Chapter Twenty
The following day
Eleanor had lain awake much of the night. She could not recall having ever experienced such acute feelings of loneliness. It was a physical pain, settling around her heart. After losing Lili and Hugh, the knowledge that her mother had betrayed her was devastating.
Sitting on her garden bench the next morning sipping her tea, Eleanor tried to sort out her choices. She assumed her father would talk to Hugh, but she had little faith in his intervention. What could he say, after all, that would change Hugh’s mind, if she herself could not convince him? She clung to the idea of removing Lili from the Abbots before Hugh had time to act. Lili had been baptized with the Broxton name. If Eleanor had never acknowledged Hugh as the father in law or in the church, didn’t Lili belong to her? It wasn’t as if she were destitute and would have to depend on the parish for aid.
Aggrieved and confused, Eleanor rose and strolled about the garden. Her father may be right. Don’t act rashly. Wait to see what Hugh would do. She glanced up to see the glorious sunrise, painting the sky burnt orange and violet and gunmetal gray. The colors matched the violence of her feelings. Hunkering down, she began aimlessly to pull weeds from her flower beds.
For the first time, she allowed herself to think of Hugh without considering Lili. He had always been a gentleman toward her, despite his reputation. She’d never believed him a rake. He’d gone off to war, come home, and become more polished, handsome, wealthy. And he was a man who knew what he wanted, exuding a confidence he’d seemed to lack previously.
And then there was the physical attraction between them. Even though she was inexperienced, she thought him a magnificent lover, skilled, tender, and patient with her lack of proficiency. She would never again experience those joys with him.
He had said he loved her. But if that were true, how could he so easily cast her aside? He’d accused her, among other things, of being exactly like his mother. She’d been right to worry, after she’d learned of his bitterness toward Deborah Grey, that he would likely judge her every bit as harshly.
A large part of the blame rested on her shoulders. She had kept the truth from him far too long. In her mind, she had plenty of reasons for doing so, but Hugh had a completely different perspective. If she put herself in his place, she could understand his anger. But didn’t reasonable people, caring people, forgive each other? Hugh seemed uniquely willing to carry a grudge, to nurture it, hold it close, until it became a powerful, living thing, capable of causing unending pain to those forced to endure it. And to himself. It seemed an essential part of him, and he couldn’t let it go. Didn’t it hurt to blame his mother after all these years? To separate himself from his family and live alone in the world? That should have been a warning to Eleanor to stay away from him. Instead, she’d fallen deeply, irrevocably, in love with him. Feeling the sting of tears, she rose quickly and admonished herself.
Enough. Get to work.
She and the girls were nearly done with the end-of-season apparel. Eleanor needed to travel up to London to deliver the gowns and other items. Perhaps she would call on Cass and Adam. They might be able to advise her.
…
Hugh and Ned were in the middle of moving his father’s massive desk into Hugh’s study when he looked up to see Broxton standing nearby, watching. Oh, hell. He should have expected the man to call. “Ned, can you check on the progress in the kitchen? This will not take long.” After they’d lowered the desk, Hugh pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow while he strolled over to Sir William.
“Good morning, Sir William,” he said. He was determined to be civil.
“Sir Hugh,” the older man said. “Is there somewhere we could speak privately?”
“Follow me.” Hugh guided him through the halls to the back of the house and the study. “Mind your step,” he said. He hoped there were a few chairs available. As it turned out, there was only one. His father’s desk chair. Hugh gestured to it. “Sit down. I’ll stand. I assume you’re here to talk about your granddaughter.”
Sir William appeared taken aback. “That’s an odd way of stating it. I’m here on behalf of Eleanor, and Lili, too, because she’s Eleanor’s child and carries the Broxton name.”
“Point taken,” Hugh said wryly. It was damned awkward to stand there and stare down at the older gentleman. Before he could excuse himself to find another chair, Ned walked in carrying a tall stool. The man possessed an uncanny knack for anticipating Hugh’s every wish. “Ah, my thanks, Ned.” He slipped onto the stool, which was a minor improvement over standing.
