Lady in Rags

Chapter Thirty-Two: Petty, Selfish Adoration

Despite her vehemence, it was not long before Verity forgot Richard had ever even made his vow. She was too involved in her advancing pregnancy and the decoration of her new cottage to spare more than the odd, unpleasant thought for the Armiger clan. Neil remained close to her thoughts, and not a day went by when she did not feel the blunt needle of grief still pressing in her heart. However, in her complete disregard for his family, she almost managed to forget that they even existed. If she had remembered Richard's promise, she likely would have doubted he ever meant to keep it.

Richard, however, did not forget. He could not. His inability to help Verity in any meaningful way weighed upon his exorbitant and fragile pride. His conscience, never a particularly active beast, refused to return to its usual complacent slumber, no matter how many days passed, or how cunningly he rationalized his part in the annulment that had led to her downfall. He not only felt useless: he felt vile.

In the very darkest hours of the night, lying awake in his bed, he could bring himself to admit that he was violently, impossibly, pathetically in love with his dead brother's woman. He had been in love with her since almost the moment he had met her. He loved her so much it was like poison. For he knew that she hated him, and knowing that, he hated himself, and would tear and kick at the strangling sheets as though he could tear apart his own soul. In the mornings, when his own reflection in the mirror seemed to cast a loathing gaze upon him, he would deny it. He was not in love with her. He despised her. She was little more than an upstart-- but he could never finish the sentence, even in his mind. No. It was nothing more than his gentleman's honour that compelled him, if ever there was a chance of helping her, to do so.

And then, in March, out of the blue, that chance came.

He went back to Houglen as soon as he was able, on the excuse of business with Neil's steward, who was still in charge of the unlet house. He attended the business with a haste bordering on rudeness, which confirmed in the steward's mind that of the young Armigers, Neil was undoubtedly more the gentleman. Then he took one of the horses and rode towards Greater Hough to find Miss Baker, in a deepening twilight.

Her cottage was smaller than he expected -- a shabby little thing on the edge of the town, surrounded by other shabby things, with shabby gardens, and shabby inhabitants. He tied his horse to the gatepost and limped to the front door, where he had to wait a moment to steel his nerve before ringing the bell.

Mrs Roper answered it, and looked him up and down suspiciously. She always took Neil's side, even when we were children, thought Richard bitterly. Always.

"Good evening, Mrs Roper," he said, hiding his anger in a transparent veneer of pleasantry – a veneer so transparent that it easily explained why Mrs Roper had always preferred Neil to Richard, if Richard had so thought to look.

"Good evening." Her tone suggested she felt otherwise. "I guess I ought let you off the doorstep, where everyone can see. Come in."

Inside, the cottage was less shabby, even somewhat cosy. Every nook and shelf held a vase of flowers, or a picture frame, or some feminine, homely knick knack. Mrs Roper took him through the hallway to a back parlour, giving him the chance to examine them. They all struck him as being remarkably cheap, but somehow the overall effect was charming.

"Lord Landon has called," Mrs Roper said in front of him, as he passed over the threshold into a warm, fire-lit room.

Verity rose from an arm chair by the fire, and nodded her head at him. "Good evening, Sir." There was the usual challenging expression on her face, the slightly set jaw, the narrowed eyes.