The Lonely Duke Waited Months for His Bride — Then She Arrived With His Missing Son
Chapter 16
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This was not an escape into uncertainty: she could earn her living, even if it hurt to go."You may remain as my guest as long as you wish," Honoria told her."I know. That is what makes it possible to leave without anger.""Are you certain you do not wish to speak with Benedict again?""I am not certain of anything except that I cannot answer a question he has not truly asked."Oliver came the following afternoon. Benedict had told him Marian would be going away without accusing anyone or asking the boy to change her mind. Still, the child stood in the doorway looking smaller than his six years."Is it because I was frightened at the river?" he asked."No, darling. You have done nothing wrong.""Do grown people sometimes go away even when they like each other?""Sometimes they need to understand what they want before they know where to stay."He considered that. Then he placed a drawing of three figures into her hands. "You can have this one. I made another for Papa."Marian hugged him. "I shall keep it very carefully.""May I write you letters?""If your father agrees, I would be pleased to hear from you."Oliver nodded. He did not ask her to promise to come back.Benedict, waiting in the hall, was grateful and ashamed that his son had shown such generosity while he himself had nearly turned love into an order.That night, Benedict untied the blue ribbon around Marian's letters. He found the passage about a day free of obligations, and another about receiving a hand without surrendering one's own. He read her words as though he were learning a language he ought to have understood from the beginning.In the library, he found the poetry volume Marian had borrowed lying on the return table, a narrow strip of plain paper marking a page. She had written nothing on it; that was somehow worse. He remembered her arguing that a good line of verse did not need a wealthy binding, and the way she had laughed when he admitted he knew little of gardens. He closed the book unread. What he had called protection had sometimes been a cage.Downstairs, Oliver asked Mrs. Bell whether letters took longer to travel when the person writing was sad. Benedict heard the question from the landing and did not enter; his son deserved answers, but not another adult's sorrow placed in his hands.He wrote an apology. It contained no proposal, no argument about reputation, and no request for a reply:"I spoke of your future as though I possessed the right to arrange it," he wrote. "I am ashamed of that presumption. I called it protection because I was afraid to say I love you. You owe me neither forgiveness nor an answer. I wanted you to know that I understand the wrong at last."He sent the letter by Honoria. Marian read it alone, once quickly and then again with the care she gave to words that mattered. Tears came before she could stop them: it was the first time Benedict had not used duty as a shield.