Mary Balogh - Web of Love

“It is a beautiful day,” she said. “You will probably enjoy sitting in the churchyard or outside the inn while the rest of us look in the shops. You will like the village.”

“I intend to spend the afternoon outside painting,” he said. “I had a long talk with your mother this morning, and she has lent me all the necessary equipment.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “Where are we going to go? Onto the terrace?”

“We are not going anywhere,” he said. “You are going with the other ladies to enjoy an afternoon in the village. I am going to the other side of the bridge to paint the house.”

“You will need someone to carry your easel and your brushes and things,” she said. “I will be quite delighted to help you, Allan. I can visit the village anytime.”

“There are such people as servants,” he said. “All I need to do is ask for help. It is a very simple matter.”

“But I want to stay,” she said. “I miss those days, Allan, when we were always alone together. Let’s do something together this afternoon.”

“A few minutes ago,” he said, “you were full of enthusiasm for showing off your village to Mrs. Simpson. You don’t need to give up that pleasure for me, Madeline. I will be quite happy painting alone. I prefer to be alone when I paint. I can concentrate better.”

They came to a stop outside his room.

“You really don’t want me with you, do you?” she said. “I am getting on your nerves, Allan?”

He looked exasperated. “No, you don’t get on my nerves,” he said. “Have I said the wrong thing again? I have, haven’t I? I have hurt you again. I don’t seem to be able to help doing so these days, though I never mean to do it. Stay with me, then, Madeline, if it is what you really wish to do. I would like that.”

“I think we should end our betrothal,” she said in a rush, her voice not quite steady. She looked about her hastily to make sure that the corridor was deserted.

“What?” he looked at her, incredulous. “Have I hurt you that badly? I must be a far worse brute than I thought. I merely wanted you to have a pleasant afternoon, free of the necessity of fetching and carrying for me. Come, Madeline, don’t overreact. Smile at me and say you forgive me.”

“It is not just today,” she said. “And it is not your fault. Perhaps this was inevitable, Allan. You are recovering and regaining your independence. You don’t need me any longer.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, reaching out for her hand, which she kept clasped in the other one in front of her. “I wouldn’t be alive now if it were not for you. Do you think I can ever forget that?”

“I’m not blaming you,” she said. “You did need me, yes. You leaned on me for a long time. And I made the mistake of thinking that you would always need me like that. It was very naive of me. You don’t need me now, and I have to be happy for you that you don’t.”

He tried to laugh to relieve the tension. “Can we not just love each other?” he asked. “Does there have to be any need? Any dependence? Can we not just have a normal, happy marriage?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t think we love each other, Allan. Not in that way.”

“I love you,” he said. “You are very, very special to me. I owe you my life and my sanity.”

“I love you dearly too, Allan,” she said. “But I don’t think we could make a marriage of it. We are too different from each other. We would bicker and bicker and come to thoroughly dislike each other before we had been married a year. I don’t want that to happen. I am too fond of you.”

He shifted his weight on his crutches and blew out air from puffed cheeks. “I can’t quite believe I am having this conversation,” he said. “You always seemed so unattainable, you know. Lady Madeline Raine, whom everyone admired. I did not think you had even noticed me. And now I feel as if I am the one who has let you down. I have made you unhappy.”

“No, not you,” she said. “You really are not to blame for anything, Allan. I am only unhappy with myself. My life seems to have been one string of self-delusions. Yet this time I was so sure. Oh, never mind. We must be thankful that we have come to our senses before it is too late.”

“I will make arrangements to leave tomorrow, then,” he said.

“Oh, no!” She reached out a hand to touch his arm. “No, Allan. That would cause unbearable pain and embarrassment. Please stay. You like Mama and Edmund and Dominic, don’t you? And you are painting and playing the pianoforte. You are gaining more independence here. Stay awhile.”

“I don’t want to cause you any unpleasantness,” he said, frowning. “If you want, I will stay for a few days longer, then. I’m sorry about this, Madeline. More sorry than I can say.”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “at least we have been able to put an end to a betrothal without hurling things at each other’s heads. We are still friends, are we not?”

