chapter Six
“Your pretty words of progress were for Allen’s benefit, weren’t they?” Gabriel accused, his face tightening. Penelope had never seen an expression that was both so angry and desolate at the same time.
“No, of course not,” she insisted. But why wouldn’t he think that when she was acting like a scared child? Still, she couldn’t tell him it was her own jumbled feelings she feared and not him.
Gabriel pushed away from the chaise. The wooden legs of the ottoman he’d been seated on screeched as he rose and turned his back on her. Several strides away, he came to a halt. He slid a hand through his closely shorn hair in an agitated swipe before fisting his fingers at the back of his neck, as if struggling to contain some fierce emotion.
Penelope wished she could see his face, so she’d know what he was thinking.
After a few heartbeats, he turned back to her, one corner of his mouth lifted in a self-deprecatory smile. “It’s all right, Pen. I wouldn’t wish to be locked in with me, either.”
“Gabriel . . .” What a horrid person she was. A low, awful wretch. She was allowing him to heap coals upon his own head to save her pride. Perhaps that yew root had been a sign—and her tripping over it some sort of divine justice. After all, she’d been running away from him for her own self-preservation, completely ignoring what he needed. Which was more important?
Penelope chewed at her lower lip. If she insisted upon returning to the inn, Gabriel would forever believe that it was because she was afraid of him—no matter what she said to the contrary. Even if she returned at first light, damage would surely be done. She’d put all the progress they’d made at risk to save her own heart. She couldn’t do that.
“Thank you.”
His brow furrowed.
“For your rescue,” she said simply, answering his unasked question. “For your kindness. For your chivalry.”
A spot of color blotched his cheekbones, and his mouth pressed into a tight line.
“But you needn’t forgo your own comfort for mine,” she went on, her decision made. “I can certainly make do on the cot.”
Gabriel relaxed when he realized she meant to stay. But an appalled expression quickly twisted his features. “You will do no such thing. You shall sleep in my bed.”
His words sent heat licking traitorously through her middle. A vision of the two of them intertwined in tangling sheets scorched her imagination. And although Penelope knew he hadn’t meant it that way, her whole body flushed just the same.
“O-only until I am well,” she agreed. Opposing him was likely to do more harm than good. His back was already up over Allen’s attempts to thwart him, and she didn’t want Gabriel associating her with that man. No, she needed to be seen as an ally—or better yet, a trusted friend—if she were to help him find his way back to himself.
Which she intended to get back to doing immediately. She took in a deep breath and lifted her lips into a smile. “Well, now that we have that settled, do you feel up to discussing more about your time in the war?”
Wariness crept over Gabriel’s face, his eyes clouding with it. Then he narrowed his gaze on her speculatively. “That depends,” he said, “on whether you feel up to discussing my cousin.”
Her smile died on her face.
Gabriel crossed the room in an instant, dragging the ottoman close to the chaise again. He dropped onto it and leaned toward her, his large hands gripping his knees. His fingers made puckering depressions in the wool of his breeches, and his knuckles whitened.
Sitting lame on the chaise, Penelope was well and truly trapped. Gabriel was not going to relent—not until he got answers, she knew. Answers she wasn’t prepared to give.
“Michael was my first cousin, Pen. Hell, our mothers were twins. Our blood may as well be that of brothers. If Michael was mad—” His voice cracked on the word. His throat worked, swallowing. “I have a right to know if this lunacy runs in my veins.”
Her chest tightened and her breaths shortened as swirling emotions took the place of the air in her lungs. Grief. Shame. Anguish at the unfairness of it all. She could continue her refusal to discuss her husband. That was her right. But it would be wrong of her. Selfish. Gabriel did deserve to know what he might be up against.
She felt her chin tremble as she said, “Michael was ill, yes.”
Gabriel rocked back ever so slightly, as if her confirmation of his fear had been a blow . . . one he’d expected maybe, but a blow still. “Then there is no hope for me,” he said with a bleakness that chilled her.
