Afterwards, Verity did not know how she ever survived her confinement. Though Neil and Richard visited her and the baby every day, she could not help but feel alone and afraid. She was not allowed to leave her room apart from to attend the water closet. The curtains were never opened to let the sunlight in. Her diet was an insipid gruel encouraged by the accoucheur, who took the baby's health as a measure of his personal success and blamed Verity's malaise entirely on herself. He insisted the cure was less light, fewer visits, and less food. The only reprieve was that Lord Albroke, disgusted with both his sons and Verity, had decamped to his daughter's place in Bath, and intended to stay there until Michaelmass.
When her confinement ended, Verity thought she might finally get relief, but to her horror, she learned, the first day at breakfast with Neil and Richard, that Neil, whose recovery had continued fiercely throughout the past month, was taking a carriage and returning to Houglen at the end of the week.
"But you are not well enough!" she protested, taking in his still gaunt figure. "You still have fevers!"
"My mind is much better than it was," Neil argued, buttering toast. "I am no longer confused the way I was before. I know who I am, and who you are. But my memories are still vague, mostly missing. I have a feeling if I return to Houglen, where I made them, I will recover more of them."
"Besides," said Richard, "You can't stay here more than a few months, Verity. My father will be returning, and you should not be here when he does. We never managed to sell Waverly Manor. Neil will be able to begin to prepare it for you and the baby again."
But Verity, staring forlornly at Neil, could only help feel that he was trying to escape her. "Why can't you prepare the house, Richard, and leave Neil here with me?" she begged. "Please, Neil. Please."
But Neil shook his head. "I can't remember anything here â and I must remember. I must know. I've already delayed it too long. I should have been in Houglen as soon as I could travel. I was only waiting until you and the baby were stronger."
"Take me with you, then," she pleaded. "We'll all go together."
Neil touched her hand gently. "You can't travel yet. I'll be waiting there for you â for both of you."
The day he had left, he had kissed the baby in her arms, and only given her a slight, confused nod. There was some distance between them since the birth. She didn't know where it had come from. And she could not forget that the last time he had left, he had not returned. She kissed his cheek, with tears in her eyes, and held back from begging him not to go. For hours after he had left, she sat at the front window with the baby in her arms, hoping against hope that his carriage would return, and he would tell her he had changed her mind.
The weeks that followed were worse than her confinement. The baby needed feeding every few hours. Her breasts ached, but she stubbornly refused to let a wet-nurse take the task over. She was hardly sleeping, and fast losing the plumpness she had gained during her pregnancy. She felt drained and tired and sad. For all she had looked forward to the baby coming, for all she knew that she loved it, she found herself lying exhausted in her room all day, and sleeplessly wandering the empty halls at night. This was not home, for her or the baby, and she needed Neil â who had left her behind. Richard was poor compensation. He attempted to read novels to her, and invited her for walks in the garden, but he was a poor conversationalist, and all she wanted was Neil. She was sure it would all be better when she saw Neil again.
In August, Neil sent a letter, brief, and to the point: If Verity did not disagree, the baby should be named Anne, after her grandmother. Verity did not disagree, but was distraught that he had neither returned, not told her to come to him. She was churched, the baby was christened, and life returned to normal at Albroke Manor. The very drab and horrible normal.
In early September, though she was not yet truly strong enough to travel, Lord Albroke sent a letter saying that he would reoccupy the house in two weeks. Richard read the letter to her at breakfast, and then tossed it on the table. He gazed doubtfully at her.
"You are not yet well. It's a long journey."
Verity shook her head slowly. "For god's sake, let me go to him. Let me go today. I don't need time. I need him." She pushed a scrap of bread miserably around on her plate. "And he has abandoned me."
"He's trying his best," Richard argued weakly. For a moment, there was silence. "He's a damn fool. A damn coward." He reached out his hand for her, though better of it, and dropped it to the table. "I'll go with you."
It felt like it had been years, not months, since she had left the ugly little town. Her spirits rose as they drove through the familiar streets. Her heart began to pound painfully when they crossed through the gate of Waverly Manor. But as they rounded the drive, she saw something that made her spirits die again.
