Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

O nce the door shut behind Louisa, Mary flopped onto her bed, bringing her knees to her chest. Her heart broke for the girl who was losing her freedom, who walked a path Mary had refused to tread—loss of autonomy, loss of property, a loveless marriage that came packaged with insufferable in-laws. Mary had a choice, and Louisa did not. Stephen determined Louisa’s future, and Mary knew what he would do with her. Louisa must wed before word spread of the attempted elopement.

But Daniel. This marriage was to Daniel, her Daniel. Her eyes burned, but no tears came. She was not calm enough for weeping. With limbs too heavy to move, she lay in complete stillness, her mind a cycle of ifs and whys. Against her chest, her heart crashed, as it had when she’d spoken with Mr. Porter, but this time in an agonizing rather than triumphant rhythm. She pressed her hand into her belly where Daniel’s betrayal settled into a solid coil. If she could reach in and extricate it, she would, for that pain would accompany her until she ceased to feel.

His thoughtful gifts and intelligent conversation would be Louisa’s, and it sickened her. Louisa would never appreciate him, and her youth and inexperience, her dependence would not appeal to Daniel. In a few years, she would grow in understanding. Perhaps Daniel’s patience would extend to that point, even while the thought sent a shiver of foreboding to her core. She loved them both so well and hated what she was doing to them, damning them to a life of disappointment. She pressed her knees to her chest, trying to stem the ache. Had he told her, she would never have loved him. Oh! That he’d spared her this grief.

The marriage she anticipated was not to be. Once again, she was left with only one thing: the stories she created. And that was something to cherish. Had she gone with her first instinct and declined Daniel, had she lived according to the rules set forth in A Lady’s Guide , this sorrow would have been avoided.

The walls of her room grew dark and unwelcoming. The stone closed around her, stifling and chilled. She hated this castle, which was deemed more desirable than she, which Daniel valued more highly than his love for her. She must leave.

Urging her unwilling limbs to move, she rolled out of bed, holding to the bedpost until dizziness subsided, and made her way across the hall. Light flickered from under Agnes’s door, so she let herself in.

Agnes turned at her entrance. “My, my, Mary. You have a story to tell.”

“I do, but I do not have the energy for it tonight.”

“Shall I tell it for you?”

Mary waived her permission. She didn’t care. It would please Agnes, and she was about to ask a great favor. Best to humor her.

“On the road to finding your niece, you fell in love with the man your niece is supposed to marry.”

“That sums it.”

Agnes stood and walked to the bed where Mary sat. “Your heart is broken.”

Her eyes scorched and tears broke free. “Yes,” she said, pushing her forearm against her eyes. Louisa had taken her handkerchief.

The gentle pressure of Agnes’s arm fell around her shoulders, and Mary’s sorrow erupted. “I love him, Agnes. He made me love him while knowing he must marry Louisa.”

“Must he?”

“Yes. He only cares about this castle. His horrid parents told him he cannot have it without marriage to Louisa.”

“He is a proper rascal. As bad as Savage.”

Mary’s defenses rose. “Not so bad. I understand how he loves this place. I do not want to live in Ireland, but I love the estate there, the memories, the hardship. I could not give it away.” She tasted the lie. The estate meant a great deal to her, but not as much as Daniel did. She would sacrifice it for him, but not to his parents. Her stomach hardened, and tears wet Agnes’s shoulder.

“He is selfish. You deserve better. Now that you are famous, he has only to regret his imbecility in letting you go.”

Renown did not replace love, but writing remained when all else fell out of reach—and not for the first time. After Lord Allen’s death, writing had infused her life with meaning. Even still, more than anything, Mary wished to center her life around another person and be the center of his. She’d been essential to Daniel, if only for a moment.

“I cannot stay in this castle another instant. Will you take care of Louisa? I spoke to her, and she is willing to do her duty. I will leave for the inn tonight and stay only until the book is done. See that the wedding takes place as soon as possible. I can trust you to do your best to look after her.”

“I will see to it.”

“And Nellie. I have not seen her, but I assume she is here? Let her remain with Louisa. It will be a comfort to have someone she knows.”

“Of course.” Agnes shifted and pulled at her sleeve. “Mary, I should not have goaded you while we were in Bath.”

“Goaded me?”

“With Mr. Bateman. And telling all the gentlemen to ask you to dance.” Mrs. Eliot’s apologies were not forthcoming.

“It was uncomfortable for me.”

“Yes, well, I saw your loneliness and wanted you to find a husband. I do not always have the best execution, but my intentions are flawless.”

Mary nudged her friend with her shoulder. “I know. You look after me.”

Agnes took Mary’s shoulders and turned her so they were facing. “And I am so proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” She looked at Agnes.

“Your books. Your talent. For years I wondered about the ink on your fingers. I know now that you were composing masterpieces.”

Tears welled again, and Mary sobbed. She hadn’t known how she longed to hear those words. “Thank you. You are a good friend.”

“Speaking of Mr. Bateman, he is engaged to Miss Barry.”

Mary laughed, a tiny lightness tumbling into her chest. She was not so alone. “Finish reading the manuscript tonight if you can. I am taking it with me when I go.”