When Ned was gone, Hugh got on with it. “Did Eleanor ask you to come?”
“Of course she did. She’s bereft. Are you determined to carry through with this scheme?”
“By ‘scheme,’ if you mean my quite reasonable plan to rescue my daughter from the Abbots and bring her here, then yes. I am. It is beyond belief that you allowed Lili to be in their care.”
Broxton shrugged, as though this choice held no significance, and that irritated the hell out of Hugh. “At the time, we had no reason to think them unfit as foster parents. And what about Eleanor? Do you intend to carry out your threat to keep her from Lili?”
Hugh sighed deeply. Did he truly wish to do so, or had he spoken those words out of anger and resentment? Despite what he’d said, his gut told him that Eleanor was a good mother. Of course, he had no way to judge, since he’d never even met Lili, nor seen her and her mother together. “That Eleanor allowed Lili to be removed from her care after she was born troubles me greatly.”
Sir William raised his fists in the air and shook them. “You can’t believe it was what she willingly would have chosen. She fought against it as best she could. Her mother and I didn’t know what else to do, and Eleanor was recovering from a difficult birth. No doubt she didn’t mention that, did she? She blames herself for everything, including her pregnancy.”
For perhaps the first time, Hugh realized how this must appear to the Broxtons: like a seduction. But he had always thought of it as inevitable, the joining of two people who desperately wanted each other. So much so, that all reason had fled. “I asked Eleanor to tell me if there was a child. She chose not to. I’ve missed out on time I might have had with my daughter, and I resent that.”
“It was wrong of her to deceive you for so long, I agree. But now that you know you have a child together, can you not forgive her? It is obvious to me that you care for each other. Why not marry her? That would absolve a multitude of sins.”
Sins. A series of one sin after the other. The desiring, the giving in, the clandestine coupling. The secrecy, and the abandoning. If they were together, wedded, how would that redeem them? Make up for the first few years of a child’s life? “It’s not that simple,” he said. “I wish to God it were.”
Sir William rose, his posture sagging like that of a much older man. “Very well. I will not beg you. No need to show me out.”
Hugh let him go. What more could be said? Just before he departed, Sir William straightened his shoulders and spoke once again. “Marrying Eleanor—that was my idea. She never would have asked it of you. And in case you are in any doubt, she is all that is good and true and fine in a woman. With parents such as Kitty and me, I’m not sure how that came about.” With a rueful smile, he turned and was gone.
Hugh lowered his head into his hands. God, that had been torture.
After Broxton left, Ned and Hugh finished moving the desk into Hugh’s study. “This thing is a monstrosity,” Ned announced. “You know that, don’t you?”
Hugh laughed. “When I was a lad, I used to beg my father to let me sit in the desk chair and play steward. On rare occasions, he allowed it. Now I have the unenviable task of clearing out the drawers.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Much of what Hugh found would go directly into the rubbish. Other items, such as estate record books, he set aside to examine later. After an hour or so, he lifted a stack of letters from a bottom drawer. Had his parents written to each other, perhaps before their marriage? Wrapped in a blue ribbon, they looked as if they’d never been read, or even unfolded. The writing bore the softer curlicues of a feminine hand, and he recognized it as Deborah’s. He untied the ribbon, and, rather than starting at the top, he began with the one on the bottom.
Did he already know what they were? Have a sixth sense about them? His heart was knocking hard against his ribs when he unfolded the first one. “My dearest Hugh,” it said. He dropped it as though it were a burning coal and found he needed a moment to regain his wits. Hastily, he sorted through the others. Although the greeting sometimes differed, all were written to him from his mother, dated from June, 1799, and continuing through October of 1805. He would have been over twenty-one by then. The earliest date was around the time she’d left Longmere. He’d never seen a single one of them.
