find that Percy had stolen your heart away from me. I was in agony at your wedding."
She shook her head. "Nonsense. That was your pride. You never loved me, not in a way that makes for marriage. You always flirted with me, and charmed me, and remembered my birthday. You wrote me letters from school every week, picked my favorite flowers, and gave me the right compliments. You stole kisses from me behind the hedgerows, and said the most torrid things to me, but you never did the one thing that a man does when he is truly in love."
"What's that?"
"You never made a fool of yourself for me."
He blinked, trying to understand what she meant. "Well," he said after a moment, "I did write you some god-awful poetry. Does that count?"
"You did?" she asked in astonishment. "When?"
" Cambridge days. I never showed it to you."
"Exactly my point. If you had read some of it to me, even just once, things might have turned out very differently, for I was madly in love with you."
That startled him. "You were?"
"I was. But I knew you didn't really love me, and when you went to the Continent for your Grand Tour, I got over you."
"With Percy's help." He could say that lightly now, for he felt no bitterness. Many years had passed since then.
"He loved me, John ."
"I know." John glanced over his shoulder, looking up at the stone where the niche was hidden, and he thought of the look in Percy's face when he'd found that chemise. "He always loved you, Connie. As I said, you were very sensible to choose him."
She began to laugh. "He blundered his way through the most incoherent marriage proposal you ever heard at the May Day fete, in front of Lord and Lady Moncrieffe , the Miss Dansons , the vicar, and heaven knows how many others. In front of all those people, right on the village green, he got down on his knees, confessed eternal love in the most passionate language you can imagine, and said that if I didn't marry him and end his misery, he would shoot himself and end it for me."
He eyed her with doubt. "Our Percy?"
"Yes, our sensible, straitlaced , calm, reasonable Percy. Given his nature, no woman could have resisted a proposal like that. I couldn't."
John tried to imagine Percy on his knees babbling declarations of love and desperate threats of suicide. He failed utterly. He couldn't make his mind form that picture, not even to win a prize like Constance .
"He made me happy, John . So very happy."
"I am glad of it, Connie," he said, and meant it. "The two of you are the only people in my life who ever gave a damn about me."
"What about your wife?"
The question was soft and cut him like a knife. He did not want to talk about Viola, not with Connie, of all people. Not today, of all days. He opened his mouth to make a flippant remark, but for the life of him, nothing came to mind.
Constance studied him without speaking for what seemed an eternity. Then she laid a hand on his arm. "If there were only one thing I could wish for you, my dear, I would wish you happiness in your marriage. The women, John . The gossip—"
"Isn't worth listening to," he cut her off. "I beg you, do not concern yourself with the wagging tongues of scandalmongers. They talk all the time and say nothing. Amazing, but there it is."
"I am concerned about you."
"No need to be," he said at once. "I am content."
"Contentment is all very well." She let out her breath on a soft sigh. "But John , though marriage is very difficult, it can give so much joy. Mine did." Her voice cracked on a sob. "Oh, God in heaven, what am I going to do without Percy? And my son, my darling son—" She put her face in her hands.
This time he did not admonish her not to cry. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say, no amusing anecdote to make her laugh, no antidote to the pain. For either of them. He closed his eyes, lifted his face to the sun and leaned his weight back on his arms, bearing the sound of her sobs because he had to, feeling her tears flay him with his own
She shook her head. "Nonsense. That was your pride. You never loved me, not in a way that makes for marriage. You always flirted with me, and charmed me, and remembered my birthday. You wrote me letters from school every week, picked my favorite flowers, and gave me the right compliments. You stole kisses from me behind the hedgerows, and said the most torrid things to me, but you never did the one thing that a man does when he is truly in love."
"What's that?"
"You never made a fool of yourself for me."
He blinked, trying to understand what she meant. "Well," he said after a moment, "I did write you some god-awful poetry. Does that count?"
"You did?" she asked in astonishment. "When?"
" Cambridge days. I never showed it to you."
"Exactly my point. If you had read some of it to me, even just once, things might have turned out very differently, for I was madly in love with you."
That startled him. "You were?"
"I was. But I knew you didn't really love me, and when you went to the Continent for your Grand Tour, I got over you."
"With Percy's help." He could say that lightly now, for he felt no bitterness. Many years had passed since then.
"He loved me, John ."
"I know." John glanced over his shoulder, looking up at the stone where the niche was hidden, and he thought of the look in Percy's face when he'd found that chemise. "He always loved you, Connie. As I said, you were very sensible to choose him."
She began to laugh. "He blundered his way through the most incoherent marriage proposal you ever heard at the May Day fete, in front of Lord and Lady Moncrieffe , the Miss Dansons , the vicar, and heaven knows how many others. In front of all those people, right on the village green, he got down on his knees, confessed eternal love in the most passionate language you can imagine, and said that if I didn't marry him and end his misery, he would shoot himself and end it for me."
He eyed her with doubt. "Our Percy?"
"Yes, our sensible, straitlaced , calm, reasonable Percy. Given his nature, no woman could have resisted a proposal like that. I couldn't."
John tried to imagine Percy on his knees babbling declarations of love and desperate threats of suicide. He failed utterly. He couldn't make his mind form that picture, not even to win a prize like Constance .
"He made me happy, John . So very happy."
"I am glad of it, Connie," he said, and meant it. "The two of you are the only people in my life who ever gave a damn about me."
"What about your wife?"
The question was soft and cut him like a knife. He did not want to talk about Viola, not with Connie, of all people. Not today, of all days. He opened his mouth to make a flippant remark, but for the life of him, nothing came to mind.
Constance studied him without speaking for what seemed an eternity. Then she laid a hand on his arm. "If there were only one thing I could wish for you, my dear, I would wish you happiness in your marriage. The women, John . The gossip—"
"Isn't worth listening to," he cut her off. "I beg you, do not concern yourself with the wagging tongues of scandalmongers. They talk all the time and say nothing. Amazing, but there it is."
"I am concerned about you."
"No need to be," he said at once. "I am content."
"Contentment is all very well." She let out her breath on a soft sigh. "But John , though marriage is very difficult, it can give so much joy. Mine did." Her voice cracked on a sob. "Oh, God in heaven, what am I going to do without Percy? And my son, my darling son—" She put her face in her hands.
This time he did not admonish her not to cry. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say, no amusing anecdote to make her laugh, no antidote to the pain. For either of them. He closed his eyes, lifted his face to the sun and leaned his weight back on his arms, bearing the sound of her sobs because he had to, feeling her tears flay him with his own
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