Beth Kery - Because We Belong

“As I read some of those articles about other people who were the children of rape, some of their testimonials about what they’d endured as children and adults and how it had affected them, I realized that I’ve been the one who has been in denial.” She met his stare. Her eyes glistened with tears, but her face remained defiant, seeming to blaze with something he didn’t understand. “I wanted you to return to being the man I remembered, the lover I remembered. I didn’t want to admit that the knowledge of Trevor Gaines had altered you. I didn’t want to admit it, because to do so would mean that I was entirely helpless. To do so would mean I might have to turn you loose and let go forever.”

“I don’t want this to be forever,” he grated out. “I want to find my way back to you.”

“I know. I said I knew before—while we were in the cottage—but I really didn’t,” she said with a brittle laugh. Her arms tightened around her ribs as if she were trying to brace herself. “I think one of my problems is that you always seem so strong. So impenetrable. All those people I read about online—the ones who’d also been born of rape—talked about how it affected their self-esteem. They felt so ashamed, and worthless, even though logically they knew they hadn’t done anything. So many of them wrote about what it was like when they realized—really got it—what it’d meant for their mother to bear them . . . raise them . . . the child of the man who had raped them.”

Her shining eyes were like dark mirrors.

“It’s hard to explain,” he muttered after a moment. “Sometimes I used to think Lucien understood, but now I know even he . . .”

He faded off. Lucien, at least, was now secure in the knowledge that he wasn’t a result of depraved, selfish violence. Yes, what Gaines had done to Lucien’s mother was sick and unforgivable, of course, but this was . . . different. Ian knew most people would consider the child born of rape a monster, a vicious, cruel reminder to the victimized woman of what she’d endured.

Francesca nodded as if in understanding, even though he hadn’t finished his thought. “And your mother couldn’t come to terms with it like other women might.” Ian closed his eyes and forced himself to inhale as Francesca put that horrible truth to words for him. His mother had had even less of a chance to psychologically cope with the rape and heal. When her psychosis was at its worst, she couldn’t differentiate present day reality from horrific memory. She couldn’t help it.

At times, Ian and Gaines had become one and the same for her.

He felt Francesca’s hand on his upper arm and he resisted an urge to flinch. Her touch was almost unbearable, it was so sweet.

“When your mother was herself, though, Ian,” she said in a quiet voice that vibrated with emotion, “when she wasn’t being ruled by her illness, she did love you. So much. You have told me so many times how she loved and prized you. ‘She was the sweetest, kindest, most loving mother in the world.’ That’s what you’ve told me. That’s who she really was. That’s who you really are, the person who deserved her love.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “The man who deserves mine.”

He inhaled, forcing the invisible clutches on his lungs to release. He opened his eyes.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Let me come with you then.”

“I can’t. I can’t stand to think of taking you with me, of you being there. Please understand, Francesca,” he said stiffly.

She dropped her hand and took a step back. He clenched his teeth together at the loss of her touch, at the expression of defeat on her face. “It won’t help you, Ian. I’m convinced of that. But even if I don’t agree with what you’re doing, I understand. Anne and James understand, too. Will you at least let us know you’re all right this time?”

“Yes. I already told Grandfather I would. And I also told him I want you to stay here at Belford Hall,” he said, finally meeting her stare.

Her eyebrows arched. “I can’t promise for how long.”

“I know,” he admitted. “I can’t ask you to put your life indefinitely on hold for me. But it would give me comfort for now, to know that you’re here with my grandparents. Promise to at least stay for the next week or so.”

She hesitated, her pink lips trembling. “All right,” she said finally.

He nodded once, hoping she saw his gratitude. Realizing there was nothing more to say, he went to get his bags. He moved past her toward the door.

“Ian.”

He had no choice but to look back at her and test his crumbling fortitude one more time.

“Find your way back to me,” she whispered fiercely.

He turned, reaching blindly for the door handle, unable momentarily to breathe.

She stood before the canvas, her concentration such that she only became aware by degrees that people had entered the room and were speaking quietly to one another. She blinked, moving a tendril of hair off her forehead with the same hand that clutched a pencil.