25 June
London
My dearest Hugh,
Leaving you, my precious son, has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. It was no longer possible for me to live with your father, and I hope someday you will understand and forgive me. He would not allow me to remove both his sons and insisted on keeping you, his firstborn, with him. I cannot blame him for that. Adam misses you quite as much as I do, although he won’t admit to it for fear of seeming “unmanly.”
I am in the process of arranging, through a solicitor, to visit you, and for you to visit us in London. Please, darling, write to me. I am looking forward to hearing of your progress with your tutor. My dearest, do not let the pig have the run of the house. I fear your father will neither notice nor care. Animals belong out-of-doors or in the stables. Or the pigpen, in this case.
Perhaps by autumn, matters will be worked out and we shall look forward to a visit with you.
I love you always,
Mama
His mother had written to him. Many times, apparently. And not only that, but she had attempted to visit him and arrange for him to visit her and Adam. Hugh chortled over his pet pig, whom he hadn’t thought of for years. Theodora. How had he ever come up with that name? He’d been so resentful of his mother’s departure, he had let the animal run about the house at will, if memory served.
He read another, later missive. This one was written from her country house.
17 October
Surrey
My darling Hugh,
I have given up on lawyers to gain access to you and am now trying to appeal to your father’s better nature.
Adam and I are at your grandparents’ home in Surrey, and how we all wish you could be here with us! Adam most particularly, since grouse season is in full swing. It would give me such pleasure to see the two of you tramping through the fields together.
I’ve been to visit you several times, my dear, to no avail. The servants have strict orders not to allow me entrance to the house. Perhaps you might tell your father you wish to see me and your brother. Whether that would change his mind, I do not know, but please try, for all our sakes.
I hope you will make a renewed effort with your tutor in the coming year. You must study diligently in order to sit for the entrance exams for university. Adam perseveres, and I hope I can count on your efforts in this regard as well.
I have not given up hope of seeing you, my dearest boy.
Your loving mother
The letter was interesting on at least two counts. Legally, she had never been granted the right to see him, though she had continued to try. From the sound of it, numerous times. And appealing to his father’s better nature in any situation had been a waste of time. He’d never possessed one. Wesley, his father’s elderly butler, had not been mistaken after all. And Wesley, possibly others, had supplied her with information about him. Obviously, one of them had told her Hugh’s schoolwork had dropped off.
A heartbreaking letter followed that one, carrying the news of the stillbirth of a child. His mother did not dwell on the tragedy. “The baby, a girl, was stillborn. You and Adam would have had a sister. She looked like you, darling, with dark curls and eyes.”
Christ! How had his mother borne it? Hugh clearly remembered finding solace in tramping about the sere countryside alone. He felt the sheen of tears in his eyes merely remembering it, and how isolated he’d felt in his grief. His father, after curtly informing him of the stillbirth, had locked himself in his library, and Hugh had not seen him for days. And Deborah must have had only Adam to comfort her, although her mother and father had still been alive then.
He scanned through the remaining letters, noticing how his mother’s resolve weakened with the passage of time. She made fewer and fewer mentions of visits. Her tone, many times, was despairing. “Oh, dearest, am I to be kept from you forever?” Had she any idea he wasn’t receiving her letters? Hugh had always known his father was a pathetic excuse for a man, but how could he have been so cruel as to separate him from his mother? To not even allow them to correspond?
As a youth, Hugh had been stubborn, wounded, and had never brought up the matter with his father. And he’d hidden when Adam visited Longmere, so he wouldn’t be forced to see him.
He regretted that now, bitterly.
Hugh rested his head in his hands. Through the lens of years, he could see he bore some of the responsibility for keeping them all apart. What a fool he’d been! He’d mistakenly blamed his mother for abandoning him and had heaped guilt on Adam as well, even though he was the younger brother.
This must be rectified.
He would make another trip to London and meet with his mother. To beg her forgiveness. She’d had reasons, insurmountable reasons, for acting as she had. Deborah had done all within her power to see him, to remain a vital part of his life. Hell, she’d probably stayed with his father long after any sane woman would have left.
And now he could only hope it wasn’t too late.