“Theresa, how…” Judith did not seem to know how to complete her sentence. “When…” Another shake of her head. “What…”
“It was an accident,” Theresa said, on the verge of panic. “Pure accident! Benedict and I happened to be looking at the folio of marriage registries at the exact right time. Had we tried a week before, we’d never have seen the entry, it was that new.”
“I don’t understand why you were looking at marriage registries in the first place.”
“Well, it’s because of the Births and Deaths Registration Act of 1836…”
Judith looked even more baffled at that.
Theresa would never know why people asked questions when they really didn’t to know the answer. She shook her head and tried a different tack. “We utilized the process of elimination. You couldn’t find Lady Camilla Worth anywhere, so either she was dead or she was using a different name. I eliminated the possibility that she was dead because it was inconvenient, and the most likely reason for her to change her name was marriage. So we looked through the registry of marriages. All of them.”
Judith just shook her head. “You didn’t tell me you were doing any of this.”
Now that she’d done it, it was so horrifically obvious that she’d made a mistake. Again.
Theresa knew she was difficult; she’d been told it all her life. She’d been told, over and over, that she was impossible, horrible, awful, unladylike, selfish. And it wasn’t just Judith who was doing the telling. Just about everyone who came into her life told her that.
She didn’t want to be any of those things. She didn’t particularly want to be good and ladylike, either, but it seemed that there should have been space for the person she was in this world without having to make her over into someone else entirely.
Maybe, deep down, she’d hoped that if she got this right, doing it her way, her sister would hug her. That Judith would say, I see who you are, and you are a good, loving person.
Apparently, she hadn’t yet earned the right to that praise. Theresa’s eyes stung, but she hadn’t given up. Not yet.
“Well.” Theresa’s hands wrung. “It was supposed to be a present for your birthday. If you don’t like it, I have about nine dreadful cushion covers that lie abandoned on the floor of my wardrobe. You can have any of them that you like. All of them, in fact. If you ever want to decorate a room with unnerving embroidery, they should prove useful.”
Judith didn’t say anything and Theresa huddled in misery.
She would plan better next year. With a full year to practice, maybe she could manage that damned embroidery. She’d give Judith the best raven that anyone had ever embroidered, and when she did—
Judith made a pained sound, and Theresa finally looked up. Judith was crying.
“You are impossible,” Judith whispered. “You don’t know what you can and can’t do.”
“It was…really, it wasn’t even my first choice?” Theresa sniffed. “I really tried to do the cushions first. They’re so terrible. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that my love for you is…” She thought of those cushions and the diseased produce. “My love is like the rot on the fields. It grows with no bounds, even if you don’t want it to, and you probably have to burn it with fire to stop the spread of disease.”
Judith emitted something like a choking noise. She buried her face in her hands.
Theresa jumped off her bed. “I’m sorry!” Somewhere, she had a handkerchief. It was probably even clean. She crossed to her dresser, flinging open drawers. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I was only trying to help.” She found a piece of linen, shook it out, sniffed it—definitely clean—and waved it in her sister’s direction. “I’ll do better next time. I’m learning every day, even if it doesn’t seem like it, and—”
Judith crossed the room to Theresa, plucked the fabric from her hand, and dropped it on the floor. “Shut up, Tee-spoon,” she said. “I love you. This is the best birthday present I have ever had. And just because I don’t have the words to say it…”
She wrapped her arms around her, squeezing Theresa so hard that she could scarcely take a breath.
“You are impossible,” Judith said again. “You don’t know what you can and can’t do. I wouldn’t take any other sister, ever, in your place.”
Crying was a weakness. Theresa didn’t believe in it. But somehow, the kind of tears that made her angry—the ones that crept out when she felt small and inconsequential and incapable—were nothing like the ones that pricked her eyes now. Funny, how tears could encompass both frustration and accomplishment.
“I know I’m hard on you,” Judith said. “I just worry so much. You’re…you, and the world is…so…”
“Ugly?”
“Ugly is a good word. You’re fearless, and sometimes I think you’re like a kitten trotting into a lion’s den, meowing a defiant challenge. You’re going to get eaten.”
“The way I see it,” Theresa said matter-of-factly, “if I’m a kitten and they’re all lions, they’re going to eat me no matter how I act. I might as well enjoy myself before I’m dinner.”
Judith laughed. “That’s worse. You have no sense of self-preservation.”
“There are more kittens than lions,” Theresa replied. “They can’t eat us all.”
“There are a great many lions, and most of the kittens hide in caves.”
“But if we all descended into the lion’s den, we could mew them to death.”
“What are we even talking about any longer?”
Judith looked at Theresa and shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Theresa looked at the wall. “I am impossible. Maybe, deep down, I thought… If I could find Camilla this time, I could find Anthony…later.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“And…”
Judith hugged her. They didn’t move for a few minutes. Finally, Judith spoke.
“You know,” she said, “he sends letters.”
Theresa’s heart stopped. “You are in contact with Anthony? You have his direction?”
