Laura Martin - The Viscount's Runaway Wife

Sighing, Lucy took a gulp of whisky, unable to hide her discomfort as the amber liquid burned her throat.

‘I’m sure you’ve worked most of the details out by now,’ she said softly.

‘But I want to hear it from you.’

Of course he’d imagined a thousand scenarios in the year he’d been searching for her. An inappropriate lover, a nervous breakdown and, in his more desperate moments, even more unlikely stories involving French spies and a need to serve her country. Despite all his searching, all the time and effort he’d put into finding her the last year, he still didn’t know the truth behind why she’d disappeared.

‘I got scared,’ she said simply. Nothing so extravagant as French spies, then.

‘Scared?’

There was a long pause before Lucy continued. As he waited for her to speak, Oliver realised his wife had changed immeasurably in the time she’d been absent. Not that he could pretend he knew her very well when they’d been married. Twice they’d met before they’d said their vows, two awkward meetings where neither had revealed much. And then he’d only lived with Lucy for a month after their wedding before being called back to the Peninsula. All the same, she’d certainly matured in the time they’d spent apart. Gone was the shy, meek debutante and in her place was a poised and almost worldly young woman. It appeared his wife had matured in her absence, in more ways than one.

‘We barely knew one another,’ Lucy said eventually. That he couldn’t deny.

‘True.’

‘I loved David,’ she said quietly. ‘I loved him from the first time I felt him kick inside me, maybe even before that. I spent hours dreaming of what he would be like, what he would enjoy and who he would resemble. When he was born...’ She trailed off.

Oliver had spoken to the doctor who’d been present at his son’s birth. Apparently it had been a difficult labour and for a while it had seemed like their son would not come, but eventually, after many hours, Lucy had given birth.

‘He was so beautiful—’ her voice was barely more than a whisper ‘—so perfect in every single way.’

That wasn’t how the doctor had put it. ‘Characteristic facial features’ had been mentioned a number of times and ‘a likelihood of mental difficulties’ .

‘The doctor commiserated with me when he looked David over, told me that there was no reason I couldn’t have a healthy child next time.’ There was bitterness in her voice as she recalled the words.

Lucy glanced up at him and he could see she was on the verge of tears again, but no matter how difficult this was for her he had to know what had happened next.

‘I lay there with our son resting on my breast, cuddled in all warm and safe once the doctor had gone, and I started to realise that he wouldn’t be the only one judging our son, finding him wanting.’

‘You can’t mean...’ Oliver said, his eyes widening.

‘I didn’t know you,’ Lucy said quietly, unable to meet his eye. ‘I knew what most men do with their offspring when they don’t view them as completely healthy—they send them off to be raised by another family, sometimes even deny their existence.’

‘So you left, before even finding out what my reaction might be.’

‘I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk you taking my son away from me.’

‘Our son,’ Oliver murmured. ‘He was my son, as well.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It was cruel of me, I know that. I knew that at the time, but I had to protect him.’

‘You didn’t have to protect him from me.’

She regarded him calmly, searching his face as if trying to see if there was truth in his words. Oliver felt a surge of anger. She shouldn’t be judging him. He’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t run off with their son without any explanation.

He stood, needing to put some space between them, and busied himself adjusting the clock on the mantelpiece. The seconds ticked past in silence as Oliver struggled to regain control of himself. Outwardly nothing in his expression or stance changed, but inwardly he had felt a tight coil of frustration and anger ready to explode. Now, breathing deeply, he forced himself to remain calm. Nothing would be gained from showing his estranged wife how much she had hurt him, how much her betrayal still affected every aspect of his life.

‘Then what happened?’ he asked, returning to his seat, motioning for Lucy to continue.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes,’ he barked sharply. ‘It matters to me. What happened next?’

‘I had a little money so I made my way to London. I knew I couldn’t seek refuge with anyone I knew. I had to go where no one knew me.’

She was making it sound as though she’d been running from a monster, when in truth he didn’t think he’d ever raised his voice towards her or spoken a single word in anger.

‘I ended up in St Giles.’ Lucy grimaced. ‘The first few days were not easy, but then Mary found me. She helps to run a home for women and children and she took us in.’

‘David was still alive?’ It sounded strange to be saying his son’s name after so long of not even knowing what Lucy had called their child. The words almost caught in his throat, but he managed to force them out, gripping the back of his chair for physical support as he said them.

Lucy nodded, pressing her lips together. ‘He seemed healthy enough the first couple of weeks, thriving and growing, but then he deteriorated quickly.’ Her voice quivered, but she managed to go on. ‘I’m told it is quite common in those born with similar conditions to our son to have problems with their hearts and chests. David became unwell and although we saw doctors, they could do nothing. He died when he was three weeks old.’

He watched as she suppressed a sob, swallowing a couple of times and taking a deep breath to compose herself.

‘Where is he buried?’ Oliver asked bluntly.

Looking up at him with wide eyes, Lucy shook her head before answering.

‘He did get a proper burial?’ Oliver interrupted, his heart sinking at the thought of his only child being consigned to a pauper’s grave.

‘I used the last of my money. He’s buried in the churchyard of St Giles in the Fields.’

He nodded grimly. Not a peaceful resting place for an innocent young boy, among the plague victims and the executed criminals, but at least he’d had a proper burial.

‘You’ll take me there this week.’

A spark of indignation flared in his wife’s eyes, but he watched as quickly she quashed it and nodded. ‘As you wish.’

Visiting his son’s grave would be difficult, but he owed it to the child he’d never held in his arms to at least see where he was buried.

Smoothing her skirts down, Lucy stood, placing her almost-full glass on the small table beside her.

‘I should be getting back,’ she said, inclining her head and taking a step towards the door.

For a long moment Oliver was too stunned to do or say anything. He’d barely begun questioning her, barely scratched the surface of what had become of his wife over the past year. All she’d revealed was the bare bones of the story of how and why she’d fled after the birth of their son. He needed to know so much more.

‘Sit down,’ he said, catching her arm as she edged past him.

For the first time since he’d cornered her in St Giles, her eyes came up to meet his and Oliver felt a painful flash of memory. He’d barely known Lucy on their wedding day, but when she’d walked down the aisle of the church and turned to face him in front of the altar, he’d felt a hopeful stirring deep inside him. He’d wondered if perhaps their marriage could be about more than convenience, more than producing the heir he so desperately needed and having a wife at home to look after the estate. Quickly he suppressed the memory, setting his mouth into a hard line.