Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(84)
“Well. You aren’t the only one.” That wry, tired voice belonged to Lady Blakely.
Lord and Lady Blakely had always struck Kate as rather a conundrum. Lord Blakely seemed cold; he always looked to be watching everyone and finding fault. She’d had the impression that he had at first considered whether Kate was a potential human being—and once he’d answered the question in the negative, had ignored her thereafter.
Lady Blakely, on the other hand, had tried to encourage Kate into friendship at first. And perhaps at second and third. It was Kate who had turned away from her.
“She didn’t like you,” Lord Blakely said shortly. “I assumed she had to be ten kinds of a useless fool.”
Kate felt a flush go through her. They were talking about her. No doubt they thought they were having a private conversation, even if it was being held in her parlor. She needed to clear her throat, or trip over the door as she came into the room. At the very least, she could do them the courtesy of coughing very, very loudly.
But she didn’t. Instead, she held her breath.
“People don’t have to like me,” Lady Blakely said with amusement. “You didn’t, at first.”
“That’s calumny.” A longer pause. “If we’d known, if she had felt she could come to us, none of this would have happened. Ned’s leg. Being charged with a crime—in a police court, of all places, and God above, will the gossip rags go on about that. Jenny, she’s a Carhart. I’m responsible for her. And I let this happen. All because I let myself be fooled into thinking she was precisely as she seemed on the surface.”
Kate had spent most of her life having people dismiss her because of the way she looked. Even put in these stark terms, the hidden approval in those words shook her. She’d sent Blakely the letter, telling him everything she’d done. And now it was too late to take it back.
“She’s not quite as useless as she seems, is she? I do recall someone might have said something along those lines….”
“Don’t gloat,” Blakely huffed. “It doesn’t help.”
“Does this help?”
No answer. Kate hardly wanted to be the source of marital strife. She peered into the room. Lord and Lady Blakely sat next to each other on the divan; the marquess had turned to his wife, and his head rested against her shoulder. Her hands ruffled his hair gently. The couple looked upset, tired and altogether miserable. Nobody would have looked at them and imagined them happy.
And yet still it hurt to watch that easy intimacy, to see that comfortable sharing of burdens. It was almost a physical pain she felt, stabbing into her. So this was what a happy marriage looked like, even under circumstances that were far from happy. This was what it really meant—not that they never suffered, but that when they did, they shared their burdens.
Does this help? Three words she could never imagine saying to Ned—not without him freezing and walking out of the room. With a broken leg, no less. This was what she wanted—this trust from her husband. And while she could rely on him, he’d told her in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want her close enough to offer assistance.
Kate crept from the room, not quite understanding what she’d just witnessed, or why it had shaken her so. She knew only that if she entered, the tired mass of burdens she carried might overwhelm her.
If you fall, Ned had once told her, I will catch you.
She now knew precisely how true this was. He was strong, powerful and reliable—so much that she might lean on him for support, not even realizing as she did so that he was walking on a broken leg.
This feeling that she might throw herself backward and he would catch her, no matter the consequences—this blind and unhesitating trust—this was what love really looked like. Love was courage. It was shyness made gregarious, softness rendered strong. It was all her secret vulnerabilities trusted to him, and transmuted into hidden strength.
But there was pain in that realization. That moment of intimacy she’d witnessed between the marquess and his wife burned in her mind. Lord Blakely had had no compunction about leaning on his lady.
Ned knew all her weaknesses, her biggest fears. He’d stood straight when her legs buckled. He’d whispered strength when she most needed to hear it. But the one thing he hadn’t done was let her give strength to him in return.
He had told Louisa once to think of what she wanted. Kate knew what she would say if he asked her that same question now. She wanted him. She wanted him to believe that she was as strong as he’d once told her she was. She wanted his trust. She wanted his love. She wanted to nurture her hopes for her marriage without fear that he might hurt her again.
The world had forced her into practicality enough. She didn’t want to be practical about her husband.
Kate squared her shoulders and went to find him. As she’d suspected, the physician had set and splinted his leg. The door to his room was open a crack, and from the sound of silence within, he was alone once more. She pushed it wide and stepped through.
He’d woken at some point. He must not have heard her enter, though, because he did not turn to her.
He sat on the bed, his leg stretched out in front of him. He looked as if he chose to sit there not because he was an invalid, but as a matter of prerogative. He might have been presiding over a meeting, the way he sat, ramrod straight. Even now, with nobody watching, he did not let a hint of weakness show. Kate felt suddenly weary on his behalf.