Elizabeth, but then both the Frasers had been unfaithful to each other on a regular basis. “Why did Lady Elizabeth marry Kenneth Fraser?” Melanie said. “Charles almost never talks about his parents’ marriage, except to say it was a disaster.”
“It was certainly that.” Lady Frances stared into her mug, as though she was trying to get the past into focus. “Father was worried by her choice from the first. He doted on Elizabeth, though he didn’t understand her any more than the rest of us did. With her looks and her fortune and the family name, she could have had any man she wanted. A lot of people were surprised when she chose a plain Mr. Fraser. Of course, Kenneth was an attractive man.”
“Was it infatuation, then?”
“Not romantic infatuation. I think she saw Kenneth as a sort of anchor of stability. Unfortunately, what she took as stability was lack of feeling.”
“And Mr. Fraser? Did he love Lady Elizabeth?”
Lady Frances snorted. “You knew Kenneth. I don’t think he was capable of loving anything, except possibly himself. He saw women as a challenge. Mastering a woman reinforced his sense of power.”
She frowned, as though of all her love affairs, the memory of this liaison with her sister’s husband still disturbed her. “Kenneth was proud of having won Elizabeth,” she said. “The way he was proud of a Renaissance masterpiece or a fine piece of porcelain or a prize thoroughbred. Though any good horseman has more feeling for his cattle than Kenneth displayed for his wife. He enjoyed parading her about for the first year or so. By the time Charles was born they cordially disliked each other. Elizabeth took to spending most of her time raising horses on Father’s Irish estates. Kenneth kept to London and Perthshire.”
Melanie studied her husband’s godmother. “I think sometimes Charles wonders if Kenneth Fraser was really —”
Lady Frances’s face closed. “Oh, no, Melanie.” Her voice was gentle but firm as iron. “I don’t doubt that he wonders, but some questions are best left just that. For everyone’s sake.”
“Charles is still trying to make sense of his relationship with his parents.”
“And always will be, I daresay, like most of us. For better or worse, Kenneth Fraser stood in the position of father to him. Nothing can change that.” Lady Frances fingered the pointed edge of the pelerine at the neck of her gown. “I’ve heard people say Charles is like Kenneth, but in truth he’s just the opposite. Kenneth didn’t care for anything but his own comfort and consequence. Charles feels things deeply—perhaps too deeply. In his case the coldness is an effort to keep all that passion under control. Quite understandable. Anyone who was Elizabeth’s son would be afraid of giving way to his emotions. He’s lucky to have you, my dear. Without you, I’m afraid, he’d have buried his feelings so deep he’d never have been able to bring them to the surface.”
“But that’s just the trouble.” The words burst from Melanie’s lips with unintended force. “He’s got to find a way to care about things without filtering it all through me. Or he’ll never—”
She pressed her hands over her face. She had, she realized, considered what the ruin of her marriage meant for the children and for herself, but not for Charles.
However much she cared for Charles, she had begun by using him. She had taken advantage of his loyalty and trust for her own ends. The revelations about Kitty Ashford made the picture even more grim. She had taken unwitting advantage of what he felt for another woman and used it to bind him to her. Yet whatever their reasons for entering into the marriage, for better or worse they had come to depend on each other. She could scarcely imagine not waking up with his arm flung across her, not turning her head to find his gaze there to meet her own in unspoken understanding, not sitting beside him amid a litter of ink-stained papers and arguing over the way to frame a speech or the best approach to a cipher.
But she had learned through the years that the unimaginable came to pass entirely too often. What that might mean for her was something to be faced later, on her own terms. But whatever else happened, she owed it to Charles to see that he came through this as unscathed as possible. Even if that meant making sure he found a way to go on without her.
“Melanie?” Lady Frances’s voice softened. “My dear, I’m the last person to advise anyone on marriage. But I can guess what a strain this must be on both of you. It would be only natural for you to take that strain out on each other. Natural and quite disastrous.”
Melanie dragged her hands away from her face. “I know. Trust me, Aunt Frances, we’re doing our best.”
She was spared further speech by the sound of a horse’s hooves. They snatched up their pelisses and went back into the yard. Hopkins, Charles, Edgar, and Giles emerged from one of the buildings. The mist had lifted a bit, though the sky was still low and gray. Fred rode into the yard on a magnificent dapple gray, prancing and tossing its head after the gallop.
“He did well, Mr. Hopkins.” Fred swung out of the saddle. “More biddable than he was, though still plenty of spirit.”
Hopkins walked forward. “Good, good. Come into the kitchen for a bit, Fred. Fan—Lady Frances’s friends want a word about—”
An ecstasy of barking interrupted his words. A blur of black and white hurtled round the side of one of the buildings. The dapple gray let out a whinny of pure, shrieking terror, jerked out of Fred’s hold, and tore forward.
Mud sprayed in the air. Melanie had an image of flailing gray legs and slashing hooves. The horse’s terrified shrieks and the barking of the dog pierced the air. Edgar and Charles both reached for her. They got tangled up, and Charles slipped to the ground. Edgar pulled her out of harm’s way. She saw the hooves flash over Charles. She screamed.
Giles flung himself over Charles. The thud of hoof striking skull and bone echoed through the yard.
Charles put his fingers to the base of Giles’s neck, picked up his wrist, pressed his ear against the younger man’s chest. He looked up at Hopkins. “I’m afraid—”
“My God.” Hopkins started, then stroked Lightning’s neck as the horse jerked. “He’s not—”
“I can’t feel a pulse. Mel, do you have a mirror?”
Melanie scrambled to her feet without help from Edgar. She took a small silver-backed mirror from her reticule and went to kneel beside Charles. Giles’s face was peaceful but unnaturally still. His skin had the ruddy glow of a country boy. Beneath his tangle of white-blond hair, a hoofprint was imbedded in his smooth, young forehead, leaking blood round the edges. She held the mirror over his mouth, while Charles studied the glass. Despite the damp air it was clear, the clear, smooth emptiness of the absence of life.
Charles looked at the others. “I’m sorry.”
A stillness settled over the yard, as tangible as the shrieks and barking had been—violent death forcing its icy presence among the living. Melanie had felt it in the mountains and valleys of Spain, in the streets of Leon, in their house in Brussels after Waterloo. But it did not belong there, in the tranquillity of the English countryside, in a world of strong animals and bustling activity and healthy young people.
The silence was broken by a sharp cry from the girl in the apron. She turned her head away. The young man put his arm round her.
“Jesus.” Fred dragged his gaze from the sprawled body and stared at Lightning. The horse was standing with his head lowered, almost as if he understood.
Charles closed Giles’s eyes. “Don’t blame the horse. He was driven to it. If I’d been quicker on my own feet, the boy wouldn’t have had to get in the way.” He looked down at Giles. A muscle tightened along his jaw.
Melanie closed her hand round his arm.
Lady Frances’s crisp voice cut across the yard. “There’s nothing to be gained from the lot of us standing out
