The Light in the Darkness (32 page)

But she knew something that Catherine did not.

“He’s confusing you with Diana, Jennifer. I’m certain of it. And that means that you could suffer Diana’s fate. It’s my fault, Jen. If only I hadn’t encouraged him to take another wife—”

Jennifer broke into her friend’s self-recrimination. “Catherine, Diana was not the saint everyone thinks she was.”

“I know that. I, for one, did not care for her.”

“You were jealous of her relationship with Grey,” Jennifer prompted, probing for more information.

“It was not merely that,” Catherine said slowly. “I despised her.”

“Why?”

Catherine hesitated. “I’ve never told you this, Jen. I’ve never told anyone, least of all Grey. But perhaps I should tell you.”

Jennifer leaned forward with sudden interest, her eyes narrowed. Perhaps Catherine knew something that would help her clear up this mystery. “Please tell me.”

Catherine took a deep breath. “It’s Diana’s fault I’m lame.”

Seeing Jennifer’s look of surprised disbelief, she went on, a little defensively, “It’s true! I was riding Tempest, Grey’s big black stallion, just a few days after Grey and Diana were married. Diana caught me as I was coming out of the stable and caught the horse’s bridle. She told me that she was tired of having me underfoot and that she wanted Grey to herself for a while. She announced that she was
going to pack me off to visit relatives. I told her I was going to talk to Grey, for I did not particularly want to go anywhere. After all, this plantation was my home.
She was
the interloper. As I was dismounting, she struck Tempest a blow with the crop she was carrying. He reared, and I fell to the ground and broke my leg. It was all her fault. I hated her!”

Startled by the older woman’s vehemence, Jennifer blinked. “Wasn’t Grey furious with her?”

“He never knew,” Catherine said angrily. “Diana told him I fell, and he believed her story, damn him. I didn’t dare try to contradict her. He was so infatuated with her that I knew he wouldn’t believe me.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jennifer said slowly. “I’ve learned a good deal about Diana since I’ve been here, and I’ve become certain she was not the angel Grey thought she was. If she hadn’t died, I don’t doubt they would have been arguing frequently.”

Catherine looked at her oddly. “What exactly have you found out about her?”

Jennifer sighed. “Diana was cuckolding Grey.”

“Ridiculous,” Catherine said at once. “Impossible.”

“I have proof. Letters from the man she was having an affair with. They are upstairs, in my desk. I found them a long time ago.”

Catherine looked dumbstruck. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely,” Jennifer said firmly. “They are all signed with the initial C. I don’t know who Diana was having an affair with, but—”

“Carey,” Catherine said. “Carey O’Neill.”

It was Jennifer’s turn to look surprised. “Do you really think so? I never told you this, but I knew Carey when I lived in Princess Anne County. He was always very kind to me, the only man I ever thought of as a friend. I can scarcely believe he was the type to carry on an affair with a married woman. And the affair did go on after she was married, I am certain of that. Besides, he was only sixteen at the time.”

“Who else could it have been?” Catherine said reasonably. “At any rate, I saw Carey kissing Diana once, in the arbor. In fact …” She paused thoughtfully. “It was the day Diana was murdered.”

Jennifer nodded slowly. It did seem to make sense.

“This explains everything,” Catherine said. “I could never understand why Grey murdered her. He loved her so much. But if she was having an affair, and he found out, he would have felt terribly betrayed. Perhaps he saw them kissing in the arbor, too. Little wonder, then, that he killed her. And it would also explain why he instantly assumed your child was not his. Perhaps he thought—”

“Actually,” Jennifer broke in, “I don’t think he ever knew about Diana’s affair.” She remembered the desperate, thwarted longing in Grey’s voice as he spoke to his dead wife’s portrait, begging with her to come back, and she shook her head firmly. “No, I really can’t believe he ever knew.”

“He must have,” Catherine objected. “Why else would he have killed her?”

“I have no idea,” Jennifer said honestly.

“Perhaps,” Catherine said slowly, “we should confront him. Show him the letters, and ask—”

“No.”

