Pamela Sherwood (15 page)

***

Morning brought Robin, soon after breakfast. Fortunately, Harry had left by then to oversee some business at the mine. Lady Tresilian had done her best to pour oil on the troubled waters, but he was still very angry with Robin, muttering direfully under his breath about fisticuffs and horsewhips. Difficult though it had been, Sophie had managed to hold her tongue, sensing that any defense of her love would only make things worse at this point.

She sat in the parlor with her mother, vainly trying to read a book even as her ears strained for a familiar voice, a familiar step in the passage. He would come. She knew he would. And once he did, they could work everything out between them.

Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when she heard the front door open at last. Seconds later, Parsons appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Pendarvis is here, my lady. He wishes to speak to Miss Sophie.”

Lady Tresilian hesitated only a moment. “Very good, Parsons. Show him in.”

Sophie clenched her hands in her lap as Robin entered the room. He wore riding dress, and his face was pale and haggard, as though he had not slept any better than Sophie had.

“Lady Tresilian, Miss Tresilian.” His tone was almost painfully formal; Sophie’s heart ached to see him retreat into punctiliousness, as if he were among strangers instead of friends.

“Mr. Pendarvis,” Lady Tresilian returned with equal reserve. “I trust you are well?”

He nodded. “Quite well, thank you. And I hope you are the same?”

The stilted pleasantries continued for some minutes longer, with no reference to the events of the previous night. Just when Sophie thought she could bear it no longer, that she was seconds away from tipping over a table in her agitation, Robin turned to his hostess. “Lady Tresilian, may I have a private word with Miss Sophie?”

It seemed an eternity before Lady Tresilian replied. Then, “Very well, Mr. Pendarvis,” she conceded. “I understand that you and my daughter have important matters to discuss.” She rose from the sofa. “I will be in the morning room should you need me, Sophie.”

Once the door had closed behind her mother, Sophie sprang up from the sofa and held out her hands to him, the words escaping in a fervent rush. “Robin—I am so glad that you’ve come!”

He moistened his lips, his eyes searching her face, but he did not take her hands—yet. “I had to see you. How are you, truly?”

“I’m well enough,” Sophie lied, without a qualm. “A bit… surprised by everything, that’s all. But
you
must be in absolute shock,” she added, reaching out to touch his sleeve. “How are you holding up?”

Robin exhaled. “I’m managing. But it’s a lot to deal with, all the same.” He paused, then said almost abruptly, “They’re still at the hotel. Nathalie—and the children.”

Sophie nodded. Of course they would be. He would never throw them out in the street. She waited for him to continue.

He looked at her, raw misery in his eyes. “I didn’t know, Sophie. I swear I never guessed Nathalie might be with child when she left!”

“Of course you didn’t know.” She tried to keep her voice low and soothing.

“A lie of omission.” His voice was as bleak as his expression. “Or perhaps, to be fair, Nathalie wasn’t aware of her pregnancy either. But in all likelihood, she spoke the truth last night. The girl—Sara—is mine. Almost the image of my mother at that age. I’ve seen family portraits.”

Sophie swallowed. “She has your eyes. Your coloring too. But the boy…”

“Cyril couldn’t possibly be mine. But his father—whoever he is—doesn’t appear to be involved. Dear God, Sophie, he’s only a baby!”

“I know. And frail too, by the look of him.” Half against her will, she felt a tug of pity for that tiny, swaddled atom in Nathalie’s arms.

He nodded, raking a hand through his disheveled hair as he took a few agitated strides about the room. “Frail—and not quite well, even now. As near as I can tell, Nathalie’s dragged them across Europe, and all over England. Norris had so much trouble finding her, because she kept changing her name and location.”

He glanced back at Sophie, and she saw that the misery had given way to determination. “I have to claim them—
both
of them—as my own. They’ll have some security, some stability that way. Cyril may stand a better chance of survival here, with me: a warm bed, regular meals, a doctor’s attentions. Nathalie’s given precious little thought to all that.”

Not surprising. Nathalie Pendarvis—as she now called herself—wasn’t the sort to concern herself much with others’ needs. Sophie nodded, lacing her fingers together and trying to ignore the chill spreading outward from the pit of her stomach. “Of course you must claim them. They’re—they’re the true innocents in all this.” Somehow she dredged up a smile, though it felt stiff and unfamiliar on her face, like some ill-fitting garment. “You’ll do your best for them, I know. You always do. Only… how will this affect your divorce from Nathalie?”

He stared at her as though she’d spoken in tongues, the color draining from his already pale face. “Sophie, there can’t be a divorce. Not now. Perhaps—not ever.”

***

Not
ever
. A death knell in two words.