“I don’t believe that,” she said fiercely. She didn’t believe any person was hopeless. Even Michael could have been helped, could have been saved. If she would have been different, smarter, a better wife.
But she was not that same silly girl. And she had helped soldiers like Gabriel. It wasn’t the same. “Everything you’ve described to me today, all of your symptoms, sound very much like what so many other soldiers have gone through. And recovered from, I might add.”
His gaze pierced her. “And what you saw two days past?”
Penelope winced before she could check the gesture. Gabriel’s episode had been awful. Nor could she explain it. Yet . . . “Your affliction is nothing like Michael’s,” she assured him. “What you are suffering may very well be rooted in your wartime experience—”
“Or it could be madness,” he countered hotly, “exacerbated by battle fatigue. Christ, Pen. If the lunacy is in my blood—”
“We can’t know that. Not until we treat the symptoms we can see. And what I see is a man scarred by the trauma of his past.”
“Oh?” he scoffed, the word tinged with despair. “And what did you see when you looked at Michael?”
Penelope stopped breathing altogether, the swift slicing pain stealing even the will to draw air. The moment drew out until she had to inhale. But nothing eased the ache in her chest, as memories she’d fought so hard to cage flew free, battering her heart with angry wings.
She scrubbed her hands over her face and buried it in her palms.
Strong fingers encircled her wrists, firm but not forceful. His skin burned against hers as he tugged her trembling hands down to her lap.
“You have to tell me, Pen,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “You know that.”
“Yes,” she murmured. She did. Had to tell him all. She pulled her hands from his and tucked them into her middle. He let her go and straightened back onto the ottoman to give her some space.
Penelope closed her eyes for a moment, marshaling both her strength and her memories.
“I saw what everyone saw,” she finally said, looking at Gabriel once more. “Charismatic, fun-loving Michael. So full of life and vitality. You remember what he was like.” Bitterness crept over her. Not at her husband, but at her own naïveté. She’d seen only what she wanted to see, caught up in her own schoolgirl desires. She’d never looked beyond his handsome face and the excitement he’d roused in her. “I was struck blind by him.”
Gabriel didn’t say anything to that, just dipped his head slightly, inviting her to go on.
“Michael was everything I thought I wanted. Not only did he have the wealth and title that my family required I marry, but he was young and dashing and we even shared our love of painting—” She broke off. None of that mattered now. “I set my cap for him and married him before anyone knew what had happened. I thought I’d made the match of a lifetime.” She huffed. “But I was a fool.”
And that foolishness had cost them both terribly.
She shifted restlessly on the chaise. Curse her strained calf. She wanted to bound to her feet, to get away from Gabriel’s regard. But she couldn’t. She squeezed her hands together so tightly they burned.
“Only a few weeks into the marriage, I realized something was very wrong. Michael had always been an early riser and seemed to go to sleep only after . . . I did.” Heat stained her cheeks, and she glanced away. The one place her marriage had never lacked was the bedroom. Michael had approached lovemaking with the same vigorous exuberance he had everything else in his life, leaving her breathless and exhausted more nights than not. He often had to have her twice or even three times before he would finally sleep.
“But then I noticed a flurry of new paintings in his studio and I realized he could only be working on them at night, when he should have been sleeping. He wasn’t napping during the day to compensate, but neither did he seem lacking in energy. In fact, he was not acting much different from normal. Except I noticed an increase in his intensity. Minute at first, but it built quickly, and within days he would be practically vibrating with it.”
Gabriel was frowning. “I remember something like that,” he said. “Of course, I only saw it when we were young men about town, carousing our way through most nights. He could put our entire set to shame, go on for days. I used to envy him his stamina.”
“Be glad you didn’t have it,” she said solemnly. “The price Michael paid was steep.”
