That Scandalous Summer by Meredith Duran Page B

you never were trapped by marriage to him .
    Miss Lister. Liza held that name in her mind the same way she might test her thumb against a thorn. It does not matter. She did not want Nello! Nobody should want such a deceitful, cowardly bully! Forever quarrelsome, always unsatisfied . . .
    She turned and took one step toward the house, the wild idea in her mind to write the girl, to warn her: He will never love you. If he could not love me after all the forbearance with which I greeted his bad behavior, all the many times I forgave him for his rude treatment of me, all the tolerance I showed upon learning of his betrayals, then he will never, ever love you .
    But what a cruel message! Worse yet—what if it were not true? What if Nello had fallen in love with this girl? What if he could be an honorable, honest, loving man—to someone else?
    What if you simply can’t be loved?
    She crumpled the note again and walked blindly down the drive, the crushed oysters and gravel underfoot jabbing through the thin soles of her house slippers. The pain suited her. She stomped harder to feel it all the more sharply. Some people called her the most beautiful woman in England. She called herself the stupidest. What were words without actions to match them? Why had she ever gambled her heart on the strength of his words ?
    She lifted her head to stare down the drive toward the lake, shrouded from view by trees. A breeze ruffled through the tops of the branches, lifting them toward the sky, and she felt, with a sudden strange shock, the largeness of the world: the ocean like a vast yawning mouth, some ten miles to the east; and the endless impossible distance of the sky overhead, bridging land and sea as it wrapped around the earth; and the empty space beyond it, an alien void sparsely scattered with stars.
    How small she was, standing here. No more than a speck. All the turmoil in her breast was tantamount to the tap of the next pebble scattered by her step.
    What was love, anyway? Soundless and ephemeral as a breath. This scene around her, which had witnessed her parents’ contentment for their brief span of life—it would outlast everyone she knew, and their children, and their children’s grandchildren. Why cling to love? It was a handhold amid the torrent, but everyone eventually fell into the river. Swept away, they were forgotten.
    Why drive oneself to anguish, longing for such a handhold? Why bother? Better to look for comfort than gamble on a dream for which suffering was the more likely reward. Handholds were useless. And she would not find one anyway.
    She took a deep breath. Very well. Practicality would be her aim from now on. She would never be stupid again. She vowed it: she was done with love.
    She crumpled the letter. It was not even worth the burning.
    •   •   •
    Standing in the dusty road outside the postal office, Michael read the words again.
    Lord Marwick’s secretary had no official comment, but confirmed that an interim director had been appointed to implement an unspecific program of reform at the Duchess of Marwick Hospital. Of the former director, his grace’s brother, no news is heard  . . .
    Michael took a deep breath. The newspaper was half a day old, sent from London by the morning train. God knew what tidings tomorrow’s delivery would carry. He could not imagine why Peter Halsted, his right-hand man at the hospital, had not written in warning. Halstedalone knew where he was. Until now, he’d made a very steady correspondent, full of reassurances. But yesterday he’d not written at all.
    An oversized timetable was plastered over the front window of the post office. He found himself staring at the train schedules. The station was an hour’s drive north. He could be in London by midnight. Go directly to Halsted’s flat. Alastair need never know.
    Unless Alastair had somehow enlisted Halsted in this business.
    You would be surprised by what I can and cannot do . Alastair had already