Ashley Gardner - A Regimental Murder

Bartholomew recovered from his gunshot wounds, though for a long time he limped from the bullet that had pierced his leg. Grenville had spared no expense on surgeons and doctors, and the lad had lived like a prince while he convalesced. He was young and strong and brave-hearted, and he recovered quickly.

August slipped into September. The days at last cooled, and the evenings became crisp. Grenville talked of going to the country to go hunting. He invited me along, but I’d had enough of country houses. The vice of the city at least wore a face I could recognize.

In mid-September, long after I’d believed Lydia Westin must have quit Town herself, she sent for me.

William greeted me with subdued wariness. He led me in silence to the upstairs room with the pianoforte and Lydia's portrait. He ushered me in, then took the double doors one in each hand and backed out, closing us in, leaving us alone.

Lydia sat on a damask chair, her hands in her lap. She avoided my gaze as I entered. She had given up mourning black, and wore a gray high-necked and long-sleeved gown trimmed with lighter gray. The costume did not become her; her face was too pale for it, though it made her midnight blue eyes bluer still.

If only she would look at me with them.

I moved slowly forward, resting my weight on my walking stick. When I reached the halfway point between door and chair, I stopped.

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the faint crackle of the fire. The September day had turned cool.

"I had not thought you would come," she said.

"As ever," I answered, trying to keep my voice light, "I fly to your side when you call."

Still she would not look at me. She transferred her gaze to a corner of the carpet. "You cannot imagine how long it took me to work up the courage to face you. Even now I falter."

"You have no need to."

My anger at her had long since ground itself to dust. After the arrest of Eggleston, my melancholia had taken over, as I had known it would.

The last time I had discovered the identity of a murderer, the sheer cruelty of it all had sent black waves of melancholia crashing over me. I had been expecting it this time; nonetheless, the malady had laid me in bed for nearly a fortnight, and had not yet completely subsided. I currently could only view the world through a fog, as though I watched everything through a thick, waved glass. Although I walked and spoke, I often could not say whether what I did was real or the vestiges of a dream.

She smiled faintly. "Before you remonstrate with me, or scold me, allow me to thank you for clearing my husband's name. Lord Richard's confession absolved him of all crimes in the Peninsula. The Times even praised Roe for his bravery."

I looked straight ahead. "Yes, I read the story."

"Well." Her voice was soft, whispery. "I wanted to thank you. To see you when I did it. Writing seemed-an inappropriate method."

"I would have treasured such a letter."

At last, she looked at my face. Our gazes met, stilled. "Please do not say such things when you do not mean them," she said. "I know that you long to tell me what you think of me."

I slowly closed the distance between us. I reached down and lifted her hand, the one with the heavy gold and sapphire ring. I stroked my thumb gently across her fingers, the same smooth fingers that had caressed me while we lay together in her bed.

"I did not come here to scold you." I lifted her hand and pressed it to my lips. "But to learn whether you were well."

She watched me kiss her fingers, then she withdrew her hand and crumpled it on her lap. "Please, Gabriel, do not be kind to me."

"If you prefer that I rail at you like a drunken waterman, I am afraid I cannot oblige."

"It might be easier for me." She lifted her gaze and looked at me fully. I saw in her eyes everything that had been between us, and great pain, and loneliness. She was lonely because of the grief she faced, a grief she could not share.

"You are a good man, Gabriel. You did not deserve what I did to you-tried to do to you. In the end, I simply could not." She tore her gaze away. "Oh, please, sit down. I cannot bear you standing there looking so patient."

I was not patient. Anger was stirring beneath my fog, and the mists had cleared a little. I obliged her and seated myself on the divan.

She studied the carpet again, seeming to gather strength from the gold and black oriental pattern. "Do you know why I made my way alone that night to the bridge?"

I remembered her sliding through the rain, her dark cloak blending with the night, the fire of diamonds in her hair, her lovely, distressed face beckoning me to follow, follow.

"You wanted to end your life," I said. "Because you carried a child that you dared not bring into the world."

She looked at me, startled. Then she shook her head. "No, Gabriel, I had not intended to kill myself. I would never have left my daughter alone, no matter how wretched I was, believe that." She paused. "It was not to end my life, much as oblivion would have been sweet to me at the moment. I went to meet someone."

"The beggar who tried to cut you."

"He was not a beggar." She drew a breath. "I had been told to meet him there, by a-a woman to whom I spoke about my predicament. She assured me that this man would tell me where to go to rid myself of- my so unfortunate burden."

I remained still. Likely she had managed to consult a high-flying courtesan or an actress who would know all about removing unwanted children.

She went on, her face pale. "When I met the man, I did not like him. He was wretched and stank and leered at me so. He wanted to lead me to this doctor himself. I suddenly did not want to follow."

I nodded. "You were no doubt wise. He and your high-flyer might have been conspirators, and he leading you off to rob you."

"I thought of that. I realized how utterly alone I was. I tried to run away. He took out his knife. And then you were there."

I ran my finger over the engraved brass head of my walking stick. "I am pleased that I at least saved you from danger."

"I was so grateful to you." She smiled a little. "Do you know, that was the first time in my life that someone had taken care of me. It has always been me, you see. I looked after Roe, and Chloe. Neither of them were ever very strong. I was the one who held my head up and faced it all, no matter how terrible, and kept them safe. But that night, I at last learned what it was to lay my head on someone else's shoulder. I so craved that comfort, and you offered it for nothing."

I remembered how she'd twined her arms about my neck, pressed her lips to mine, how she'd whispered, "Why not?"

"I am pleased I was able to help," I said.

She gave me a rueful smile. "Always so polite. By rights, you should hate me."

I looked away and let out my breath. "I cannot hate you, Lydia. I admit that I tried to when Louisa made it clear that the child was not mine." I paused. "I gather from your actions that the child was not your husband's either."

"It was not. Roe and I…" She stopped, grief filling her eyes. "No, it was not his."

"I know about your husband's-difficulties," I said.

She glared at me, suddenly indignant. "You know? How the devil could you? Did Richard Eggleston-"

I held up my hand. "You asked me to discover the truth and so clear your husband's name. I am afraid that when one searches for truth, one uncovers it all, not simply the parts that are not ugly. I am sorry."

She sank back. "Oh, it does not matter anymore. I resigned myself long ago that I would never have a natural marriage. After a while, I no longer cared. I could still be a partner to him, if nothing else."

"But he gave you Chloe."

She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. "Yes, on a moonlit night in Italy. I was so happy. I thought everything would be all right after that. But it was not. It never was."