Gabriel tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, after weeks of subsisting on that inhuman energy, he inevitably crashed. And from the heights at which he flew . . .” She raised her shoulders in a slight shrug. “The devastation was awful,” she whispered.
Gabriel’s jaw flexed. “And is that when his madness would strike?” he asked. “Would he have episodes then, too?”
She knew he was trying to measure himself against Michael, looking for commonalities that would paint him with the same madness. She shook her head quickly. “No, no episodes—at least not like yours.” She pressed her lips together, thinking how best to explain. “But yes, that was when his madness would strike. Well, part of it anyway.”
Gabriel’s brows furrowed.
She knew she wasn’t making sense. She tried again. “You see, Michael’s illness was one of extreme, intense exhilaration followed by horrid periods of despair. He—he exhibited different forms of mania at both ends of that pendulum.
“I didn’t understand that, though. Not then. I only began to see how much of a problem we had when one day I awoke and he was just gone. He’d disappeared without so much as a note to me. I finally learned from the servants that he’d fled to Leeds just before sunrise, taking only his paints and his valet. At least, they assumed he’d gone to Leeds because that’s where he’d always gone when he vanished without word.”
“He left you in the night?”
“Yes.” She remembered the shock. And then the anger at what she considered his utter disrespect toward her. She hadn’t realized then that he’d been sick. Hadn’t realized many things. “As I would come to learn, his behaviors had almost a cyclical pattern, repeating themselves—sometimes not as intense as the time before, sometimes much worse.”
Gabriel’s face lost a touch of color. “My episodes do the same.”
“Repeat themselves, you mean?”
He nodded distractedly, his eyes darkening. “And vary in intensity.”
She shook her head. “But you told me yourself that you’d never experienced high feelings like Michael’s. I do not think you can compare the two.”
He grunted, not sounding as though he believed her logic.
“And your episodes are over in a matter of hours,” she pointed out. “Michael’s, however, would last for days, sometimes weeks at a time.”
That seemed to surprise him. “Weeks?”
“Yes. Both the highs and the lows. But I get ahead of myself,” she said, feeling unusually tired. “At the time, I didn’t know what to think of his behavior. I just knew I was not going to stand for it. So I followed him, posthaste. He was thrilled to see me when I arrived. In fact, he acted as if nothing were amiss, proclaiming me the most beautiful sight he’d ever beheld, even travel worn and spitting mad as I was.”
She remembered her utter confusion, how at a loss she’d felt. How was one supposed to manage a husband whose actions seemed unreasonable? Particularly when he did not see the situation the same?
“He apologized profusely. Said he must not be accustomed to this husband business yet. He told me he was used to running off to the country when his creativity peaked because he painted better there. Then he begged me to forgive him. He promised not to do it again, and I believed him. I loved him so.” She’d been so innocent then.
“But what I didn’t know was that he was in the middle of one of his high cycles. I told myself he’d simply exhausted himself with his art, and that a nice rest in the country had been precisely what he needed.” She sighed. “But deep down, I think I knew something was wrong. I started paying closer attention. Michael still wasn’t sleeping much, though now he took pains to hide it from me. And his personality shifted.”
“Shifted?” Gabriel watched her closely. “How?”
“It’s hard to explain. Michael was always confident and charismatic, but all of a sudden it was like he was . . . more. More gregarious. More energetic. It was like his mind suddenly overflowed with ideas. He started new canvases only to throw them out half finished because he’d thought of something better. He talked too fast, drank too much, but he was so happy. Until he wasn’t.”
She hated remembering this part. The day that had shattered her dreams of her marriage. “One afternoon, Michael hadn’t come down for luncheon or tea, so I decided to bring him some refreshment. I thought perhaps he’d gotten lost in his art and had forgotten the time.
