The Glass House

And I could not bear it. "Louisa, for God's sake. I'll lick his boots if you want me to. I'll attend Sunday dinner and raise a dozen toasts to him. I will do what you want."

Louisa regarded me sadly, the heat gone. "It is too late. Let it be done with."

"Give me a chance to put things right, or at least make them better for you."

"No," she said. "This entire rift was my doing from the beginning. Mine. So I am putting it right. You and Aloysius will have to live with it." I must have looked as anguished as I felt, because Louisa's expression softened. "I do not mean that I will cut you forever. We may speak when we meet. But nothing deeper than that. I cannot pretend any longer."

She turned away.

"What do you mean?" I said. My throat ached. "What do you mean you cannot pretend? Cannot pretend that you care for me? Tell me plainly."

Louisa was at the door, hand on the door handle. "Any words I tell you, you will twist. I will not let you."

She opened the door. The voices of Mrs. Beltan's customers came to us, riding on a scent of warm yeast and baking bread.

I could not call after her. I could not beg her to stay. I could only stand there, my hands curling and uncurling, while the woman I cared for most in the world walked out of my life.

Chapter Twelve

I lost track of the time I sat in Mrs. Beltan's parlor after Louisa had gone. I'd sunk down onto the pillow-strewn couch where she'd sat, unable to move, unable to think. Time seemed to forget about me, and I forgot about it.

I could not believe I had been such a fool about a woman I cared for-again. I had loved my wife, Carlotta, loved her to distraction. And yet, I'd been impatient with her, brushed her aside with brusque words or snapped rebukes. All the while I'd think that, later, I would make it up to her, that I loved Carlotta so much I could explain and ask for forgiveness. She would understand, I was certain.

I could not see that all that time I had hurt Carlotta, hurt her deeply. And then, when later came, she'd been gone.

I'd been furious with myself when I'd discovered that Carlotta had eloped with her lover, knowing I only had myself to blame. I'd sworn that if ever I had another chance at happiness, I would be the kindest, most patient man a woman could ever know. I had learned my lesson, I'd thought, a hard and painful one.

And what had I done? Louisa had stood beside me through every one of my troubles-when Carlotta left me, when Brandon got us nearly thrown out of the Army, and now in London when our lives were so different. I owed Louisa my very life.

And, so, to repay her, I'd hurt her. I'd let my feud with Brandon blind me to the fact that I'd abused my friendship with Louisa and profoundly distressed her.

I sat still, angry with myself, and also angry with Louisa. Why had she not told me I'd upset her before this? Why had she not told me so that I might stop, might make amends before it was too late?

The answer, of course, was that she had told me. Since our return to London, Louisa had tried time and again to make me reconcile with Colonel Brandon, to put the past behind us. And time and again, I had refused.

I was a blind, bloody fool, and in that little parlor, warm from the baking ovens of Mrs. Beltan's shop, I faced that naked truth.

I was still there when Bartholomew came to fetch me for the supper with Grenville and Lord Barbury. Bartholomew informed me worriedly that Grenville's carriage had called for me, and I'd be late if I did not leave.

I did not much care anymore, but I sighed, got to my feet, and let Bartholomew lead me out.

The world was still dripping and gray when I arrived in Mayfair and Grenville's. We supped again in his ostentatious dining room at a table meant for a dozen. This evening, only three of us sat here, Grenville at the head of the table, I to his left, and his guest, Lord Barbury, to his right.

As I'd noted at the funeral, Barbury had aged since Grenville's soiree, his face thin and wan. He wore three rings, large and loose on his bony fingers.

As I pretended to eat, I grew annoyed again at Louisa for choosing this of all evenings to tell me to go to the devil. Grenville's chef Anton was the finest cook in the land, but I could barely taste his food.

I sat slightly removed from the luxury I'd been invited to partake in, attempting to keep my mind on the conversation. Grenville was talking to Barbury about inconsequential things, and it was damned hard to concentrate. Why could not Louisa have left the task for another day?

I sipped from the heavy, cut-crystal glass and tried to pay attention. The table's centerpiece was a small, black stone obelisk, its base covered with Egyptian picture writing. I knew full well this had come straight from Egypt, not from a shop on the Strand that specialized in Egyptian-style objets d'art.

I idly traced the hieroglyphs as he and Lord Barbury murmured about some scandal at White's. I wondered what the writing said. French and English scholars were busily working to translate it based on finds they had brought back from Napoleon's somewhat disastrous campaign in Egypt. They had already discovered that the little pictures were representations of sounds rather than actual pictures, a writing like Greek or Chinese. I wondered if those scholars, with their heads down in their texts, had even noticed that the war was over.

I came out of my reverie to find the table being cleared of the final course, a chilled sorbet that I'd barely touched, and Grenville turning to our purpose.

He bade me report on what I had found at The Glass House, and I roused myself enough to tell them of the attic room and my conversations with Kensington. I had given Lord Barbury his letters upon my arrival, plus the one that Peaches had begun to him. He'd looked at them with great sadness.

When I finished, Barbury declared, "Kensington is a brute. He always has been."

"He claimed that he brought about Mrs. Chapman's start on the stage," I said. "Can we assume that he was more than just her mentor?"

Barbury shook his head. "She never explained about him fully. If you wish to ask me whether Kensington had ever been Peaches' lover, I do not know. She never told me. I suppose he must have been."

"How did he react when she married Chapman?" I asked.

Barbury studied his port. "He tried to stop her. God help me, so did I. I wanted to keep her to myself."

"You could have married her," I said.

Barbury looked up, flushed. "I know that. I did not for many reasons, none of which seem important now. Yes, I realize that if I had defied convention and married her, she would be alive today."

He closed his mouth with a snap. I was angry enough to be pleased he felt remorse. I had become irritated with Lord Barbury when I'd stood in the room Peaches had inhabited. He'd had a treasure and not realized it. He'd had a chance to have what I'd thrown away, and he'd carelessly tossed it aside.

"At the risk of being indelicate," Grenville said, "why did Mrs. Chapman continue to live with Kensington after she met you? Is it not usual to find a ladybird a house of her own?"

Barbury nodded, not looking offended. "I did find her a house, but she told me she preferred living where she did, at The Glass House. I cannot imagine why."

Because Peaches had not wanted to be caged, I realized. Like Marianne, who would rather live in poverty in the cheap rooms above a bakeshop than in a gilded cage provided by Lucius Grenville. Peaches must have had a freedom to come and go at The Glass House that she knew she'd not have with Lord Barbury. I remembered thinking that the attic room had not felt like a prison; Peaches had stayed there by choice, and she'd kept the key herself.

The fact of the key made me wonder anew about the relationship between Peaches and Mr. Kensington. Exactly who'd had a hold over whom?