Doggedly he continued the tale, trying to explain, when he hardly understood it himself, why he had left it so long to find his errant wife.
‘Why did you decide to trace her in the end?’ she asked. Her colour had come back, her gaze on his face was less intense, her arms around the cushion more relaxed. Max realised with an overwhelming sense of relief that she was not going to reject him out of hand for what had happened.
‘I became restless to have the matter settled, to know where I was.’ He smiled at her. ‘Nevill is a fine young man, but I found I wanted a son of my own to succeed me.
‘I engaged an enquiry agent, a man called Ryder. He has been seeking for her. Now he believes he knows what happened to her family—they died of smallpox in Winchester, seven years ago.’
‘Poor souls.’ Bree’s instinctive reaction, the distress in her voice, caught at his heart. ‘And you do not know if she, Drusilla, died with them?’
‘Yes, I do not know. Ryder is still searching, but the registers are unclear. There was an epidemic in the city, the parish priest was taken ill too, record keeping was a shambles.’
‘So you may be a widower, but you cannot tell?’
‘No.’ What do I hope for? Not for Drusilla to have died of that hideous disease. Just for the impossible, just to never had made the mistake and married her in the first place. ‘It seems likely, but how can I be sure? I have no idea how she came to be parted from her lover. I will probably never know, unless I find her alive.’
‘Oh, Max.’ Bree leaned forward, caught his hands in hers before he could stop her. He found, prudence be damned, that he needed her touch. ‘I am so sorry. What a truly terrible thing, not to know. What will you do now?’
‘I think I need to go to Winchester, to join Ryder and see if we can find some witness to what happened to the family, who died, who lived.’
‘And what then?’ She was pale to the lips, but composed, her chin firm without a tremor. Thank God, she is not as affected as I feared. It is just desire and friendship on her part, she does not feel as I do.
‘If she is alive, then I will seek a divorce.’ He ignored Bree’s shocked intake of breath. ‘If she is not, then I will return and ask you again to marry me. If it is to be a divorce, then I cannot say how long it will take. It requires a private Act of Parliament. Will you wait for me, Bree?’
‘No. No, I will not, you cannot. Max, you do not have to marry me. You have married once, out of your class, and see what became of it. I am wrong for you, I know it. Do you want to set another tragedy in train?’ She released his hands with enough force to throw them apart and was on her feet before he could catch her to him.
‘Do not touch me, Max. We do not seem to have the self-control that we should. You must not marry me, even if you are free to do so now. I cannot tell you what to do if you still find yourself married, that is for your own conscience, but you must not divorce her for any thought of marriage to me.’
Bree turned to face him, spots of colour on her high cheekbones, her mouth trembling. He found he had no desire to kiss it. He had expected shock; he had not expected such a comprehensive rejection of his suit. But I love you! No, he could not say that now, it was too late, it would sound like an attempt at emotional blackmail. I have lost her. Nothing mattered in the face of that realisation, nothing in the world.
‘I think you had better go, Max,’ she said steadily. ‘I appreciate very much your gallantry in offering for me after what happened yesterday. I cannot say I regret it, although I know that I should.’ A fleeting smile twisted the corner of her mouth. ‘I wish I could keep you as a friend, but I do not think it wise, do you? Not after this—’
‘Bree! Are you in? Oh, yes, so you are.’ It was Piers, out of breath and urgent, something clutched in his hand. ‘Look at this! Betsy has written us a letter.’
‘What?’ Bree twitched the paper out of his hand. Max could see that the interruption had upset her precarious balance. ‘Betsy?’ He saw the focus come back into her eyes and was perversely, savagely glad that he had unsettled her to that extent.
‘It is Uncle George,’ Piers said. ‘I can hardly make out her handwriting, but something is very wrong—we must go.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course we must. Let me think. It is too late to catch a stage. We had better hire a chaise.’
‘Take mine.’ Max put all the authority he could muster into the statement, not knowing whether she would respond to it at all. Bree turned to him, the resolute lines her face had settled into swept away by a warm smile.
‘Max, thank you. You are such a good friend. I should not accept I know, but I am going to.’
Is that what it has come to? That I am her good friend? I can make her happy with the loan of a chaise, it seems. She can break my heart with a smile. A little while ago I would have been content with friendship. Now the very word is coals of fire when I want so much more.
‘Think nothing of it. I will have it sent round at once.’
Chapter Eighteen
Bree leaned back in the corner of the chaise and brooded on Max and his proposal. In her daydreams she had pictured a future together; now she knew that what she had done in refusing him was right and that dream had gone for ever. His loss would not hurt only her. Piers’s enthusiastic acceptance of a man whom he already seemed to regard as a superior older brother was giving him the male guidance he had so long lacked.
Her life was changing out of all recognition from how it had been before James’s betrothal, yet all of it seemed meaningless now. Could she go back to her old life? It did not seem possible.
She sighed as familiar landmarks slipped past. ‘Nearly there. Uncle George is going to be surprised to see us. Do you think Betsy told him she had written?’
‘I’m still trying to read this letter.’ Piers squinted at it, turning it towards the chaise window. ‘She says something about him drinking and playing cards at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Well, I knew about that,’ Bree pointed out, butterflies chasing round her stomach. ‘But it didn’t seem excessive.’
‘But something new has happened.’ He brought the page almost to his nose. ‘Won’t forgive himself and Master Piers is all I can make out—it looks as though a drunken spider has been all over it with its feet in the inkwell.’
‘Never mind, we’ll know in a minute. We’re here.’
Bree jumped down as soon as the step was lowered. The housekeeper came to the pealing of the bell, only to gape at the smart carriage and the liveried postilions.
‘Lord love us, Miss Bree! You got my letter then, thank the good Lord.’ She bustled forward, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I’ve been that worried. And Master Piers, bless you. What’s all this about being poorly? They don’t feed you properly at that school of yours. You come along with me—’
‘Betsy.’ Bree cut in with the skill bred of long familiarity with the housekeeper’s conversational style. ‘Please see to it that Lord Penrith’s postilions are looked after.’ She looked up at the men and gestured to the stable-yard arch. ‘The stables are round there. Tell them that you brought me and you need lodging. When the horses are settled, come to the kitchen door and Mrs Bryant will find you something to eat.’
As they touched their hats and took the chaise away, Bree swung back. ‘Betsy, we came as soon as we got your letter, but we cannot read your handwriting. What has happened to our uncle? Where is he?’
‘In