Page 66 of The Virtuoso
“How do you reconcile that?” Ellen asked, closing her eyes. “How do you put up with knowing you were married to Stoneleigh for years, and in some senses those years were wasted?”
“Like five years of widowhood might feel wasted?” Abby asked softly. “With regard to my first marriage, it was the only marriage I knew, and the Colonel wasn’t overtly cruel. But I am convinced, as well, years in his household gave me a particular independence of spirit and resilience.”
“Independence of spirit is no comfort on a cold winter night,” Ellen said, her smile sheepish.
“I didn’t know what all I was missing,” Abby reminded her. “I think sometimes, what if I lost Axel now, especially with the baby coming and the boys not yet off to school? God above, I’d go mad with grief and rage.”
“You do,” Ellen said quietly. “A little bit, you do go mad, but the world does not take heed of your madness, and you must get up, don your clothes, tidy your hair, and put sustenance in your body all the same.”
Abby leaned down and hugged Ellen’s shoulders for a long, silent minute, and Ellen found tears welling. She swallowed and blinked them into submission, but the intensity of the emotion and the relief of Abby’s silent understanding surprised her.
Abby straightened and resumed brushing Ellen’s hair. “Axel says it’s like this: He loved his Caroline and so did the boys. In some ways, they all still love her, and that’s as it should be. He keeps some of her clothing in a trunk in the attic because they carry her scent.”
As Abby spoke, Ellen realized abruptly that part of her misgivings regarding Valentine Windham stemmed not from her own duplicity with the man, or even fear of entangling him in her past, but simply from a widow’s guilt.
Like sun bursting through rain clouds, it hit her that loving Valentine Windham, being intimate with him, did not betray Francis. Francis wouldwanther to find another love, to be happy and to be loved.
Love?
Abby looked a little concerned at Ellen’s expression. “Perhaps I should not have been quite so personal on the topic of grief.”
“Of course you should.” Ellen met Abby’s gaze in the mirror. “I am glad you were. It’s a topic nobody wants to bring up, and you can’t very well stroll up to the neighbors and tell them: I’m missing my spouse who has been gone for years, would you mind if I had a good cry on your shoulder?”
“We should be able to, but we don’t, do we?”
“I didn’t.” Ellen closed her eyes as Abby drew her hair in a slow sweep over both shoulders.
“Maybe you did, a little, just now. Let’s put you in the tub and wash this hair. As hot as the weather is, it will dry in no time.”
Ellen let Abby attend her, let her wash her hair, pour her a glass of wine while she soaked, and wrap her in a bath sheet when she was done. She hadn’t permitted herself this luxury—an attended bath—since Francis had died.
Punishing herself, perhaps? Or maybe just that much in need of bodily privacy.
“We can sit on the balcony and I’ll brush out your hair,” Abby said when Ellen was in her dressing gown, her hair hanging in damp curls.
And Abby went one better, having a tray of cheese and fruit brought up to go with the wine. They spent the time conversing about mutual neighbors, gardens, pie recipes, and the boys.
“They are splendid young men,” Ellen said after her second glass of wine—or was it her third? “And I think having them around makes us all less lonely.”
“Lonely,” Abby spat. “I got damned sick of being lonely. I’m not lonely now.”
“Because of Mr. Belmont. He is an impressive specimen.”
Abby grinned at her wineglass. “Quite, but so is your Mr. Windham.”
Ellen shook her head, and the countryside beyond the balcony swished around in her vision. “He isn’t my Mr. Windham.” It really was an interesting effect. “I think I’m getting tipsy.”
Abby nodded slowly. “One should, from time to time. Why isn’t he your Mr. Windham?”
“He’s far above my touch. I’m a gardener, for pity’s sake, and he’s a wealthy young fellow who will no doubt want children.”
Abby cocked her head. “You can still have children. You aren’t at your last prayers,Baroness.”
“I never carried a child to term for Francis,” Ellen said, some of the pleasant haze evaporating, “and I am… not fit for one of Mr. Windham’s station.”
Abby set her wine glass down. “What nonsense is this?”
Ellen should have remained silent; she should have let the moment pass with some unremarkable platitude, but five years of platitudes and silence—or perhaps half a bottle of wine—overwhelmed good sense.
