The Clarendon Rose (26 page)

“I wish I had known him better,” Clarendon muttered, his throat tight.
 
Now, it was too late.

“He missed you.
 
I expect he would have liked to know you better as well.”

Clarendon smiled bitterly.
 
“A self-absorbed opium addict with a death wish.
 
I didn’t have too much insight into myself then, but I knew enough to avoid Father, even if I didn’t want to examine the reasons why.”

“So you did avoid him.”
 
Her face was now completely shadowed, but her voice reached to him out of the darkness.

He nodded.
 
“I did.
 
In part because whenever I saw him, I also saw the worry in his expression, and I always had the sense that he was poised to ask a question.
 
I feared it might be the question I dreaded and hoped for—the question that would allow me to talk about all I had done and confess my crimes.
 
At some level, I knew that while the confession would uncover my personal shame, it would also be a profound relief to share it with someone.
 
And I didn’t deserve that relief.
 
Falling in with my orders had been the path of least resistance—the result of my own weakness.”

He touched her hair, running his hand over its springy softness as he frowned into the darkness.
 
“I could have lived with that, though, if I knew the battle had served some useful purpose.
 
But to learn it had all been a mistake—that I had condemned those men to slow, painful deaths because of a miscalculation that
I had seen
and disregarded.
 
That was my sin—and for that, I deserved all the punishment I could get.
 
I still see the faces, still hear their screams.”
 
He glanced at the shadow of her presence, comforted by the warmth of her arms across his chest, and the soft whisper of her breath against his skin.
 
Somehow, talking to her was almost like talking to himself.
 

He sighed.
 
“But it wasn’t just that which kept me away from him.
 
Despite everything, I also feared losing his respect.
 
If I kept my distance, he might suspect all was not well with me, but he wouldn’t know, one way or another.
 
If I told him everything, he’d know what his son had become…” He shook his head.

“Uncle Charles was one of the least judgmental people I have ever known—I never managed to pick up that ability from him, though I often tried—still do try, when I remember and manage to stop myself from jumping to conclusions.
 
Edmund is like him in that way.”
 
She paused a moment.
 
“As are you.”

“Me?
 
Bosh!
 
I’m nothing like my father, though I might wish it otherwise.”
 
But he felt the break in his voice, despite his best effort to conceal how much her words affected him.
 
Somehow, the thought that she had seen any resemblance between himself and the father he admired and loved was more than flattering.
 
It was moving.
 
He tightened his jaw as he tried to pull himself back under control.

He felt the shake of her head.
 
“You are far more like him than you realize.
 
Like him, you withhold judgment until you have had the opportunity to assess a given situation for yourself.
 
And even then, you are fair—or even generous—in your conclusions. Except, of course, with regard to yourself.
 
But then, Uncle Charles was no different in that, either—things he would have forgiven without a second thought in others he judged and condemned in himself.
 
That, perhaps, was one of his biggest failings.”

He cleared his throat.
 
“Well, I can perhaps believe that if I resemble him in any way, it would be in sharing a few of his failings,” he said, forcing his tone to lightness.

One of her hands smacked lightly against his chest.
 
“Wretch!
 
You know that’s not what I meant.”
 
Then, she settled back against him.
 
“But truly, Clarendon, Uncle Charles loved you—and I
know
he would have loved you no less had he known what you were going through.
 
He would have worried—and he would have prayed for your happiness.
 
But he would not have held your actions against you.”

They lay together in silence.
 
Then, he sighed.
 
“Where is he?”

“There was an oak he could see from the window of his room downstairs—“

“I think I know the one—to the southwest and down at the bottom of the hill, towards the edge of the forest?”

He felt her nod.
 
“That’s the one.”

“He used to take Edmund and me there when we were children,” Clarendon said, smiling at the memory.
 
He hadn’t thought about that tree in years.
 
“He’d lift us onto its lower limbs and show us how to climb even higher.
 
He said that it was ancient—hundreds of years old—and that he used to climb it when he was a boy.
 
I remember Edmund asking, in tones of astonishment, if it had been big enough to climb when Father was young.”
 

She chuckled in the darkness.

“He used to say that we could climb as high as we dared—but that we had to be careful, for the higher we climbed, the weaker the limbs—and the further we would fall.
 
But I would climb and climb as he watched, and finally, he’d call up to me. ‘Careful little Icarus,’ he’d say.
 
‘If you go too high, the sun will burn your wings and you won’t be able to fly anymore.’
 
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I never wavered in the belief that if I fell, he’d be there to catch me.”

After a brief silence, he swallowed.
 
“So that is his resting place?”

She nodded.
 
“He asked for a plaque to be placed in the family vault at Clarendon House, but he wanted to be buried under the tree—without any markers or indications of any sort.
 
So that’s what we did.”

“I’ll visit him tomorrow.”
 
And somehow, as they lay together in the darkness, and he allowed himself to drift back into sleep, he realized that something had changed.
 
The knot that had formed in his chest, upon receiving Edmund’s news of his father’s illness, had been untangled.
 
The place where it had been still ached—and, he suspected, it would continue to hurt for a long time to come.
 
But now at least, it was the gentle, wistful pain of sadness, rather than the clenching ugliness of futile anger and guilt.

