Page 18 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“You cannot possibly want Norrie, either. At least allow me to see her. Surely that is not too much to ask.”
“Really, Anne! Most women gladly farm their children out to servants or to wet nurses. There is something unwholesome about this sickly attachment of yours to the girl. I think it would be in the best interests of my niece if I sent her off to school, perhaps abroad somewhere.”
Although Lucien mimicked Gerald’s sanctimonious tone almost to perfection, there was no disguising the hint of malice that played about the corners of his mouth. Anne could feel the blood drain from her face.
“You know Norrie is not strong enough for anything like that. Her health has always been delicate and she is only six years old.”
“Seven,” he mocked. “Did you forget your beloved daughter had a birthday last month? She had a lovely day. I gave her apony and six new frocks. Your absence was hardly noted. I vow the child has forgotten you already.”
Anne could not trust herself to reply. She had spent the day in the bleak emptiness of the nursery, the presents she had bought for Norrie stacked unopened upon the table while she set stitches into the gown she was making for Norrie’s favorite doll, trying not to water the silk with her tears, trying not to drive herself mad wondering where her daughter was, praying that Norrie was not too frightened or unhappy.
Anne began hoarsely, “Lucien, you were my friend once?—”
“Before you married Gerald.”
“If I hurt you, I am sorry. But there must be something I can do to make amends, to make you change your mind.”
“You have never begged.”
“What?” Anne felt as though she had done nothing but beg these past months, cajoling, pleading through letters, through her solicitor, through repeated attempts to see Lucien.
“You have never asked me nicely enough. You have never begged for the return of your daughter.”
Wearily, Anne pressed one hand to her brow. “Please.”
“No!” Lucien regarded her through hard, bright eyes. “On your knees. Here. Now. In the gutter.”
The young footman made a muffled sound of protest and Anne stared at Lucien in horror. He could not possibly mean it. But the lines of his face were implacable and she saw that it would take nothing less than her complete and abject humiliation to appease his wounded pride.
Anne swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and thought of Norrie. That was all that it took to sweep the last of her dignity aside. Stiffly, she lowered herself to a kneeling position on the pavement, feeling the cold and damp seep through the thin material of her gown. Raising her hands in supplicating fashion, she said “Please, Lucien. I beg of you.”
The moment seemed to stretch into hours. Dimly, Anne was aware of the restive movement of the coach horses, the fact that tears were trickling down the young footman’s cheeks.
But her focus never wavered from the tall blond man looming over her. Something softened in Lucien’s eyes and he reached out as though to stroke her hair. A wild surge of hope rushed through Anne.
Then he turned his back on her, saying coldly, “Get up, Anne. You are making a spectacle of yourself.”
As Lucien vaulted into the carriage, something snapped inside of Anne, all the ache of too many nights spent hovering over Norrie s empty bed, too many pleas that had fallen upon deaf ears. A rage of despair tore through her, racking her entire frame.
“Damn you!” she cried.
She scrambled to her feet and launched herself at the coach, managing to prevent the footman from closing the door. Glaring up at Lucien, she said “Give me my daughter back.”
“When hell freezes over, madam.”
“Give me Norrie or I vow I will kill you, Lucien.”
With a snarl, he lashed out, dealing Anne a shove that nearly sent her sprawling onto the pavement.
Before she could recover her balance, Lucien slammed the carriage door himself, roaring out a command to his coachman. With a crack of a whip, the team started into movement, the brougham lumbering away from the curve.
“No!” With a choked cry, Anne rushed forward, only restrained from racing after the coach by the young footman grasping her shoulders.
“Let me go!” Anne gasped. “I have to make him listen.”
“Milady, please,” the youth pleaded. “You will only get hurt.”
Anne did not know what brought her back to her senses, the footman’s wide frightened eyes or the sight of Lucien’s carriagevanishing into the darkness. The terrifying rage drained out of her as suddenly as it had come. As she stared into the yawning emptiness that was the street, she ceased her struggles. With a murmur of apology, the footman released her.
