Page 133 of Ironvine

The trees whipped past them on the road, all of it a blur, a blur of memories and emotions washing through her.

Nothing made sense. Nothing added together to make one clear picture, not yet anyway. She strained to remember particulars of her father’s behaviour. Had she ever noticed a change in him? She was a child, what did she know of love then? Nothing.

He’d been in love. Truly in love. With Sophie Montclare, Countess of Ryvves.

Oh, Papa.Her heart ached.

Her mother had kept all this anger and resentment pinned inside her for so many years. No wonder she’d taken Georgina’s engagement to Hugh and her subsequent marriage to Charles as such a visceral betrayal.

She glanced at Charles. He so much resembled his beautiful mother.Sophie. Sophie and Edward. The two of them led a secret life together away from their families, away from society. Defiant and non-conformist and passionate.

She rather liked that.

Thunder boomed over them, and Charles, his eyes pinned to the road, back rigid, knuckles white drove the horses faster. Was he disappointed in his mother? Was he in shock that she had been intimately involved with another man, a married man?

Finally, their carriage rounded the drive and jammed to a halt as raindrops fell fat and thick. Servants rushed outside to assist them. Ignoring everyone, Charles flung open his carriage door and descended. Georgina took the footman’s offered hand, but Charles grabbed her, taking her in his arms, and darted up the steps into the house.

Putting her on her feet, he stalked off. Her wet cloak was taken from her, and she waited for the footman to bring in the small trunk with the precious items Aunt Vivian had given them. She found Charles in the drawing room, gulping down brandy.

“Thank you,” she said to the servant who’d placed the trunk on the floor as he bowed and quit the room.

“Countess, may I offer you some liquid fire to wash down the knowledge of our parents’ illicit love affair?” said Charles, pouring himself another.

“Is that what you are trying to do? Burn the knowledge away?”

“Don’t know.” He drained his glass and poured another. “Don’t know how to feel. Don’t know what to think. Don’t. Know.”

“I don’t know either, but I am glad we know the truth.” She took the keepsakes out of the trunk and placed them on the round table in the centre of the room.

“Are you not distressed? Not shocked?” He let out a sharp laugh. “Again, you impress me, Countess.”

She opened the cloth bag and out spilled packets and packets of letters. Charles moved to the table, plucked at one stack, yanking off its ribbon. Unfolding one letter, he skimmed the contents of it, his face clouding.

“Am I shocked that my mother-in-law was the woman my father had loved for decades? Most probably his one and only love? I am. However, in this knowledge, I find a great clarity and an even greater relief.”

“Clarity?” He glanced up from a letter. “Relief?”

“My parents had a polite marriage, but I never once saw them exhibit any signs of affection or attachment between them. From what you told me, neither did yours.”

He tossed the letter to the table and opened another and read, his lips tightening.

Georgina continued, “My father took every opportunity to travel, saying how important his work was, and my mother would wish him well. In fact, she seemed to prefer it. He would tell me that every trip was a rare and splendid opportunity to discover something new. But now I see that each trip was also time he spent with his love. Sophie was his true rare and splendid discovery.

“This is the missing piece of my father that I always struggled to ignore and always struggled to understand. But now I know the truth.” She took his glass from his hand and drank. “They had been in love and wished to marry, but were denied their happiness for the sake of what—vanity? Ambition? And years later, after he finally does marry, suddenly their lives cross once more, and those sparks of feeling are still there between them. Amazing. Yet their lives were now different, complicated.”

“Yes, both were living a lie and were deliriouslyunhappy.” He tossed the letter he’d been reading and poured himself another brandy.

“Exactly. After years of simply existing, years of wandering on a desert, they find each other again. Both with severe obligations, and yet, they took a daring leap, risking so much to be together in any way possible. T’was the impossible made real.” Her eyes filled with water. “How they must have cherished every moment together.”

“Don’t cry for them.”

“Why not? So many of us natter on about romantic love and affections. We flirt recklessly and make a pretty commotion. But their love was bold and strong and proved to be an enduring bond.”

“You are not angry with your father then?” he asked. “That he abandoned you and your mother for another woman. Lived another life with her behind your backs?”

She took the glass from him again and drank. “Did I want him to stay with me longer, more often? Of course I did. I often considered he did not love me enough, that I wasn’t good enough for him to stay. But as I grew older, I understood that marriage was simply a bargain struck between a man and a woman. That the husband could do as he pleased whilst the wife had to stay home and uphold the obligation.

“You’d lived that pretence, as did I.” He took the glass from her and drank.

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