“Hello,” she called, her voice sounding dazed even to her own ears. She wasn’t annoyed by the interruption for her work’s sake, but she was disappointed. Since Ian had left yesterday, the only real peace she’d gotten was when she finally entered that coveted zone of creative focus.

“Mr. Sinoit was just saying that you seemed to be in a trance, and I was telling him that’s how you always look when you work,” Mrs. Hanson told her with a smile as she arranged a tea tray on a table between two chairs. The housekeeper’s expression turned apologetic. “At least when your work is going well.”

“It is going well,” Francesca said.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted, but you worked through breakfast. It was just James, Short, and myself, and the pair of them talked about Brooklyn the whole time,” Gerard said. Francesca smiled. She’d met the clean-cut, square-jawed Arthur Short, an American who worked for James, last night at dinner, and thought he was very nice. “I missed you and Anne,” Gerard continued with a dry smile. “I thought some refreshment might be appreciated at this point. Anne’s worried that your appetite is going off again since . . .”

Francesca forced a grin when Gerard avoided mentioning Ian and his departure. So . . . they were back to skirting the topic of Ian again. Not if she could help it.

“Since Ian left? Yes, I suppose I haven’t been that hungry. But leave it to one of Mrs. Hanson’s teas to get my appetite going again,” she said, eyeing the scones, Danish, sweet cream, and fresh jam on the tiered porcelain serving dish.

“Shall I pour for you?” Mrs. Hanson asked.

“No, I’ll do it,” Francesca said, sitting across from Gerard. She opened her mouth to ask Mrs. Hanson to join them, but then closed it when she focused on Gerard. As much as it was the norm for her to take tea with the housekeeper, she doubted it was typical for Gerard.

“I’ll just leave you to it then,” Mrs. Hanson said warmly before departing.

“I’m glad to hear your sketching is going well,” Gerard said. “May I have a look after we finish?”

“Please do,” Francesca said as she poured from the china pot.

“I feel as if I haven’t seen much of you lately,” Gerard said.

She studied his face closely as she stirred cream into her tea. “Well, a lot has been going on, I guess. And I’m afraid I can become a bit withdrawn when I’m working on a project. How have you been?” she asked, her concern for his well-being after the shooting audible in her question. “I’ve never really had much of a chance to speak with you in private after what happened with Brodsik,” she said. “It must have been awful for you . . . and still is.”

“It was a shock, certainly,” Gerard said, sipping his tea, his expression sober.

“I haven’t thanked you, either.” She set down the scone she’d picked up, her appetite suddenly fleeing. “If it hadn’t been for you,” she hesitated, not wanting to sound so melodramatic as to say, I might be dead. “Who knows what havoc Brodsik might have created?” she managed to say instead.

“As much as I would prefer that the circumstances were different, I am glad I was able to do what I could to stop him,” Gerard said quietly.

“I would never wish the situation on anyone, but you responded very bravely.”

He gave a small smile and set down his teacup.

“And you? Are you suffering again, with Ian’s departure?”

She blinked at his question, given the fact he’d been avoiding saying Ian’s name in her presence earlier.

“I’m doing all right,” she said, keeping her voice even. “At least he’s agreed to keep in contact this time. With Anne and James anyway. At least we’re not fearful for his life or well-being.”

“Yes, well that’s something, of course.” He paused. She sensed he was trying to broach a delicate subject.

“What is it, Gerard?”

“I’m well aware that you, Anne, and James know of some kind of secret about why Ian became so emotionally disturbed last summer and disappeared. And I understand,” he said, holding up his hand in a placating manner when she opened her mouth to try and explain her silence yet again. “I value your discretion. I’m not trying to pry. It’s just that . . . I came upon Lucien and Ian talking together in the sitting room a few days before he left Belford Hall. They were talking about a man called Trevor Gaines. Ian has apparently bought his house and has been conducting some sort of search in it. I only bring it up because I was very concerned by Ian’s tone. He sounded quite . . . intense. I won’t go so far as to say ‘mad’ but he certainly sounded obsessed with the topic.”