"Paget did not dismiss her?" he asked.
"Nigel?" she said. "No. He left the management of the household to me. I did not tell him that Mary's child was his granddaughter. Indeed, I believe he was unaware that there /was/ a child in the servants' quarters."
Until the end.
"Bruce dismissed her, though, when he came to live at Carmel," she said.
"She had nowhere to go, no family members who were wiling to take her in. She was in a desperate case. It was no particular kindness to bring her and Belinda to town with me, but at least we all had one another.
Alice too. And Roger."
Alice and Mr. Golding were quite distinguishable now. Cassandra raised an arm to wave.
"William Belmont is still in Canada?" Stephen asked.
"I do not know," she said. "I ought not even to have told you all this.
It was not my secret to tell, was it? But I will add that Mary is not loose of morals. I believe she really loved William. No, I am sure she /loves/ him. And waits for him."
He rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
"I stand in judgment on no one, Cass," he said. "Me of all people."
He lowered his hand and turned his head to smile at the approaching couple.
Alice and Mr. Golding strolled all the way to the Pen Ponds and about them before making their way back to the picnic site at the same leisurely pace. They talked for a long time about books, and then they reminisced a bit about shared experiences when they had both taught the Young children, even though that span of time had been all too short. He surprised Alice then by talking of his wife of eight years, who had died three years ago.
It had not occurred to her that perhaps he had been married – that perhaps he still was.
It saddened and then rather amused her to realize that he had not carried a torch for her all these years. For, of course, she had not carried one for him either. She had known him briefly, had fallen violently in love with him because she had been a lonely girl with almost no chance to meet young men, had mourned him for perhaps a year after he left, and had then more or less forgotten him – until she met him again two days ago.
He was still a good-looking man in a thin, bookish sort of way. He was still good company. And oh, it felt very good indeed to have a man conversing exclusively with /her/ for all of an hour. And to be walking with her arm drawn through his. If she was not very careful indeed, she would fall in love with him all over again – and how foolish /that/ would be at her age.
Then he asked about Cassie, and she realized that he did not /know/.
"It must have been distressing," he said, "for Lady Paget to lose her husband at so young an age. Was she very fond of him?"
Alice hesitated. It was not for /her/ to answer that question either way. Though if what he assumed had been true, of course, she would quite readily agree with him without feeling that she was breaking some confidence. She could answer noncommittally, but it was possible, even probable, that he /would/ hear the rumors one of these days, and then he would think that she had not trusted him.
"He was an abuser of the worst order," she said. "Any fondness she felt for him when she married him quickly died."
"Oh, goodness me," he said. "Miss Haytor, how dreadful! There is no man more despicable, I believe, than a wife-beater. He is the worst kind of bully."
She could have left it at that.
"He died violently," she said. "Some say that Cassie did it. Indeed, I believe she is notorious here in town, where the story is that she is an axe murderer."
"Miss Haytor!" He stopped abruptly and dropped her arm in order to turn to look at her with shocked, dismayed eyes. "It cannot possibly be true!"
"He was shot," she said, "with his own pistol."
"By…?" he asked, his dark eyebrows arced up into his forehead. "By Lady Paget?"
"No," she said. And when he continued to stare at her, not moving, "It could have been me."
"Could have?" he said.
"I hated him enough," she said. "I never thought it possible that I could hate anyone with any degree of intensity, but I hated him. A thousand times I thought of leaving to seek employment else-where, but a thousand times I remembered that my dear Cassie did not have the same freedom to leave and that I was almost all she had to comfort her. I could have done it, Mr. Golding. I could have killed him. He had beaten her terribly any number of times, and he was at it again that night.
Yes, I could have done it. I could have taken that gun in my own hands and… shot him."
"But you did not?" He was almost whispering.
"I might have done it," she said stubbornly. "Perhaps I did. But I would be a fool to confess because there is no proof of who did it. /Anyone/ would be a fool to confess. He deserved to die."
And so much for a possibly rekindled romance, she thought as he took off his spectacles, withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and proceeded to polish them without looking at them at all. It was just a shame that there was still quite a distance to go to the picnic site.
The poor man must wonder what he had walked into. He must be desperate to get away. She looked steadily and defiantly into his eyes as he put his spectacles back on and looked back at her, a frown creasing his brow.
"Lady Paget might have been forced to endure many, many more years of such violence," he said, "if someone had not stopped Lord Paget by killing him. I cannot condone killing, Miss Haytor, but neither can I condone violence against women. Especially against a wife, who has been given into a man's keeping so that he might love and cherish her and protect her from all harm. This is one of those situations in which rules, whether legal or moral, cannot satisfactorily decide an issue. I cannot congratulate Lord Paget's killer, but neither can I condemn him – or her. If you did it out of love for Lady Paget, then I honor you, Miss Haytor. But I do not think you did it at all."
And without further ado, he offered his arm again, she took it, and they resumed their walk back to the picnic site.
They must have been gone forever, Alice thought, peering ahead and being quite unable at first to see two seated figures where she expected to see them on the slope. But the next time she looked, there they were, seated side by side, the picnic basket off to one side of them.
She was feeling surprisingly hungry.
She was also feeling oddly elated. He would not condemn her if she had done it. But he did not believe she had.
And he believed women – wives – were to be loved and cherished and protected.
During tea Stephen amused himself with thoughts of what his friends would think if they knew he was sitting here now in Richmond Park, sharing a picnic tea with the infamous Lady Paget and her companion and a politician's secretary. It was /not/ what anyone would expect of the Earl of Merton. Indeed, there would be a number of people looking for him at Lady Castleford's garden party this afternoon.
Yet he was enjoying himself enormously. The tea Golding had brought with him, presumably prepared by a caterer, was delicious. But picnic fare was always more appetizing than any other, he had found.
It struck him too, and also with some amusement, that if he had not inherited his title so unexpectedly, /he/ would quite possibly be someone's secretary by now and proud of the fact.
Everyone seemed to be sharing his enjoyment. The conversation was lively, and they all did their share of laughing. Even Miss Haytor, whose cheeks were flushed and whose eyes were bright. She looked decidedly handsome, and had seemed to have shed a year of age for every hour of the afternoon.