But as Freddie had seen fit to rob Vere of any chance of avenging their mother, Vere returned the favor and kept his new secret to himself.
When Vere had wholeheartedly disliked his wife, in a way it had been because she, with her thespian skills and her facile lies, reminded him too much of himself.
But those had been mere surface similarities. Underneath, he was a man who had been fractured at sixteen and never been made whole again, while she, as imperfect as she was, possessed a resilience that left him breathless.
Her hand remained in his, her fingers slack with slumber. He’d meant only to stay with her until she fell asleep, but he was still here at the break of dawn, guarding against her nightmares.
He wanted always to be a bulwark against her nightmares.
The thought didn’t surprise him as much as he imagined it would, now that he’d stopped denying that he loved her. But he wasn’t worthy of her—at least, not as he was, now with all the deceit and cowardice that still blighted his character.
He knew what he had to do. But did he have the courage and humility for it? Was his desire to walk beside her and protect her stronger than his instinct to shy away from the repercussions of truth and continue the fraud that was his life?
He felt as if he stood at the very top of a high cliff. Take a step back and all was safe and familiar. But going forward required a singular leap of faith—and he was a man of little faith, particularly when it came to himself.
But he wanted her to look at him again as if he were full of possibilities. As if they were full of possibilities.
And for that he would do the right thing, whatever his shortcomings.
Chapter Twenty-one
A death in the family, especially a death under such strained circumstances, required much to be done in its wake.
Edmund Douglas’s body had to be claimed and buried, his solicitors consulted with regard to his will and his estate. Had things been different, Elissande would have taken care of matters. But with her battered face—the bruises had turned a cringe-inducing mélange of purple, green, and darkish yellow—Mrs. Douglas had insisted that Elissande remain home to recuperate. She would go in Elissande’s stead.
It was time she took a greater interest in matters of her own life, said Mrs. Douglas. Vere, who had anyway needed to go to London, volunteered to accompany her. They also brought along Mrs. Green, who would see to it that Mrs. Douglas was comfortably put up and meticulously looked after.
And now Mrs. Douglas dozed in their rail compartment, her weight against Vere’s arm as insubstantial as that of a blanket.
Memories surfaced of her daughter sleeping next to him on the train. He remembered his resentful bewilderment that he could have been drawn to someone of such questionable character. His intellectual self had yet to recognize what a deeper, more primal part of him already sensed at first sight: her integrity.
Not integrity in the sense of unimpeachable practice of morality, but a personal wholeness. Her trials under Douglas had not left her unmarked, but neither had they lessened her.
Whereas he had been both scarred and diminished.
He had always used the language of Justice to relate to his work. True justice was motivated by an impartial desire for fairness. What underlay his entire career had been anger and grief: anger that he could not punish his father, grief that he could not bring back his mother.
That was why he derived only negligible satisfaction from even his greatest successes: They reminded him of his impotence in his own life, of what he could never accomplish.
And that was why he had been so livid at Freddie: part of it had been envy. By the time he had spoken to Lady Jane, his father had been three months dead. And yet Vere’s obsession had only grown. He could not understand how Freddie could let go and move on, while he remained stuck between the night of his mother’s death and the night of his father’s.
Thirteen years. Thirteen years of chasing after what could never be had in the first place, while his youth fled by, his erstwhile ambitions lay forgotten, and his life grew ever more isolated.
A single snore in the compartment brought his attention back to his fellow traveler. Mrs. Douglas fidgeted, then slept on. On the way to the rail station, she had shyly confided that before she’d met him, she’d already seen him in a laudanum-fueled dream—he’d rather wondered what she’d made of his presence in her room. One day, when he had his life in order, he would tell her the truth and apologize for frightening her.
She fidgeted again. Vere studied her: the cheeks, still pale, but now with a whisper of color; the neck, still thin, but no longer sticklike. When he’d first met her, he’d assumed her permanently broken. She had instead proved herself a dormant seed that needed only a less hostile environment to come alive.
He turned to the window again. Perhaps he too was not as permanently broken as he’d believed.
This time, instead of using his own key, Vere rang Freddie’s bell.
He was shown into Freddie’s study, where Freddie was checking a book of rail schedules, his finger moving down a column, searching for what he needed. Freddie looked up and dropped the book.
“Penny! I was just coming to see you.” He rushed up to Vere and embraced him anxiously. “If you arrived fifteen minutes later I’d have left to Paddington Station already. I heard the most bizarre rumors this morning: Lady Vere’s uncle escaped jail and abducted you—and you had to fight for your life. What happened?”
The words were on Vere’s lips—Oh rubbish, don’t people know how to gossip properly anymore? I didn’t have to fight for my life. I subdued that toothpick of a man with one finger—and an expression of thick satisfaction was already rising to his face.
The temptation to fall back on the idiocy he played so expertly was enormous. Freddie didn’t expect anything else of him. Freddie had long become accustomed to the idiot. They were still brothers—loving brothers. Why change anything at all?
He crossed the study, poured himself a measure of Freddie’s cognac, and tossed it back. “What you heard was a lie I told,” he said. “Mr. Douglas had abducted Mrs. Douglas, in truth. But once we rescued Mrs. Douglas, we decided that it was better for her to go home to recuperate rather than talk to the police. So I took Mr. Douglas to the police station and made up a cock-and-bull story.”
Freddie blinked. And blinked again several times. “Ah—so, is everyone all right?”
“Lady Vere has some bruises; she won’t be able to receive callers for a few days. Mrs. Douglas had quite a fright, but she came with me today and is currently enjoying herself at the Savoy Hotel. Mr. Douglas, well, he’s dead. He decided that he was better off swallowing cyanide than taking his chances in court.”
Freddie listened attentively. When Vere had finished speaking, he looked at Vere for some more time, then gave his head a small shake. “Are you all right, Penny?”
“You can see I’m perfectly fine, Freddie.”
“Well, yes, you are in one piece. But you are not acting like yourself.”
Vere took a deep breath. “This is who I’ve always been. But it’s true that sometimes—most of the past thirteen years, in fact—I haven’t acted myself.”
Freddie rubbed his eyes. “Are you saying what I think you are saying?”
“What do you think I’m saying?” Vere asked. He thought he’d made himself clear, but Freddie hadn’t reacted as he’d expected.
“One moment.” Freddie reached for a small encyclopedia and opened it to a random page. “In what year was the first plebeian secession?”
“In 494 B.C.”
“Dear Lord,” Freddie muttered. He turned the encyclopedia to a different section, then looked up with an expression of such singular hope that Vere’s stomach wrenched. “Who were Henry the Eighth’s six wives?”