“I went upstairs to the nursery, which he’d made over as his studio while we were in London. He was pacing in front of the bank of windows. The sun streamed in, bright and golden—which was why he’d chosen that room for his painting, of course. Michael’s profile was limned in the shimmering light. He was so beautiful, I caught my breath, and for a moment I remember thinking he looked very like the archangel he was named after.”
She closed her eyes, remembering. “But then I noticed that his hair was disheveled, as if he’d been tugging at it. Also, his easel lay toppled on the floor and paint had been flung all about.
“I’d barely spoken his name when he turned such a fierce glare upon me that I froze still. I just stood there, like a statue.” She huffed. “Englishwoman Bearing Tray, carved from granite and marble.”
She opened her eyes and sought Gabriel’s. His were fixed on her with rapt attention. She latched on to the strength in his gaze, and oddly enough, it seemed to help her get the rest of the story out.
“But then he flung a paintbrush at me. I still remember the shock, standing there looking dumbly at the garish splotch of red paint soaking into my favorite lavender morning gown. It sort of melted into the fabric, bleeding into a red violet . . . I might have stood like that for hours had another brush not come whizzing past my head. When the third brush came, I dropped the tray and threw my hands up to protect my face.”
Her voice didn’t sound like her own as she spoke. She was distancing her emotions from the conversation, she knew. And Gabriel, bless him, was just listening. Letting her speak at her own pace, even though she could see he was bursting with questions.
“Everything shattered,” she said. “Broken china littered the floor about my feet as hot tea soaked into my slippers. Michael was shouting at me. Angry words, mostly. Nonsense. He demanded to know who I thought I was to disturb him. Accused me of thwarting his work, of distracting him, of trying to make him weak. He kept screaming that I could never understand his genius.”
Her voice rose in agitation with every remembered indictment, despite her best intentions. Her arms ached with how tightly she held herself. “All the while, he hurled supplies at me. I—I tried to defend myself with words, but he would hear nothing I said. So I fled. I threw a cloak over my stained clothes, pulled the hood up to hide my face and ran from the house.”
She could still feel the cold bite of winter wind, even after all of this time. “But there was really nowhere I could go. I didn’t wish my family to know how Michael was. Certainly not our friends. So I just walked. For hours. Until I was too exhausted to go on.”
Gabriel listened, jaw clenched tight.
She took a few shaky breaths, fighting to stave off the emotions roiling through her at the memories. When she spoke again, she was grateful her voice did not betray the tumult within.
“The house was quiet when I arrived home. Only our butler greeted me at the top step. Michael had locked himself in our chamber shortly after I’d left and had barred anyone from entering aside from his valet. I didn’t know what to do. I may have been Michael’s wife, but I’d been in the household for only a matter of weeks. And I was still reeling, so I chose the cowardly way out and went to a guest chamber for the night.”
Gabriel finally broke his silence. “You weren’t a coward, Pen. You were all of twenty.”
She shook her head, discounting his sympathy. Perhaps she’d have deserved it at the time, but certainly not by the end of her marriage. Certainly not now.
“I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Michael, however, slept for three days. The next morning, I’d gathered my wits. I demanded to be let into our rooms to confront Michael, but he slept so deeply it was like watching the dead. I imagine his body simply shut down after so many weeks going without enough sleep. His valet and I forced at least water down his throat at regular intervals, but that was all he would rouse for. And when Michael did finally wake, he was a different man.”
Gabriel had gone white. “Did he remember afterward?” he asked quietly.
He was thinking of his own episodes, she imagined. She knew he’d been told of his own erratic behavior, of smashing water pitchers and slinging insults. But she’d witnessed one of Gabriel’s episodes and had spoken with both Allen and Gabriel’s mother about his others. He’d clearly been delusional. Michael had been cruel. Intentionally cruel. So wrapped up in himself that anyone and everyone was beneath him. At least when he was at his highest.
And when he was at his lowest . . .