“You will always be my friend,” he said. “I will always love you, Madeline.”

“Like a sister,” she said. “It will be better that way. You are in some pain, standing there, Allan. Go inside your room now and lie down for an hour. And do it. Don’t pace the floor brooding on what has just happened.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, raising one hand in a smart salute and smiling at her rather ruefully.

RAIN STARTED AT SOME TIME DURING THE night and continued to fall for the following two days. A most miserable sight, Madeline declared to anyone who was prepared to sympathize, when one had been imprisoned in a city for months on end and now had boundless energy to work off. She promised Ellen and Jennifer that on the next fine day they would ride down onto the beach and perhaps even climb the steep path up to the clifftop.

“That way you can see both places during the same outing,” she said. “That is, if the rain ever stops and the mist ever lifts.”

But for the time being the mist hung low over the valley and a fine rain came steadily down. Lord Eden took Jennifer to visit the Carringtons on one day and the Courtneys the next. The earl and countess divided their time between their children and their guests. Madeline and Ellen sat in the music room a few times, listening to Lieutenant Penworth play. And the dowager countess spent time with him in the portrait gallery, the two of them discussing the paintings there.

Ellen declined the chance to be a part of both visits. She felt a little tired after the day of the ride and the visit to the village, and felt the need to spend some time quietly indoors. Alone, even, if she could be so without appearing rude to her hosts.

She was not actively miserable. Indeed, she felt a certain contentment that she had not felt since Charlie’s death. But she needed to live through those last days of his life as Dominic had described them to her. She needed to fill in the gap that had yawned empty and frightening for so long. She had said good-bye to him in their rooms-she could still see him, eager to be on his way, to have done with the pain of parting, his eyes devouring her-and then there had been nothing. Only Dominic, through his pain and his fever, telling her that Charlie was gone. And only her realization weeks later that it was true. And only that walk over the churned-up land south of Waterloo where she knew he was buried with thousands of other men.

She needed to live through in her mind what he had lived during those days. She needed to watch him die. And she needed to accept his death. She needed to let him go.

Charlie had been her husband. Dearly, dearly loved. But “had been” were the key words. He was dead. He was a part of her past. Always to be remembered. Always to be cherished in memory. But in the past.

And at last she could think of him with only a dull ache of longing. At last she could remember and smile at some of the memories. The terrible raw agony of her grief was over.

And she had a future to look ahead to. She had felt her child move in her.

“That climb up the cliffs is really quite dangerous, though very exhilarating,” the countess said to her as they sat together in the morning room, stitching. “And it is very strenuous to go up. The first time I did it was in the opposite direction. And Edmund would allow it only after I had promised faithfully to cling to his hand every step of the way. We were betrothed then.” She smiled at the memory.

“I am looking forward to seeing the sea again,” Ellen said. “It seems strange that we are so close and have not yet seen it.”

“English rain!” the countess said. “You know, what I have been trying to say as tactfully as possible is that perhaps you should not tackle that climb. I will stay down on the beach with you if you wish, and we shall stroll along like a couple of respectable matrons.”

“Because I am increasing?” Ellen asked.

The countess lowered her head over her work. “We have heard about that, naturally,” she said. “Your father-in-law did make a public announcement.”

“I am feeling quite well,” Ellen said, “and do not get as tired as I did at first. But I think you are right. I shall take the walk on the beach without the climb.”

“I am glad for you,” the countess said. “You are good with children. You are happy about it, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Ellen put down her own work on her lap. “Oh, quite ecstatic. I didn’t think it would ever happen to me. I had quite resigned myself to being childless.”

“It is the most wonderful feeling in the world, is it not?” Lady Amberley said, smiling warmly at the other. “One feels heavy and uncomfortable and lethargic at the end, and then there is all the pain of the birthing. And when it is over, one feels that one could never ever go through such a dread experience again. But then a few months later, one thinks that perhaps after all one can do it one more time.” She laughed. “I am at that last stage at the moment, and very envious of you.”