Judith shook her head. “Not entirely. We don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. We can put coded messages in the advertisements section, and sometimes, fourteen months later, he’ll provide an answer. He doesn’t really tell me anything. And—I need to warn you—he says things that are…of the sort that used to tend to set you off when you were younger, you know? I didn’t want to tell you.”
Theresa sat up straight. “You are telling me that I can send my older brother a message.” She felt her fingers curl. “That he is aware of my continued existence and has not come for me?!”
“Honestly.” Judith shut her eyes. “I think it would be easier for all of us except Anthony if he were dead. It makes a mess of everything.”
“It sounds fine to me,” Theresa said. “This way, I’m not the worst of your siblings.”
Judith laughed. “You never have been. Theresa, I think…I’ve been unfair to you. You’re fifteen. You may not go about being yourself the way others would, but you’re old enough to make your own decisions. Would you want to see what he’s written?”
Theresa exhaled. “Yes.”
Judith patted her knee. “Later,” she said. “It’s been a long day, and the solicitor keeps them. It’s time for dinner now.”
* * *
Adrian wasted no time. He went back to Gainshire on the evening train. Walter Evans, the footman, conducted him to the office to wait. He was accustomed to Adrian waiting for Bishop Denmore, and—as he considered Adrian a servant—thought nothing of it.
He was allowed into his uncle’s study without a blink of an eye. Adrian took his time, making sure he got every last affidavit, every last note.
The documents they had told most of the story—why Bishop Lassiter had acted as he had, why the rector had chosen to discredit Camilla, where the money had come from, and whose pockets it had eventually lin
ed.
But there was one point that might be questioned, one that Denmore himself had raised: why had it taken them so long to file for an annulment?
Before he went back to London, he took the train back up to Lackwich.
Mrs. Beasley, it turned out, had saved more than Bishop Lassiter’s telegrams.
She had saved his uncle’s, too—all of them, the ones saying that Adrian needed to stay the course, that he believed Adrian would succeed, and that he could do nothing to help.
Whether Denmore wanted to acknowledge Adrian was no longer relevant. If the truth came out, it would come out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Adrian had left a note informing his uncle that he was taking possession of his own papers in preparation for the annulment proceedings. That note must have been magic. Up until that moment, his uncle had always been too busy to visit Adrian. Now, he suddenly found the time to come to London.
Adrian received him in the home he shared with his brother. He let Denmore slog through the hell of polite conversation as the tea things were brought out, let him look away and sigh uncomfortably and rub his hands together.
Adrian told him about the china that was in production.
His uncle nodded and bit his lip, until finally, he could keep silent no longer.
“Adrian,” Denmore finally said. “What are you doing?”
Adrian could have been obnoxious. He could have answered with a false innocence that he was drinking tea.
Instead, he answered as simply as possible. “I’m having my marriage annulled. This cannot be a surprise to you; it has been my stated goal from the moment I was trapped into it at gunpoint.”
The fact that his goals and desires had shifted? Not relevant any longer. Camilla wanted a choice; he’d give her one.
His uncle shut his eyes. “You must understand, Adrian. Those papers you acquired… They are not entirely convenient for me. Not if they are made public.”
“Are they as inconvenient as being married at pistol point?”
“Dash it.” His uncle set his tea cup down firmly. “I don’t see the point in comparing such things. I ask you to reconsider. You owe me that much.”
Adrian could have quibbled about who owed whom. But when all was said and done, it didn’t hurt to try. Instead, he just nodded. “Very well.”
His uncle looked almost startled. “Oh. Really? You’ll give it up?”
“I didn’t say that. I’ll reconsider. Give me a moment.”
And he did—Adrian reconsidered.
On the one hand, he was fairly certain that what he felt for Camilla was more than passing fancy. They got along well together. When she smiled, something in his chest lifted. She had asked him to have a choice, and he had promised her she could have it because he knew it would make her happy, and he loved the idea of making her happy.
On the other hand, if he granted his uncle’s wish, his uncle’s promise of reconciliation someday might still be a possibility. There was something to be said for family harmony. Adrian had been taking on one more burden for so long that maybe…
He realized the real reason he was giving the notion such consideration the moment the thought popped into his head unbidden. You could stay married, his mind whispered. You could keep her and allay your uncle’s worries all at once. You could have everything you want. And you want it, don’t you?
He did. He wasn’t sure when he had started wanting it, wanting her.
But she had asked for a choice, and he wanted her to have it. And—most importantly—for coming up on four decades, Denmore had chosen to pretend that his family didn’t exist. That was his choice. He’d had all these years to choose otherwise, and he never had.
Adrian wanted to be chosen. Even if he had been selfish enough to defy all Camilla’s wishes in the matter, he was too selfish to give up that chance for himself.
“There we are,” Adrian said. “I’ve considered once more. The answer is that I will still be seeking an annulment.”
His uncle let out a long sigh. “How disappointing. A bare moment’s thought is all I get? After all that I’ve done for you.”
Adrian still felt raw from their last conversation. More; he had looked over the telegrams he’d exchanged with Denmore the day after the wedding. They’d firmed his resolve. He’d given his uncle the benefit of too many doubts.
