“He took the loss of your child badly?” he asked.
“He blamed himself,” she said.
“And he needed comforting,” he said. “Did he give you comfort?”
“He was ill,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, “he was. And if you had both lived for another fifty years, he would have continued ill and you would have continued to love him and to comfort him.”
“I promised for better or worse, in sickness or in health,” she said. “But I let him down in the end.”
“No,” he said. “You were not his jailer, Gwendoline. You could not be standing watch over him for twenty-four hours out of every day. And sick or not, he was not without his wits, was he? You had lost a child as much as he had. More. But he took the burden of guilt upon himself and in the process robbed you of the comfort you so desperately needed. Even in the depths of his despair, he ought to have known that he was placing an unbearable burden upon you and doing nothing to fulfill what he had promised you. Illness, unless it is total madness, is not an excuse for great selfishness. You needed love as much as he did. He fell. No one pushed him. He was beckoned and taunted. But he was the one who fell—deliberately, it would seem. I understand why you blame yourself. I better than anyone, perhaps, can understand that. But I absolutely absolve you of all blame. Let it go, my love. Grayson cannot really be accused of murder, can he, even though his intent was doubtless murderous. Leave him to his conscience, though I doubt he has one. Leave him to his nastiness. And let yourself be loved. Let me love you.”
“He was with us when I fell,” she said, “when my horse did not clear the hedge. He had never missed a jump before and it was not the highest fence he had jumped. Jason was with us. He was behind me, crowding me, trying to encourage my horse to clear the jump, I have always thought. He could not have … Could he?”
She heard him inhale slowly.
“Is it possible,” she said, “that I did not kill my own child? Or is it wishful thinking because I have realized that he wanted Vernon out of the way? Even dead? Did he want our child dead too? Did he want me dead?”
“Ah, Gwendoline,” he said. “Ah, my love.”
She closed her eyes, but she could not stop the hot, scalding tears from spilling over onto her cheeks and diagonally across them to drip onto the blanket and pool at the side of her nose.
He gathered her into his arms, spread one great hand behind her head, and kissed her wet cheeks, her eyelids, her temples, her wet lips.
“Hush,” he crooned. “Hush now. Let it all go. Let me love you. You have love all wrong, Gwendoline. It is not all give, give, give. It is taking as well. It is allowing the other one the pleasure and joy of giving. Let me love you.”
She thought her heart would surely break. All her life, it seemed, or since her marriage, anyway, she had held herself together, tried always to be cheerful, tried not to be negative or bitter. She had tried to love, and she had accepted love in return provided it was the quiet, steady love of her mother or her brother or Lauren or Lily or the rest of her family.
But …
“It would be like jumping off the edge of the world,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be there to catch you.”
“Will you?” she said.
“And you can catch me when I jump,” he told her.
“You will squash me,” she said.
And they were both laughing, hugged together in each other’s arms, both damp from her tears.
“Gwendoline,” he said when they were finally quiet again, “will you marry me?”
She held him, her eyes closed, and inhaled the mingled smells of cologne and sweat and maleness. And the indefinable something wonderful that was Hugo himself.
“Do you think I can have children?” she said. “Do you think I deserve another chance? What if I cannot?”
He clucked his tongue.
“No one ever knows for sure,” he said. “We will find out as time goes on. And yes, you deserve to have children of your own body. As for me, don’t worry. I would a thousand times rather marry you and have no children than marry any other woman in the world and have a dozen. In fact, I don’t think I will marry anyone else if you will not have me. I’ll have to start going to brothels.”
They were snorting with laughter again then.
“Well, in that case,” she said.
“Yes?” He drew back his head and gazed at her in the lamplight.
“I’ll marry you,” she said, sobering. “Oh, Hugo, I don’t care how many different worlds we have to cross in order to find our own little world within. I don’t care. I will do what has to be done.”
“Me too,” he said.
And they smiled at each other until they both had tears in their eyes.
He sat up and rummaged around in the heap of his clothing until he found his watch. He held it up to the light of the lamp.
“Half past two,” he said. “We had better be out of here by half past five. Three hours. What can we do in three hours? Any suggestions?”
He turned to look down at her.
She opened her arms to him.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “An excellent suggestion. And three hours gives plenty of time for play as well as feasting.”
“Hugo,” she said as his arms closed about her again and he lay down on his back, bringing her over on top of him. “Oh, Hugo, I love you, I love you.”
“Mmm,” he said against her lips.
Hugo made the announcement at a late breakfast, which everyone attended. He ought perhaps to have spoken with Gwendoline’s brother first, but he had already done that once upon a time. And perhaps the announcement ought to have been made to her family first, but … why? Her family would be informed as soon as they returned to London.
“Ah,” Constance said, looking about the table and sounding wistful, “all the excitement is over, and tomorrow we will be returning to London.”
“But every moment of our stay has been wonderful, Constance,” Fiona said, her voice warm and animated in a way Hugo had never heard before this week. “And there is still today to enjoy.”
“And the excitement is not all over,” Hugo said from the head of the table. “At least, for me it is not. And for Gwendoline it is not. For we are newly betrothed and intend to spend the day enjoying our new status.”
She had told him last night that he might make the announcement today if he wished. She smiled now and bit her lip as the room filled with the sounds of exclamations and squeals and applause and everyone clambering to speak at once and chairs scraping back across the floor. Hugo found his hand being pumped, his back being slapped, his cheeks being kissed. Gwendoline, he saw, was being hugged and kissed too.
He wondered if her family members would react with such unbridled enthusiasm, and it occurred to him that quite possibly they would.
“You owe me ten guineas, I believe, Mark,” Cousin Claude called across the table. “I did say by the end of the week. And there were witnesses.”
“You could not have waited another day or two, Hugo?” Mark asked.
“And when are the nuptials to be?” Aunt Henrietta asked. “And where?”
“In London,” Hugo said. “Probably at St. George’s on Hanover Square. As soon as the banns have been read. We want to be married and back here for the summer.”
They had discussed other possibilities—Newbury Abbey, Crosslands Park, even Penderris Hall—but they wanted both families to attend, and any place outside London seemed impractical, partly because of the number of people who must be accommodated, and partly because his own family members had already just taken a holiday of several days. Besides, the Season would still be in full swing and Parliament still in session. They really did not want to wait until summer.