“No—she told me she couldn’t bear to live with me again. How could I ask her to stay?” He still felt a shaft of pain when he recalled her anguished expression when she’d said that.
“Trust me, my boy. If she knows you love her, she’ll be able to bear it.” Davenport smiled, seeming almost amused, though his eyes looked sad.
“You don’t understand. I don’t want her to have to tolerate me. She deserves more than that.”
Davenport looked at him oddly. Then he sat back in his chair and lifted his wine again, taking a slow sip while Gil squirmed in his chair, wishing he hadn’t given in to the lure of confession. This was an odd form of torture. The pain of talking about Rose and his one-sided feelings, not quite balanced by the pleasure and relief of being able to speak her name aloud.
“Let me tell you something about my daughter.” Davenport made a performance of putting his wineglass down and sitting back again. “When she was a young girl, there were times when I left her with friends. She always smiled and said she was sure she’d have a lovely time and would see me when I returned for her. And it was much easier to believe her than to question her when I wanted to go.” He stopped and took a deep breath, averting his eyes from Gil’s as though ashamed. “Recently, an old friend took me aside and told me how it really was. Rose had told her how terribly upset she was whenever I left her, how she cried herself to sleep until I came back for her. And sometimes I left her for weeks at time.” The man looked stricken, remembering. “I never knew. I never noticed.”
“She is good at hiding her feelings,” Gil murmured, thinking of that mask she wore so often. “Even at the worst of times.”
“Yes, she is. And it’s because she doesn’t expect much of anyone. So please do not imagine that she knows you love her. I wonder if she’s ever felt truly loved by anyone.”
Gil felt an aching sadness at those words, right in his chest. He remembered how she’d looked on their wedding day—thin and plain and hopeful. And then he thought of her on Grayson’s terrace six months ago, beautiful and vivid, but sad when she spoke of her marriage. And the morning after she lost the baby. God, he never wanted to see her like that again.
“She deserves to know she is loved,” Davenport said, “and I’m going to try to convince her that, despite my shortcomings as a father, I do love her.”
He stood then and motioned to a footman that he wanted his coat. Automatically, Gil rose too, waiting while the coat was brought and Davenport shrugged it on. He thought their conversation was over, but when Davenport offered his hand, and Gil took it, the older man looked him in the eye and said, “And what about you, Gilbert? What are you going to do?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
24 December 1814
Rose couldn’t concentrate on her book. Couldn’t settle to anything, in fact.
She glanced at Harriet, sewing contentedly by the fire, and sighed. It was Christmas Eve, and everything was ready for tomorrow. She should be feeling happy and relaxed. She usually loved Christmas.
She loved decorating the house with greenery and singing carols and entertaining her neighbours. She loved the preparations and the festivity of it all. The busy hours and the quiet, contemplative ones. The lull of Christmastime between the difficult end of autumn and the hard beginning of January.
This year, though, she couldn’t shake her melancholy. She had managed to busy herself with a thousand and one tasks, and still her sadness would not go. It sat heavily in her soul, a persistent presence, always there. Or perhaps an absence. A constant absence.
She put her book aside with a sigh and stood, causing Harriet to glance up from her sewing, a questioning expression on her face.
“I’m going out for a walk,” she announced. Harriet looked surprised. It was very near the shortest day of the year—it would be dark in an hour or less—and while the weather had been mild for the last fortnight, they’d both remarked earlier on the heavy grey clouds and blustery wind.
“Are you sure, dear?” Harriet asked mildly. “It looks awfully cold.”
“I’ll wrap up,” Rose replied. “I just need some air.”
The sun was low in the sky when she left the house, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak, thick mittens covering her hands. She headed for the gardens. The kitchen garden was bare-looking, the dark loam of the empty raised beds touched with frost. Rose carried on, into the orchard, past the barren fruit trees and down to the wild garden. She walked all the way to the little temple of Persephone before she stopped.
The wind was getting quite strong now, and she stepped inside the temple for shelter, sitting down and wincing at the chill from the stone seat. The cold quickly permeated her skirts, but she ignored it, just pulled her cloak closer around herself and stared at the fresco, squinting to make out the details in the fading light. She used to think Persephone looked hungry as she contemplated her pomegranate. Now she thought the goddess looked sad.