He smiled drowsily in the darkness as he felt Tina shift against him, before sleep overtook his thoughts.
 
That night, he had no dreams at all.

Edmund drove the curricle back to the manor, grinning to himself as he thought about his visit with Miss Fielding.
 

Before the wedding, he had called on the Fieldings to ask if Sir Roland would walk Tina down the aisle.
 
He had also asked to speak with Miss Fielding once more, in order to offer his thanks for her help in the search for Tina.
 
On impulse, he had suggested that it would very much please him if Miss Fielding would accept some token of his and the duke’s gratitude.
 

“Just name it,” he had said, expecting that she would ask for a bonnet or some other gewgaw she coveted.
 
“And I shall do my best to ensure that you have it.”

Imagine his amused surprise then, when she expressed her fascination for India, pointing out that she had often wanted to learn more of the place, but given the limited resources of the area, her efforts had proved fruitless.
 
“As our last discussion was so enlightening, I should most like to hear a little bit more of the place before you are on your way, Lord Edmund.
 
And then I shall count myself content,” she said with one of her winsome smiles.

Edmund had, of course, agreed to the suggestion and arranged to call the morning after the wedding.
 
He rode away with mixed feelings that day.
 
Had the lovely Miss Fielding simply decided to practice her feminine wiles upon him in preparation for her upcoming Season?
 
If so, she certainly had managed to master the art of feigning interest in a potential suitor’s hobbies.
 

But what harm if that is her motive?
he had reflected.
 
All in all, it should be a pleasant enough diversion for me as well to have an exquisite young woman hanging off my every word.

Still, by the time he rode out this morning, he had begun to have second thoughts.
 
After all, regardless of how pretty she was—and even how soothing her company had been in London—would he truly be able to blather on about India in good conscience if he suspected she was laboring to conceal her flat boredom behind a façade of interest?

He soon discovered that he needn’t have worried.
 
Instead of the look of glazed, slightly fatuous attentiveness he dreaded, she had asked perceptive questions and in all ways engaged in the conversation as if her interest were genuine.
 
She had a bright intelligence, untouched by the world-weariness that darkened so much of Tina’s perspective.
 

The hours had sped by, and when he rose to take his leave, she professed herself not nearly finished with her questions about India.
 
Truth be told, he was glad of the excuse, for he had been trying to think of an appropriate pretense that would allow him to call on her again.
 

He shook his head as he turned the horses up the drive leading to the manor.
 
Who would have thought Miss Fielding would have grown into such an engaging young woman?
 
He looked forward to calling on her again, though of course, he knew nothing serious would come of it.

To Tina’s surprise, it turned out that Lord Sebastian had actually been serious when he claimed an interest in Miss Smye’s back issues of
The Rosarian Gazette
.
 
He insisted upon accompanying the good lady back to Rose Cottage.
 

Tina and Clarendon saw them off the morning after the wedding.
 
As Lord Sebastian’s coach disappeared down the drive, she turned to the duke.
 

“So what is it about Mr. Fitzwilliam that pulled you and Lord Bastian away from your wedding luncheon?
 
Surely he can’t be as bad as all that?”

Clarendon turned to face her, his expression grim.
 
“This is something that doesn’t involve you, Tina.
 
The less you know about it the better.
 
Suffice to say that he’s a dangerous man.
 
Steer clear of him.”

Tina felt the first stirrings of annoyance.
 
“I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I don’t doubt it.
 
But I have no desire to pull you into something that isn’t any concern of yours.
 
I’ll take care of it.”

She frowned at him, her hands on her hips.
 
“Haven’t you ever heard that saying about troubles being divided in the telling of them?”

“This is just a matter of an old score Fitzwilliam apparently wants to settle with me.”

“But he said he was grateful for what you did.
 
That the roses were by way of saying thank you.
 
He was perfectly charming, Clarendon.
 
Surely you can’t believe he’s that perverse.”

He gave her a grim smile.
 
“I can only wish that I had no reason to question his motives.”
 
He began walking towards the stables.
 
“It seems the perfect day for a ride about the grounds, wouldn’t you say?”

“Come now Clarendon, you can’t leave it at that.
 
Why would you have reason to question his motives?”
 
She started after him, walking briskly to catch up.

He turned around so abruptly she almost bumped into him.
 
When she looked up at him, he was frowning.
 

“Do you trust me, Tina?”

She swallowed.
 
Did she?
 
“Yes, of course.”
 
At least, I think I do.
 
In some ways.

“Good.”
 
He gave her one of those intimate, tender smiles that even now made her toes curl with pleasure.
 
Then, he grew serious.
 
“So trust me to deal with the situation.
 
Believe me when I tell you this isn’t your affair.
 
It’s nothing for you to worry about.
 
I’d rather you didn’t waste your energy concerning yourself with Fitzwilliam.”
 
He paused, watching her face.
 
“Now come, let’s have that ride, shall we?”
 

Tina gave him a half-hearted smile.
 
“All right.”

But, she trailed a little behind as they resumed their walk towards the stables.
 
How could she argue with his request?
 
To continue to question him now would imply that she doubted his judgment.
 
And, qualms about his long-term fidelity notwithstanding, she had come to respect his views, his decisions and his abilities after working with him on estate matters.
 
If he said it wasn’t her concern, she would have to respect that as well.