Page 68 of Better Off Wed

He had to swallow twice before he could speak the words. “Had his way with you.”

“Had his way with me,” she repeated, as if the language was strange in her mouth. “Forced himself upon me, you mean. Your father told you this.”

They were not questions, but Jeremy nodded nonetheless.

“Are you telling me that all this time,” she went on, her voice growing ever sharper, though still quiet, “you have imagined yourself to be the product of—of violence and hatred? Not…passion? Not love?”

He turned slowly toward her, feeling as if his blood had congealed. “Mama?”

“And your father was not…confused?” She had the stiff, uncertain movements of a person in shock.

“No,” he assured her. The illness that had claimed his father had been devastating in its progress, at last taking even his mind. “This was a month, at least, before the end.”

“Oh, God.” Her breath shuddered from her. “Can he truly have believed…?” She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, muffling a sob. “I suppose my father must have told him—and he would never have asked—and it would not have occurred to me to say—oh.”

The broken sentences stuttered from her, driven by a sort of hysteria. He could not piece them together, quite, but he understood enough to ask, “What did happen, all those years ago?”

For several moments, she only stared into the empty hearth. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, but distant, as if lost in the past. “We were living in Philadelphia—that part is true—when the war started. Your grandpapa was a physician, and a Loyalist, and after the Battle of Germantown, three of the injured British soldiers were quartered at our house. My sisters and I were instructed to tend to them. One of them, the sergeant of a platoon, required constant watch. For a time, we did not think he would survive. But he was young, about your age now, and healthy in the main, and he did recover, though it took some months. And over those same months, we—” Her color rose, as if she had just remembered who was listening to her tale. “We fell in love. When he was pronounced well enough to return to England, he told me of his plan to leave the service and come back for me. We would marry, he said…”

“But he never returned?”

At last she looked up at him, where he leaned against the mantel. “He did, actually—though not for more than a year. And by that time, I was already married. Unbeknownst to either of us at the time of his shipping out, I was with child—you.”

Jeremy gave a sharp nod of understanding and strode back toward the window.

“Upon discovery,” she continued, “my papa was unhappy, of course. Furious might be a better description. He decided the whole family would go to England, the better to keep my terrible secret—as he saw it. While on the voyage, he struck up a friendship with a Mr. Addison, who had just been granted a living in Oxfordshire and was on his way to accept it. He was in the market for a wife and, though he was twice my age, began to pay court to me, as the most eligible young lady aboard the vessel. Shortly before we landed, he spoke to my father. Papa must have owned up to my condition—it could not have been kept hidden for much longer, anyway. I suppose he might have felt it would be more palatable to a gentleman to imagine I was blameless in the affair.”

How frightened she must have been, trading a familiar world for an unfamiliar one, a dream of love for a practical, necessary union, arranged by a father desperate to cover what he thought of as a stain on her honor.

“Dear, dear Richard,” she murmured, her eyes sparkling with tears. “He never asked me for details, never pressed. Never reproached me. He loved you,” she said, tipping her face to Jeremy, “never doubt it, but I suppose the past weighed on him. He would have thought you entitled to know, and I’m sure he believed he was telling you the truth. Oh, I wish I’d known. All these years…”

“And did you…?” he began, still struggling to make sense of what she’d revealed, knowing that the question he most wanted answered was one he had no business asking. He paused near the corner shelf by the window, filled with china ornaments. With one fingertip, he traced the flawless porcelain face of a shepherdess, a remnant of their long-ago life in the rectory, in what had seemed to him a simpler time. “Did you love him?”

“Your papa?” Her nod was careful, though not hesitant. “I grew to, over time. He was too good, too gentle, not to inspire affection. Not in the way of my first love, of course. But my grief at his passing was genuine, you may believe.”

Jeremy knew it was true; he had witnessed their devotion to one another. He came closer, perched on the edge of the chair facing hers. “And the soldier? May I know his name?”

Her nod was more eager this time. “He is Arthur Remington.”

“He is still alive?”

“Very much so.” She smiled, though not at Jeremy. “After my mourning ended, I took the liberty of making some enquiries after him, and much to my surprise, discovered he was living here, in London. We have…renewed our friendship.” Pink suffused her cheeks, and he could easily guess from her blush that more than friendship was involved. Perhaps this explained why she had seemed more youthful and vibrant of late. Even in daylight, her blond hair showed no signs of gray, and her complexion was as unlined as a girl’s. “He is planning to pay a call tomorrow morning, in fact.”

Jeremy glanced toward the window, not yet sure he was ready to face the man. “Does Julia know?”

“Not our history, of course. But she knows him. They get on well.” Again, that secret smile. “He has a way about him—some might call it charm, I suppose, though I always think the word has a suggestion of falseness about it, and he is unfailingly forthright. He’s very clever, too. With all due respect to your papa, I suspect you inherited some of your gifts from Arthur. I think—I hope you will grow to like him.”

Jeremy managed a single nod of acknowledgment. “Is he still in the army?”

“No, although he did return a few years ago to serve in a civilian capacity, as a personal aide to—oh, what was the gentleman’s name?” She tapped a finger to her lips. “Major Laurens, I believe.”

“The Duke of Raynham?” That name, Jeremy recognized. Until giving up his officer’s commission in favor of the responsibilities of his dukedom half a dozen years ago, Raynham had been one of General Scott’s best field agents.

Which must mean that this Remington fellow also had Scott’s approval.

“Yes,” she agreed, “that’s right. The very same. And before that, he handled the affairs of the Marquess of Ashborough—the one who’s said to be so very bad,” she added in a whisper that conveyed more excitement and interest than shock, “although Arthur will have none of it. Besides, the marchioness keeps her husband well in check now, he says. She is Irish, you know.”

“And a famous writer,” he added, not hiding his surprise. “Your Mr. Remington certainly moves in exalted circles.” It was not intended entirely as a compliment. Jeremy had always been a little suspicious of men who ingratiated themselves with wealth and power, never more so than after spending a few days in the company of Thornton.