Sophie stood stock-still in the parlor as Robin struggled on with his explanation—the difficulty of locating Nathalie’s lovers or concrete proof of her adultery, the impossibility of repudiating the children, the cruelty of branding them as bastards—but only one thing seemed to penetrate the fog surrounding her.

That the future they’d both longed for, the life that had appeared just within their grasp, was slipping away from them, receding faster than a wave at low tide.

Robin fell silent, his words stumbling to a halt. In the last five minutes, he looked to have aged ten years, the weight of the world—of fatherhood—bowing his shoulders. The shadows beneath his eyes were dark as bruises.

“You called the children ‘the true innocents in this,’” he said at last, his voice leaden with regret. “But
you
are just as innocent. And you deserve better, far better, than a man who can no longer keep his promises. Forgive me.” He spoke in a defeated whisper now. “If you can. And—forget me.”

He turned to go, shoulders still slumped—and all the happiness in Sophie’s world was going with him. That realization was enough to jar her from paralysis, though it took several tries to force words past the constriction in her throat. “Robin, wait!”

He turned back, his eyes as dark and hopeless as an eternal midnight.

Sophie swallowed and made herself continue. “I know—that your first duty must be to the children. You wouldn’t be… the man you are if you didn’t put them first. But I want you to know that—that my feelings are unaltered.”

His mouth curved ever so faintly, forming an almost-smile of mingled grief and tenderness. “As are mine, my dearest girl.”

“Well, then…” She cleared her throat. “If that is so, for both of us, then… why can we not still be happy? Even if it’s not—
exactly
the way we had planned?”

He stilled, his gaze sharpening. “Sophie, what are you saying?”

She took a breath, bracing herself for the leap over the next hurdle. “I’m saying… I can still be yours, Robin. I
want
to be yours—whether we are married or not!”

“My God.” Comprehension flashed across his face. “You’re offering to be my mistress.”

Spoken aloud, the words sounded unbearably stark. Sophie felt her cheeks burning, but there could be no turning back. She nodded, holding his gaze with her own. “It would be worth
everything
to me, simply to be together!”

For a split second she saw it in his eyes, everything
she
felt: the hunger, the longing… and the temptation. Then his face closed with that shuttered look she knew all too well, and he took another step back, shaking his head. “Sophie… no. This
cannot
happen. You would be sacrificing your whole future—your reputation, your career, everything you’ve worked for, even your family. I can’t let you risk that or give it up.”

“I don’t care!” She caught his hands, cold as ice in her own. “Love always finds a way—and we
love
each other, Robin! Don’t try to deny that!”

“I couldn’t, not ever. And it’s because I love you that I have to let you go. To have the life you were meant to have, without me.” He freed his hands from hers, his face ashen but resolute. “I wanted to
give
you the world, not force you to make an impossible choice. I couldn’t bear to see you shunned—outcast—because of me.”

“Robin—” Just one word, just his name, struggling past the tears rising in her throat.

He shook his head again, moving inexorably away from her. “I am not worth so great a sacrifice. And in time, you will see that I am right.”

“Please, don’t—”

“Good-bye, my dear.”

And then he was gone, the parlor door closing behind him, his footsteps receding in the distance. Seconds later, she heard another door close with a terrible finality, marking Robin’s departure from Roswarne—and her life.

Sophie stood where he had left her, the tears thick and hot on her cheeks, pain like a slow evisceration opening below her breastbone and spreading outward to her chest, her abdomen, to every part of her body. Gasping, she doubled over, arms crossed over her middle… and the gasps deepened into ugly, retching sobs that shook her from head to toe.

Sinking to the floor, she rocked back and forth, unable to silence those wracking sobs or stem the tears now pouring from her eyes, running into her open mouth, soaking the bodice of her morning dress. The world shrank around her, dwindling to pain and the hot, ceaseless flow of tears down a face already raw with them.

Lost in grief, she never heard the door open or the footsteps that hurried toward her. But when soft arms enfolded her and gentle fingers stroked her hair, she turned her face into that familiar bosom and sobbed afresh, the words finally shaking themselves loose.

“I wish I could die, Mama! Oh, God, I wish I could just
die
…”

A heavy heart, Belovéd, have I borne

From year to year until I saw thy face…

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
Sonnets from the Portuguese

London, July 1896

She
hadn’t
died.

Even now, Sophie felt some surprise at that. Barely a day after that last, wrenching break, she was on her way back to London, accompanied by her mother. She remembered nothing of the journey; mercifully, the pain had given way to numbness and emotional exhaustion by then. According to Lady Tresilian, she’d spent the whole duration gazing out the window of their railway compartment, speaking only when spoken to, and eating only when coaxed and then no more than a sparrow would.

Sophie had no reason to doubt her mother’s account. It had been days before the protective numbness had worn off, by which time she and Lady Tresilian were ensconced in the Sheridans’ townhouse. Amy had welcomed them with open arms and, perhaps alerted by her sister, asked no questions about what had happened in Cornwall, but provided only boundless sympathy and comfort.

