to come and see him,” she said carefully, not wanting to encourage him otherwise. His admissions had explained many things, but had also been overwhelming. It had never occurred to her that he’d been in love with her for all those years. She thought that he had forgotten her, except as an object of hatred and fury.

He stood up then, and she walked him to the door. “Thank you for coming and laying old ghosts to rest. It will make everything easier now,” she said, smiling at him.

“For me too,” he said, and looked relieved. “Take care of yourself, Angélique,” he said softly, kissed her on the forehead, and walked out the door remembering the girl he had known and had wanted so desperately in Paris years before. He had finally let her go. And all he felt for her now was respect.