“Yes,” she said. “He remembered everything, and the knowledge tore him apart. He dissolved into tears, apologizing to me and clinging to my skirts. It broke my heart, but it was clear something was horribly wrong with him. For the next several days, Michael refused to come out of our rooms. He was sluggish. His eyes were dull. His spirits had sunken so low . . . He wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t paint. Wouldn’t even talk to me, not about anything of importance—and there was nothing I could do for him.”
She released her hold on herself and returned her hands to her lap then. She still remembered the sense of surreal bemusement at what had happened next. “And then one morning when I went downstairs, he was in the breakfast room, polishing off a plate of kedgeree,” she said, turning her palms up in imitation of a helpless shrug. “He grinned at me as I stood slack jawed and staring. He rose from the table, crossed to where I was and chucked me under the chin, of all things. Then he gave me the sweetest kiss.” She closed her eyes. “And just like that, he was back to his old self. The man I’d met and married.”
She blinked several times, no longer able to hold off the tears. “I was so relieved to have him back,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I can’t tell you how much. I begged him to see a doctor, but he brushed off my concerns. He said he’d just gotten too immersed in his painting and hadn’t taken good enough care of himself, and he promised he would be more vigilant with his health. I vowed to myself to make certain he did, that I would be a good wife, would see to his needs.”
She straightened then, her hands balling into fists on her lap. “But I failed. There were a few peaceful weeks, until one night, an awful storm woke me. I immediately noticed Michael was gone from our bed. I found him in his studio, of course. He said the thunder had woken him and he hadn’t been able to go back to sleep, and he allowed me to coax him back to our room. He assured me everything was fine. But I became anxious and started watching him more closely. And I saw it—bit by bit, day by day, his personality took on an edge. Subtly, at first, but I knew it was building toward something.
“I developed an edge of my own. A nervousness twisted inside me, screwing another turn every day. Anytime I expressed concern, Michael dismissed it. To our family and friends, he seemed as gregariously Michael as ever.”
Gabriel nodded, obviously recalling that time in his mind. “I never noticed anything wrong with him.”
“I did. I knew he was off, even though I couldn’t seem to make an argument for any one thing that would prove it. He had an explanation for everything I could voice. We fought constantly, me pressing him to seek help, him insisting I’d become an overbearing nag.” She huffed a bitter laugh. “And I was. I felt helpless and confused, alternating between hounding him and leaving him to his own devices. But no matter which tactic I employed, the cycle would start again.”
She shook her head, the frustration still fresh, even after two years. “It was horrid, living that way, like I knew I was perpetually walking along the precipice of a cliff, but I couldn’t see the edge. I was just certain it was there and that if I made the tiniest misstep, I would fall to my death. I began to tread lightly in my own house. And it went on this way for months.”
She stared at him then, her eyes wide as she implored him to understand what she must tell him next. “And then one morning, after a particularly nasty row, Michael was gone again. I knew it the moment I woke up. It was like waking in an entirely different house. A weight was missing from my shoulders.”
She broke off, swallowing hard. “He’d gone to Leeds again. He’d left a note, at least. But I refused to follow him that time. I—” Her voice cracked then, and fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. “I was relieved he was gone,” she whispered, confessing one of her great sins.
Gabriel was watching her closely. She knew he must realize she meant Michael’s final trip to Leeds. The one he’d never come back from. “But—you were there when Michael had his accident.”
She kept her eyes on his as fresh tears spilled hot onto her cheeks. “No. You see, I refused to get caught up in his cycle again, so I lingered in London a few days. A sort of protest. But I didn’t want to give up on Michael. I so desperately wanted him to get help. I made a plan to confront him and force his hand, and then I set off for the country once again.” She looked down at her lap and forced the words out. “But I was too late.”
She heard Gabriel’s swift intake of breath, knew he understood the secret she’d been carrying for so long.
“Michael’s death was no accident, was it?” he whispered.
She looked up at him. Let him see the truth in her eyes.
“My God,” Gabriel said. “My cousin killed himself.”