The hell of it was that Adrian suspected that his uncle was being honest. He sincerely believed he had done everything for Adrian, because in his mind, Adrian deserved nothing and anything more than that exceeded his allotment. Likewise, he didn’t notice anything Adrian had done for him. He expected everything, and anything less than that was too little. All Adrian’s risk, all his worries? They didn’t count one whit, not in Denmore’s estimation.
His uncle had taught Adrian to rely on argument, not emotion. It was a shame he had never been able to take his own advice.
“You know,” Adrian said slowly, “I think you really believe that. You really believe that you care about me.”
“Of course I do.” His uncle pulled back. “You’re my own flesh and blood. How could I not care?”
“There are a number of ways that one shows what caring looks like.” Adrian closed his eyes. “For some people, caring takes the form of little gifts. Of looking out for your future. Or perhaps it’s saying the right words when it’s necessary, or maybe even being present when times are difficult. Caring is a mutual exchange of support in a thousand different ways.” He thought of Camilla telling him to stop shouldering all her burdens.
“Yes, of course.”
“When I think of the way you care for me,” Adrian said, “it looks like this: When you need something from me, you are willing to say you love me in private. Never in public.” He met his uncle’s eyes. “You may think that that is love. But what you expect of yourself is so much smaller than what you expect of me. That doesn’t feel like love to me.”
“That’s…” His uncle swallowed. “That’s entirely unfair, that characterization! You know I would acknowledge you, that I would do more, but…”
Adrian stood. He leaned forward. “If it were just me, maybe I’d continue on like this. I’ve been blessed with an overabundance. I try to take my share of burdens. But one day, I will have children. I have a brother; I have parents. A woman was married to me by force. They all deserve better. I cannot ask everyone else to shoulder your burdens, too.”
“Is that how you see this all?” His uncle stood. “I took you in when you were a boy.”
“I already had a place to stay. I visited you, and you made me your page,” Adrian corrected. “And then your secretary. You asked me to pose as a valet, but did nothing to help with the problems that resulted.”
There was a longer pause. He could see his uncle’s knuckles tremble. Finally, Denmore exhaled.
“Adrian. It will ruin us both, the truth—me and Bishop Lassiter alike. If they knew that my sister had progeny like you…”
Adrian pulled back, and his uncle flinched.
“I mean, if they knew that I asked my own nephew to serve as a valet! That I did something so ungentlemanly as to spy on another man to obtain an advantage… It will ruin me.”
Adrian just shook his head. “If you didn’t want your actions to ruin you, you shouldn’t have done them.”
His uncle just shook his head.
“Consider,” Adrian said. “Once you’re ruined, it won’t hurt you to invite my mother and her husband out for a visit. You may even find yourself better off.”
* * *
Adrian was still sitting in his office, staring off into a distant nothing, when his brother tapped on the door.
“Adrian?”
He had put off this conversation for far too long. Grayson had woken him the morning Camilla left and witnessed his panic.
They’d had the opportunity to speak since, but they just hadn’t done so. Largely by Adrian’s design.
He had excused himself as too busy. And he had be
en busy. There had been documents to purloin and telegrams to track down. There were filings and business still to be done. His older brother had waited patiently, giving Adrian glances that said I told you so when they met over breakfast. Grayson hadn’t needed to know precisely what had happened to know that it had been so irregular as to require an annulment.
Now their uncle had arrived—a shocking occurrence—and had left.
There was no getting around this moment. “Come in.” Adrian sighed.
Grayson tossed Adrian one of the apples he was holding before seating himself on the edge of the desk. “So,” he said. “Our dear uncle comes all the way from Gainshire—a two-hour journey—to visit his nephews. How unusual.” Grayson took a bite of his apple, crisp and new, and chewed it slowly as if he were contemplating.
“Go ahead.” Adrian sighed. “I know you’re going to subject me to a long string of questions that culminate in your looking at me and not saying ‘I told you so.’ You might as well do it.”
Grayson made a face and chewed faster.
No point waiting. Adrian bulled on ahead. “To answer the questions I know you are going to ask: Yes, Denmore did ask me to do something for him. He asked me to pose as a valet to find out information. And—don’t look at me like that—I said yes. Yes, it did all go to hell and back, and yes, there was a wedding at gunpoint, and yes, Denmore did refuse to help—multiple times—and yes, he did just come here to ask me to give up on seeking an annulment, because it might make him appear less than perfect in the public eye.”
Grayson swallowed his bite of apple.
“No,” Adrian said, “he did not ever say please.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.” Grayson took another bite.
“Oh, I don’t mind.” Adrian picked up his own apple. “You want to say it. ‘I told you so.’ Just like that. Go ahead.”
His brother chewed and swallowed again, then slowly pushed to his feet and came to stand near Adrian. He reached out and slowly set his hand on Adrian’s head. “You utter nincompoop,” he said steadily. “I have never wanted to say ‘I told you so’ to you. All I ever wanted was to know that you were safe and secure and happy. How hard is it to understand that I don’t want you hurt?”