Dread receded to be replaced by hope. She remembered the desire, the need, the pleasure with which she had approached their lovemaking last time. It had all been perfectly wonderful until the moment when he came inside her. But the memory of him there had surely replaced the other memory. All would be well. They had not married under the best of circumstances, it was true-she knew that he had not really wanted her as his wife-but she knew equally that he would make the best of those circumstances just as she would.

“Anne,” he said, “after going to Alvesley we ought to go into Gloucestershire so that I may meet your family.”

“No!” she exclaimed.

“It would be a fitting time to do it,” he said. “Any embarrassment they may have felt over your unmarried state while you had a child will be soothed by the knowledge of your recent marriage. And we will be able to assure them that I look upon David as my son just as if he had been born of my seed. It is time-”

“It is not time,” she cried, getting to her feet and crossing to the fireplace, where she stood with her back to him, looking into the glowing coals, “and never will be. I have no family.”

“You do,” he said with quiet persistence. “You have a husband and son. You have in-laws and nephews and a niece at Alvesley. And you have parents and siblings in Gloucestershire-my in-laws and David’s grandparents and aunts and uncles. Perhaps cousins too. You have never given me full details.”

“Deliberately so,” she told him, “because I do not know the details myself. My family was not there to comfort and support me when I needed comfort and support, and so I managed without them and discovered that in fact I did not need them at all and would never need them again.”

“We always need family,” he said. “Some poor souls literally have none, and they are much to be pitied. Other people turn away from the family they do have and are perhaps more to be pitied. But at least they always have the chance to turn back again.”

“I was not the one who turned away,” she told him, angry and upset that he should bring up this topic now when she had told him her feelings on it while they were in Wales. “I have no turning back to do.”

“I disagree with you, Anne,” he said. “I know you are not a happy person. I do not believe you ever will be happy until you have at least tried to reconcile with your family and to make your son-and your husband-known to them.”

“And I suppose,” she said, turning on him, “my new child too, who will be very legitimate indeed and very respectable-the grandson or granddaughter of the Earl of Redfield no less. And then there will be David Jewell, still illegitimate, still a bastard.”

She had never seen him angry before. The left side of his face looked pale and chiseled and more handsome than ever. The right side of his face looked more immobile in contrast, the black eye patch almost sinister.

“That is an ugly word,” he said, “and unworthy of you, Anne. David is my stepson. I intend to take measures to adopt him fully. I will even give him my name if he can be persuaded to take it.”

“David is my son.” She glared back at him, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “He is not yours or anyone else’s. He is David Jewell. And he does not need anyone but me.”

They stared tensely at each other for several moments until he looked away and pushed his empty wineglass farther to the center of the table.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I wanted to avoid being the autocrat, the domineering partner in our marriage, the sort of husband who either demands obedience of his wife or expects it as his right. I thought to inform you of my wish to take you to Alvesley to introduce you to my family and then give you the equal chance to take me to your own family. But I have only succeeded in hurting and angering you. I am sorry.”

The anger drained out of her, leaving her shaken. She was not often given to anger. And she had liked Sydnam-she still did, she hoped. But here they were on their wedding day, quarreling quite bitterly. He had all but called her a coward. He had called her unhappy, implying that she was not whole, that she was incapable of wholeness and healing unless she turned back to people who had turned from her and from her son, who was guilty of nothing except being born of the ugliness of rape. He had scolded her for calling David by a name she knew some people used to describe him.

And he had claimed not to wish to be an autocrat, yet he had spoken of adopting David and giving him his name just as if all the care she had given her son in almost ten years and the Jewell name were nothing. Just as if both she and David needed to be saved from something, lifted up to respectability.

She knew she was being unfair to him-and that fact did not help restore her mood to tranquillity.

“I am sorry too,” she said. “I did not mean to quarrel with you today of all days-or any day for that matter. I suppose I am just tired. The last few weeks have been rather stressful.”

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “you would like to sleep in the other bed in David’s room tonight.”

The suggestion was so unexpected that all she could do was stare at him, trying not to show the dismay she felt. It was not what she would like at all-she had wanted to take a determined step toward normality tonight. And she did not believe it was what he wanted either-she could not be the only one who had felt the sexual tension all afternoon and evening. But something had been ruined and she found herself answering in kind when she wanted-and perhaps he wanted it too-to deny his suggestion.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Perhaps that would be a good idea. And if David wakes up in a strange place, he will be reassured to find me close by.”

Oh, stupid, stupid, she thought.

“Yes, of course.” He got to his feet and came toward her, reaching out a hand formally for hers and carrying it to his lips. It was her left hand. She could see her new wedding ring gleaming in the candlelight and willed him to lift his head and kiss her on the lips and end this madness so that the night could proceed as they must both have expected it to.

Instead he smiled kindly at her.

“Good night, Anne. I hope you both sleep well. Shall we plan to make an early start in the morning?”

“Yes,” she said, sliding her hand from his and smiling back. “Good night, Sydnam.”

Ten minutes later she was lying in the narrow bed close to David, staring up at the canopy over her head and ignoring the hot tears that were trickling diagonally across her cheeks and dripping onto the pillow on either side of her head.

It did not help at all that she recognized the absurdity of the situation-and of both their behavior.

It was her wedding night and a whole private sitting and dining room separated her bedchamber from that of her new husband.

And all because they had quarreled-though they had apologized to each other.

She had desperately hoped that their wedding night would set them on the path to a happy future, even if not a happily-ever-after.

Now she was afraid all might be ruined.

She thought of getting up and going to him after all. But she was the one who had initiated their lovemaking at Ty Gwyn-and then she had let him down. She did not have the courage to do it again, knowing that it was quite possible the same thing would happen.


The carriage turned to pass between two great wrought-iron gates and made its way along a wide graveled driveway, woods on each side, a sure signal that it was traveling through the outer limits of a private park surrounding a great house. Although the scenery was different, Anne was powerfully reminded of her first approach to Glandwr-where all this had started.