Lady in Rags

Chapter Forty-Five: Guilt, not Love

"She did. And then I married her after. I suppose I had an attack of conscience. I feel guilty still – I always felt guilty about her. This is why, I suppose."

"It cannot be true. She loves you. She would never have loved you if she felt misused."

Neil closed his eyes and breathed into the comforting, velvety mustiness of the cushion. His heart hurt.

Gently, Richard said, "She's the mother of your child, Neil. She's your wife."

The cushion was growing damp and hot beneath him. He was crying.

"It cannot be as you remember," Richard persisted. And then, giving up, "Even if it is – does that matter? Does it really change the fact that she loves you now, and that once upon a time, the time that you forgot, you loved her?"

Did he? It was nice to imagine that he had. It would have been honourable, to have loved her. But he was not an honourable man. He had loved Giulia. He had kissed Jane. He had bought Verity, married her, and got her with child. For her, he felt only guilt, not love. How could you forget what it was to love someone?

Fa la ninna, Fa la nanna

Nalla braccia, della mamma

The door opened, and Neil dared raise his head. It was his father.

"Good god." Lord Albroke rolled his eyes. "It's only a by-blow, boy." He straddled the doorway and considered Neil. "You are looking better. You won't die, so one day you will marry. A real lady. And have a real child. This one shall not matter."

Neil buried his head back in the cushion, and put his hands over his ears.

Fa la ninna...

Several hours later, after the servants had brought them a light dinner that he could not eat, they were in much the same positions. Richard sat nervously in an arm chair, occasionally trying to read. Lord Albroke was in another, quite definitely reading, and Neil lay on his sofa, face in the still-damp cushion, mind racing.

He was trying to remember.

It was a fool's errand, but he was trying it anyway.

He was trying to place Verity's face, somewhere, anywhere in his past, before the storm, and after the phrase, "Would you send your beloved daughter to me for a night?" He wanted to know how he had felt about her. He had to know. In his ears, the song sounded louder. And he still could not see her face.

Somebody went running down the corridor. The door burst open. He looked up, heart pounding.

Mrs Roper, wiping her hands with a towel, stood in the doorway. She was flushed. There was blood on her apron, and blood on her towel, and blood on her hands. No man could ask the question. They could only look at her while she gathered her panting breath.

"A girl," she managed, at last, and sagged against the door frame. "A strong, strong little girl."

The room spun dizzily around Neil. A girl.

"How is Miss Baker?" Richard asked urgently.

"Exhausted. Recovering." Neil heard the words in the distance, and stared numbly at the bloody towel that Mrs Roper still held. It was an awful lot of blood. And on her apron too. And her hands.

"A girl," Lord Albroke pondered. "No matter. Perhaps it is better this way. Neil is recovering his body. He may be able to marry again, in time. A bastard son would be a nuisance for a wife to deal with."

"I can't," Neil said numbly, getting up off the couch, and lumbering to his feet. He was not sure if the room was swaying, or if he was. "I can't."

"You must," Lord Albroke said. "The fate of our title-"

"I already married." Neil staggered. He needed a glass of water. The lullaby in his head was so loud he could barely hear his father speaking, but he could hear beneath it, too, I need you, and he could not seem to look away from the bloody towel in Mrs Roper's hands.

"She is dead. You will marry again – Lady Brockett is-"

"I already married," Neil said stubbornly, spying the tea tray, and clumsily pouring cold, overbrewed tea into a dirty cup. "I married Miss Baker."

"You did not."

"I did." Neil drank tepid, bitter tea. The shock of the bitterness, and the weight of the liquid in his stomach recovered him. He forced himself to swallow, and dropped the cup back on the tray.

He had a daughter. He had a wife. He was a father. A husband. That was how the matter stood. Guilt and love were mere shadows beneath it.

He turned to his father.

"I married her that day I went to the convent – she was pregnant. I had to. I married her by special licence and signed a letter to my lawyer affirming my sanity. Richard made me do that bit. I understand why, now. You annulled the first one. What a bother."

He did not pay particular note to the reddening of Lord Albroke's face, but Richard slipped up off the couch and Mrs Roper came warily into the room.

"I'm married," Neil observed placidly. He was a little fear drunk. If anyone had checked him the past few hours, they might have noticed another of his fevers coming on. But the birth had driven it out of their minds. "Bit of a pity. What can you do?"

Lord Albroke turned to Richard, who backed away. Neil was not looking at them. He was wondering when he would have to visit his wife and their baby. He did not wish to see either of them still covered in blood.

"You did this. You made him do it."

"So I did. We should have-" At the sound of flesh against flesh, and Mrs Roper's scream, Neil turned around. Richard was on the floor, clutching his face. His father stood over him.

"You Judas. You Fool. You Traitor."

His father's foot moved back to kick Richard. Neil lurched forward to grab his arms. "Stop! Father!"

Without looking, Lord Albroke elbowed him away. He was still dizzy, and still weak. He stumbled backwards, tripped on the edge of the hearthrug, and fell. He did not feel any pain as his head hit the mantelpiece, but he heard his skull crunch at the contact.

Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
Nella braccia della mamma
Fa la ninna bel bambin,
Fa la nanna bambin bel,
Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
Nella braccia della mamma.

Of course, he thought dimly, Giulia used to sing it – to our baby son. She was singing it to him when he died. She tried to keep him calm, to keep him from crying too much. We knew he was dying.

She sung to him, until he died.

He saw her, with her arms around the dying toddler, tears down her cheeks. She was sick too, then. And eventually she had stopped singing, and placed the toddle gently down in his crib, and kissed his forehead, and turned away. There was no need to talk. They had fallen into each other's arms, and then sunk to the floor together, hot, fever-stricken cheek against hot, fever-stricken cheek.

"He's sleeping now," Neil had said eventually. "He's sleeping peacefully." Or perhaps she was the one who had said it. He could not remember.

Three days later, Giulia had joined his son. Looking down at her body, eyes closed, cheeks gaunt with illness, he had been unable to whisper any platitudes to himself. She was not sleeping. Sleepers woke. She was dead, and he was alone.

~~

A/N: Whew. What a cliffy.