Gradually, as from a lengthy illness, Sophie had recovered. Or at least progressed to the point of being able to eat, sleep, and take some interest in the world around her. She’d stayed on with the Sheridans through the summer, even after her mother returned to Cornwall. In August, rehearsals for the tour had begun, and by early September, she was on the road with the other pupils, embarking upon the life of a professional singer.

But the memory of those agonizing first days in London was as vivid—and painful—as if no time at all had passed. And it was that memory haunting her now as she stared Robin down, awaiting his reply to her question.

He said at last, “Nathalie is—as she always is. She doesn’t change.”

The flat neutrality of his tone was a condemnation in itself. And it told her all she needed to know about his continuing marriage to a woman he no longer loved. Strangely enough, she felt no sense of triumph or even bitterness, just a weary pity for everyone concerned.

“I see.” She tugged at a loose thread on her riding glove. “And I’m sorry, Robin.”

His eyes had gone the color of a winter sea. “Don’t be. I chose my lot four years ago, with no illusions regarding how things were likely to turn out. And it hasn’t
all
been terrible,” he added abruptly, answering her unspoken question. “I’ve had my work, and”—his eyes and voice softened fractionally—“the children.”

Of course—the children. Had she really been so arrogant as to believe her happiness mattered more than their needs? And she did not doubt that Robin was a good father or that he made no distinction between his daughter and Nathalie’s son. “They must be getting so big now. Children always grow so fast. Are they well?”

To her shock, a spasm of pain crossed Robin’s face. “Sara is well. But Cyril, my son… died in January. The doctor said—he’d had a heart ailment since birth, and he was lucky to live even this long.”

“Robin, I’m so sorry!” And she was. The memory of that child, pale and fragile in his mother’s arms, rose in her mind, as sharp as the first and only time she’d ever seen him. She’d been too stunned that night, too shaken by the knowledge of what the children’s existence might mean for her and Robin, to feel any particular sympathy for him. But now it flooded her from head to toe. Cyril couldn’t have been more than four or five years old.

And Robin had loved him. She could tell that by the starkness of his eyes, the compressed line of his mouth. His grief was very real—and all too recent.

“He did not suffer, at the last. And we were all there for him. Even his mother.” He stared out over the Serpentine, his hands lax upon the reins. “After a time, I found that his death—changed certain things for me. I discovered I was no longer content to leave things as they were, as they had been.” He took a breath and met Sophie’s gaze squarely. “I mean to renew my divorce suit against Nathalie.”

“Divorce?” Sophie echoed. Questions crowded on her tongue, so many she couldn’t begin to ask. Why now, when he had been so adamant before? What could possibly have happened to change his mind? Other than that poor little boy’s death…

He nodded, his mouth still firmly set. “No one in the county questions that Sara is mine, and now—with Cyril gone—well, there’s no sense in continuing with our farce of a marriage. We haven’t lived as husband and wife since her return.”

Sophie’s heart gave a painful little skip at this disclosure, even as she sternly reminded it this was neither the time nor the place for such indulgences, not in the wake of Robin’s loss and now this decision, over which he had agonized four years ago. Once again, she wondered what could have driven him to this point, and once again, he seemed to anticipate her question.

“She took another lover, Sophie.” His tone had gone flat again. “Oh, it wasn’t a shock—she’s had several others since she came back. The only condition I laid on her when I agreed not to pursue the divorce four years ago was that she be discreet. As of the last fortnight, she violated even that.”

Sophie regarded him closely, seeing no trace of jealousy, nor any sign of the anguish that a betrayed husband might feel under the circumstances, but his face was set, his mouth grim. A line had been crossed, then—some final condition had been breached, and this was the result. “But won’t it be—difficult to obtain a divorce after you’ve lived together for several years?”

Robin shook his head. “Given the circumstances, it should actually be easier.” He gave Sophie a wintry smile. “I caught them together—
in
flagrante
delicto
. You can’t get much more blatant than that. And I shall have no compunctions about naming her latest lover as co-respondent in the divorce. Hell—I might even enjoy it!”

Sophie winced inwardly, not knowing what to say. This was a side to him she had never seen before—hard and cynical. It grieved her to think of his becoming so over the last four years. But then, she acknowledged ruefully, she herself was no longer the romantic, starry-eyed girl who’d trusted love to overcome all difficulties.

Robin sighed, some of the hardness leaving his face. He looked more like the man she remembered now, and she began to relax. “Nathalie is still Sara’s mother, so I will not deny her access or forbid them to see each other. There’s no need to make this uglier than it has to be.”

“Will you petition for custody of your daughter?”

