Someone to Care

“Then we will return in fourteen years,” he said. “All the time we have not spent together since you commanded me to go away.”

“And where exactly will we go?” she asked. “Somewhere, anywhere, everywhere sounds a trifle vague.”

“But enticing, one must admit,” he said. “There are no limits upon where we can go. Scotland? The Highlands, of course. Wales? Within sight of Mount Snowdon, that is, or Harlech Castle. Ireland? America? Devonshire? I own a cottage there, nestled on a hillside above a river valley, not far from the sea. An ideal place for an escape. No one else lives nearby. Let us go there for a start, and if it proves to be not far enough, then we will move on. There are no permanent destinations in the land of running away.”

“That would be a splendid title for a children’s story,” she said. “‘The Land of Running Away.’ Though I am not sure it would teach a worthy lesson in life.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Do not all people, especially children, need to escape from their lives now and then—or all the time? Even if just through their imagination? Why else do people read? Or listen to music? Or travel?”

“Or dance.” He had still not touched his breakfast or even his coffee. “Do you read?”

“I am better at running away,” he told her.

“That can be done through reading,” she said. “You have just said so yourself.”

“But it is all too easy to be intruded upon when one is reading,” he said. “Or listening to music. Or traveling according to a planned itinerary one has shared for the convenience of all one’s relatives and friends who may wish to join one or call one back on some flimsy excuse.”

“Ah. We would send no notice of our intent to our families, then?” she asked. “Nothing to allay their anxieties, should they miss us?”

“That is exactly why it is called running away,” he said. “My family will not think of the Devonshire cottage, even supposing they think at all, which is highly unlikely. Your family does not even know about it. Or about me.”

He was gazing steadily at her, and she felt that wave of yearning again.

“How very tempting you make it sound,” she said with a sigh.

“But . . . ?” His eyebrows rose.

“Yes, but,” she said. “It is time for me to leave. Time to go home.”

“You are a coward, Viola?” he said.

And for the first time—oh, foolish, when she was dealing with a man she very well knew to be selfish and reckless and a law unto himself—for the first time it occurred to her that perhaps he was serious. That he was in truth asking her to run away with him to his remote cottage by the sea. Without a word to their families. Without any long-term plan. Without any careful consideration. He was seriously suggesting that she do the most irresponsible thing she had ever done in her life.

“You are serious,” she said.

“About your being a coward?” he said. “What would you call yourself, Viola? A virtuous, dutiful woman? What end does your virtue serve? And virtuous by whose standards? Dutiful to what or to whom? To a family that has allowed you to leave Bath alone when you are clearly in deep distress?”

“I am not in distress,” she protested. Oh, surely she had not shown any outer sign . . . But she had told him she had had to get away, that she had rejected all offers of a loaned carriage and servants. It was unlike her to confide so much to a virtual stranger.

“Perhaps it was not clear to them,” he said. “Perhaps they merely believed you were being stubborn and deliberately awkward. Perhaps they have not noticed your distress. You are very good at hiding inside yourself, are you not?”

All her insides clenched, and she grew cold. How did he—? What did he think—? “What else am I supposed to do?” she asked, stung. “What else could I have done all my life? Be an emotional, hysterical, vaporish burden upon all who know me?”

“Many women are,” he said. “Such behavior is their call for help, or at least attention. But not you. You have chosen all your life instead to keep a stiff upper lip and a rigid backbone. You have character, Viola, and that is admirable. But even strong characters have their limits of endurance. You have reached yours, I believe.”

How could he know her so well when he did not know her at all? “And the answer is to throw all responsibility to the wind and run off with you without a word to anyone?” she asked him. “For the pleasure of more days like yesterday and more nights than last night?”

He tipped his head slightly to one side in apparent thought, and his eyes narrowed. “In a word, yes,” he said. “Why end something that has been so very pleasant when one does not wish or need to end it? Why not prolong the pleasure until it reaches its natural limit? For it will, you know. All passion has an arc. We should enjoy it while it lasts and part amicably, without pain or regret, when it is over. When all is said and done, you owe more to yourself than you do to anyone else, much as you may love all those someone elses, and much as they may love you.”

Oh, she knew what was happening right enough. His words were far more dangerous than his lovemaking during the night had been. For his lovemaking had been all physical sensation and emotion. His words appealed to her reason and seemed, on the surface at least, very persuasive. But it was seduction pure and simple.

When had she ever done anything just for herself? Everything in her upbringing and life experience had taught her that pleasing herself was the ultimate selfishness. Her life as a woman had always had but two guiding principles: duty and dignity. Duty to her family, dignity in the face of society. And where had it got her? Was the love her family felt for her enough? Did they need her? Even Abigail? Even Harry? She would die for either of them—she knew she would—if doing so would take away their hurt and ensure them a happy life. But it could not be done. Her death would in no way ease their living. They would somehow forge their own lives without any real help from her.

Who would die for her? Or give up all personal gratification for her? Perhaps her children would. Perhaps her mother would. Even her brother. But would it make any difference? Would she want any such sacrifice? It had never occurred to her that she might need anyone to care for her. She did not.

Why should she not care for herself, then? Where did selfishness end and the need to live one’s precious, only life begin?

Who would suffer if she ran away with Marcel Lamarr for a short while?

But was she merely reacting predictably to what she recognized as expert seduction? Dancing as a puppet to his strings? Rationalizing?

“Yes,” she said in answer to her own questions, but she spoke the word aloud, and her voice sounded quite firm. “Let us do it. Let’s run away.”

* * *

• • •

Marcel Lamarr, Marquess of Dorchester—he had omitted the title when signing the inn register—took a look at the axle on the hired carriage. It was new and appeared to be sound enough. He looked closely at the horses, which had already been hitched to the carriage, without actually lifting any legs to examine the shoes, and judged them to be sorry creatures, though probably adequate to their appointed task, at least for a few miles. He ignored the shabby outer appearance of the vehicle and opened the door nearest to him. Threadbare stained seats, fraying at the edges, met his disapproving eye and a smell of staleness his nose.