“But, Jennifer—”

“No,” Jennifer repeated firmly. “If he never knew about Diana, I won’t be the one who hurts him by telling him. Grey has suffered enough, Catherine. He’s punished himself long enough for whatever happened between them. I won’t cause him more pain. I
won’t
.”

A child. He was going to have a child.

Grey sat slouched in his leather-upholstered easy chair in the study the day after his confrontation with Jennifer, morosely sipping a glass of apple brandy. He had descended into the depths of a gloom darker than any he had
known since he had met Jennifer. Since her arrival at Greyhaven, he had been fascinated by her unsuspected intellect and aroused by her unimaginable beauty. Now, due solely to his own stupidity, Jennifer despised him. And to make matters worse, he had sired a child, and he could blame no one but himself. He should have known better than to have made love to her in Williamsburg. He should have known better! But his emotions had gotten the better of him, and now—

A child deserved better than an alcoholic, cold father with no love left in his heart for anyone. He had no business siring a baby, any more than his father had. He bitterly recalled his own childhood, his indifferent, drunken father and his self-absorbed, shallow mother. Neither of them should have had children. If it had not been for Catherine, he might have gone mad. Perhaps he
had
gone mad. Certainly most people thought so.

His lonely childhood had left him able to care deeply for only one woman, and when that woman had died, his soul had died with her. His own child would probably suffer the same fate, becoming a man or woman unable to love in the normal way, loving one person obsessively and shattering into a million pieces when that person was gone. His child would grow up to be cold, hateful, and indifferent to the world, just as his father and grandfather had been. It was a vicious and never-ending cycle.

His child would have only one hope—Jennifer. At least Jennifer would be able to love the baby. Grey knew all too well that Jennifer was capable of love. He was certain that she had loved him when they made love in Williamsburg, despite her angry words to the contrary yesterday. She had loved him.

Surely she had loved him.

She was warm, loving, and kind. Though she was no longer in love with him—he had ensured that by the horrible things he had said to her—she needed someone to love. He was certain that she would cherish her baby, even though she despised its father.

Perhaps, with Jennifer’s love, the child might break the cycle and grow up to be a happy, normal adult, capable of love and joy. It was Grey’s only hope. Jennifer had transformed herself, but he could not. Even for the sake of a child, he could not change. It was impossible, he told himself. Absolutely impossible.

A
fter their confrontation, Grey avoided Jennifer, going on rides early in the morning and even refusing to eat his meals in the dining room. He spent every waking hour in his study or on horseback. Jennifer did not know whether to be relieved or angered. She had no desire to speak to him again after the savagely ugly words they had exchanged, yet she was annoyed that he found it so easy to ignore her presence in the house. After a week, she concluded that Grey was simply doing what he did best—running away from reality. Thus she was surprised, a sennight after their confrontation, when he strode into the parlor where she sat reading.

During that week, she had spent a great deal of time dwelling on the story Catherine had told her. At last, after a great deal of internal turmoil, she determined that it simply was not true. She did not doubt that Catherine believed that Grey had killed Diana, but she could not believe it herself. She had read his letters and could recite every one from memory. There was nothing in those letters that suggested Grey was capable of murder. On the contrary, it was obvious he had loved Diana deeply. No, she decided, there must be more to this story than Catherine knew. This conclusion, however, did not ease her anger toward Grey. The horrid things he had said to her, the hideous things he had accused her of, were burned into her mind.

Though it was late March, there was a fine snow being
blown on the wind outside and accumulating on the ground, and forced as she was to stay inside by the weather, she had found her thoughts returning with unpleasant frequency to her argument with Grey. She had settled down to read
The Taming of the Shrew,
with William curled companionably on top of her bare feet, in the hopes of forgetting Grey’s vicious words, but the memory of their confrontation still whirled sickeningly in her brain.

Despite her preoccupation, she found the play delightful. She smiled, a little bitterly, as she read Katherina’s statement, “I am ashamed that women are so simple/ To offer war where they should kneel for peace.” Unlike Katherina, she had been more than willing to kneel for peace, but she had found herself wed to a man who only offered war.