He nodded. “I firmly believe Sara is better off with me.” His expression softened in the way it had before when he mentioned the children. “We’ve grown very close these last four years. And Nathalie favored Cyril in any case, especially once Sara grew out of babyhood. She’s had less and less time for our daughter, of late. I’d hoped it might prove otherwise, after we lost Cyril, but… things are what they are.” He fidgeted with his reins, frowning to himself. “According to a more recent law, despite her infidelity, Nathalie could try to secure custody until Sara is sixteen, but she’d have to prove herself the more fit parent.”

Sophie privately wondered how anyone could consider Nathalie Pendarvis a more fit parent than Robin, then told herself not to judge a woman she did not know. It wasn’t as if she’d had the opportunity to witness Nathalie’s capabilities as a mother, after all—or even wanted such an opportunity. It had been hard enough to imagine Robin and his wife raising their children together without actually having to see it.

Robin sighed again, patting his horse’s neck almost absently. “Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Perhaps there’s a chance Nathalie and I can settle the question of custody like the civilized adults we’re supposed to be.” He glanced at Sophie, his expression shifting again, still somber but with a hint of… diffidence? “And that is—essentially what I came to tell you, my dear. But… as it happens, there is something I should like to ask you as well. If I may.”

Sophie swallowed dryly, her heart hammering against her ribs in slow, heavy strokes, every inch of her skin sensitized and tingling. “Robin…”

“I understand that I have no right to expect anything at all from you,” he continued, and Sophie could not begin to guess how hard this was for him. “Not after—all this time. But… I love you.” His eyes, dark as midnight, were intent on hers. “I have never stopped loving you. No other woman has taken your place in my heart, nor ever will. And so I must ask… now that I am to be a free man, is there any hope at all for
us
?”

***

Hope—the sweetest poison of all. Sophie closed her eyes, remembering the taste all too well. She’d lived on it for more than a year once she’d realized she loved him, and in the end, she’d been left with only the bitter dregs.

“Robin.” It came out more strongly this time. She opened her eyes and gazed into that once dearly loved face. “So much has happened in the last four years.”

“I know. Time hasn’t stood still for either of us.” He paused, then continued with almost painful precision, “And if, in that time, you have come to care for someone else, just tell me—and I swear I shall trouble you no more.”

“Someone else? Who could I possibly—?”

“That young man you sang with last night—Mr. Cherwell. You seemed to be on the best of terms. I couldn’t help but wonder…”

“Good heavens, no!” Sophie exclaimed. “David is a dear friend, nothing more.” Despite the gravity of the situation, she felt a faint smile tug at her lips. “In fact, he once wished to play matchmaker between me and his brother. Fortunately for us all, Llewelyn had other ideas—and, as it turns out, another lady in his sights.”

It was warming and more than a little gratifying to see the relief that swept over his face. “Then, you are—unattached?”

“At present, yes.
But
,” she emphasized, looking him square in the eye, “I won’t pretend that there haven’t been other men in my life, Robin. Men whom I cared for, who were more to me than… simply friends.”

A shadow crossed his face at her confession, but after a moment, he nodded. “Fair enough. And if you had honored one such with your hand and heart, I would have tried not to begrudge him his good fortune. And to wish you happy.”

“I know you would have.” It was what he had urged her to do, time and again: find another, worthier man. Her own folly that she could conceive of no one worthier than he—or had it proved, in the end, a greater wisdom?

He moistened his lips, as nervous as she, and no wonder. “But if you are yet heart-whole, and you are not indifferent to me—”

She gave a tremulous little laugh. “I couldn’t be indifferent to you if I tried, Robin! And heaven knows I
have
tried!”

He smiled then, his eyes suddenly, suspiciously moist. “Darling Sophie. I have loved you since you were seventeen. That hasn’t changed, whatever else has.”

That hadn’t changed for her either, even though the admission lodged like a bone caught in her throat. So much love, so much hope—all dashed in one midsummer night.

“Love…” she husked, then swallowed and tried again. “Love can’t solve everything, Robin. We learned that four years ago.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s a start, isn’t it?” He reached out, brushed the fingers of her nearest hand with his own. “And in the end, perhaps that’s all we have. I know you have a brilliant future before you. That you are adored by half of Europe. That there are men far richer, handsomer, and grander than myself, without my encumbrances, all eager to court you. I have no right to ask this of you, but will you—will you wait for me?”

All the things she’d dreamed of hearing. The things she imagined on those lonely nights on tour, when she’d lain awake, remembering. And hoping in vain for some miracle that would allow them to be together at last.

How was it that, at this longed-for moment, she should feel as much fear as exultation? Who would have thought that finally being offered your heart’s desire would be so terrifying?

Sophie swallowed. “I need time. Time to think about all of this.”

“You’ll have it. All the time you need, I promise.” His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “That may be the one thing I
can
safely promise.”