As if her thoughts had conjured him up, she heard Grey’s voice. “Excuse me.”

She looked up, startled, to see her husband standing in the doorway looking uncomfortable, and regarded him with a distinctly hostile expression. Unlike Petruchio, she thought unhappily, she had very little chance of ever taming her wayward spouse. Grey was untameable.

Grey hovered hesitantly, almost shyly, in the doorway, feeling an odd pang in the region of his heart at the charmingly domestic scene before him. Jennifer was clad in a dark blue woolen gown of simple, unadorned design that covered her arms to the wrist. Her bare feet rested on the Oriental rug, warmed by the roaring fire and William, who seemed to think he was a muff. Her long hair was unbound and fell around her face in charming disarray. She looked very young, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Annoyed by his unwanted physical and emotional reaction to her beauty, Grey spoke coldly. “I know you don’t wish to speak to me,” he said curtly across the distance that separated them, “but I need to tell you something. My friend Kayne O’Neill and his family from Princess Anne County will be visiting us in a few days. They will be here a fortnight or longer. I had hoped—” He hesitated and
looked at Jennifer’s stony expression. “I would like them to believe that all is well with our marriage,” he went on haltingly. “I would like you to treat me with—civility, while they are here. Merely for the sake of appearances, you understand.”

Jennifer raised her eyes to his and stared at him as though he were hideously deformed. “May I assume that you will treat me with civility’ as well?”

“Of course.”

“That will be a welcome change.”

Grey looked away from her icy green eyes, stung more than he cared to admit by her sarcasm. It was true enough that Kayne and his family were coming to visit. What he did not tell her was that he had sent a note to Kayne asking him to come.

He had not realized how important Jennifer was to him until this past week, when he had been totally deprived of her presence. Intentionally angering her was the most idiotic thing he had ever done in the course of their relationship—and God knew he had done enough idiotic things. He could not go on this way, yet he knew an apology would not be enough. Not this time. His words had been too hurtful and too vicious to simply retract.

If they had visitors, however, Jennifer would have no choice but to pretend that all was well with their marriage. If she was thrown into his company every day, he hoped, their rapport and their friendship might be reestablished.

Friendship, he had told himself firmly, was all he wanted from her. He enjoyed her company and could not seem to get through the day without it. He needed her as much as he needed alcohol, or perhaps more. Somehow she had become necessary to his very survival. His attraction to her was still present as well, but he had promised himself that he would not succumb to it again. They could be friends, nothing more. Her friendship would have to be enough.

He had hoped to use the visit as a pretext to get on speaking terms with his wife once again, but he realized
with a sinking heart that she despised the idea of being forced to pretend a courtesy she did not feel. The expression on her face made that all too clear. “Jennifer,” he said hesitantly, “I only want—”

“I know what you want,” she interrupted with biting contempt. “Your pride makes you want to show me off for your friend, even though you cannot stand the sight of me. Very well, I’ll be civil to you for the duration of their visit. I suppose I owe you that much, at least”

“Thank you” At least he would have the opportunity to speak with her and to spend time in her presence. Perhaps, he mused as he walked back to his study, he could make her see, by his words and his actions, how sorry he was for his ugly words.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps nothing could heal the rift between them. He hoped to God that would not be the case.

Another long week passed, a week in which the cold anger between Jennifer and Grey became more glacial with each passing day. Jennifer spent the time playing the harpsichord, and was annoyed with herself because, no matter what tune she started playing, she always seemed to end up playing the tune she had composed as Grey’s Christmas present over and over again. She also spent hours riding in the woods, careful to choose times to ride when Grey was occupied with the running of his estates. The last thing she wanted was to encounter Grey, in the house or out of it.

Preoccupied with bitter thoughts about her life as she rode through the woods one afternoon, the devoted William trotting at the heels of her mare, she glanced up in surprise at the sound of thundering hoofbeats. Grey was riding his stallion toward her at breakneck speed. As he approached, he reined in the horse so sharply that the beast half reared as it skidded to a stop. His face was dark with rage.