Jane's carriage was standing in front of the entrance.
"What is she doing here?"
"I have no idea." Richard was frowning. "I heard she was heading to the continent."
The front door was open, and they went into the house without being announced. Verity stood in the front hall, Anne clutched in her arms, and tried to control her racing heart.
"I'll see if I can find them," Richard said. But his voice echoed in the hall, and rapid footsteps approached from the drawing room.
"Richard? What are-" Neil appeared in the doorway. "Oh. It's both of you."
He was looking well. His cheeks were beginning to fill in, and his posture was upright and strong. Verity felt dizzy, and dizzier still as Neil came over to her, and rested two fingers on Anne's cheek.
"She's grown so big already. She was so small before, like a kitten." His voice was sad and wondering. "It was only six weeks. Six weeks, and she grew so much."
The dull sadness of Verity's past few months suddenly sharpened into acute anger. "Six weeks is more than half her entire life so far," she snapped.
Neil's eyes met hers in surprise. His face clouded with hurt. Before they could speak, Annie opened her eyes and began to wail. Verity jogged her up and down, relieved by the interruption. "I need a private room â is my bedroom prepared yet?"
"Yes. But the crib is in mine."
She turned and went up the stairs without looking at him, but a moment later, she heard him running clumsily up behind her. He passed her in the hallway, and opened the door for her. For a few minutes, he milled around aimlessly, while she set the baby down in the crib, divested herself of her travelling coat, and began to undo the hooks at the front of her dress. When he realized what she was doing, he blushed.
"I â er â I'll see you downstairs, then." At the door, he stopped, but did not turn to look at her, as she opened out the neck of her dress and jostled the baby into position. She could see his ears were red. "I did not expect you to come so soon â I'm not ready â the house isn't, I mean. Are you staying?"
"As long as you are." She winced as Anne latched onto her breast, but it was not from the pain. "Please tell the servants to prepare my room. I should like to sleep there tonight." Her room, next to his, connected by a door.
"The baby's crib shall go there too," she added. "We can work on a nursery later." She knew it was bullying, a little, to talk this way, as though they had decided together, when she was deciding for both of them. But she needed to make it obvious that this was her home too. The old spark of jealousy and fear had reignited on seeing Jane's carriage out the front.
"I â I have had work started on a nursery," he muttered. "I'll show you later."
He left and shut the door.
* * *
Neil, upon leaving the room, held the wall for a minute to steady himself. While speaking with Verity in there, he had been reminded of the time they had argued, and she would not speak to him. He could still remember no further: he had kissed Jane, and thus Verity would not speak to him. These past months, they had cursed him, these memories that flickered just below the surface of his consciousness, but never emerged and made their form fully known. Only his emotions came echoing out of them: unease, and guilt and fear.
I should ask her, he thought. I should ask her about that night â she will tell me, if I explain. But somehow he couldn't. He had come to Houglen thinking to remember himself, and still he could not be sure. And the last gatekeeper to the truth was Verity, who had come after him, thin, and tired, and angry.
He made his way slowly downstairs, to where Richard and Jane were sitting in the drawing room. They were silent as he entered, but he got the feeling they had been arguing in whispers before he arrived. Richard's cheeks were pink. And Jane â what was she here for? He eyed her distrustfully as he sat down. He had not seen her since before Annie had been born. Verity had accused him of kissing her. Had it been an affair, or just some foolish flirtation?
"I'm sorry I was so long," Neil said stiffly. "Your carriage is still out the front â are they waiting?"
"They're taking me to Edinburgh," Jane said. "I've got passage to Copenhagen."
"What on earth are you doing in Copenhagen?"
"I have no idea," Jane said cheerfully. "I've heard it's a terrible mess over there, and I'm fond of getting dirty." She smoothed down her skirts. There was something agitated about her movements, but Neil had no energy to spare to decipher it. "I just came to say â goodbye."
"Well â when you return, you must visit me again, of course." Neil tempered the invitation: "I'll be busy of course, with the baby, but I'll try to find some time."
Jane's smile chilled a little. "You've got some now, don't you? I might like to talk to you, just a little bit, alone, for a few minutes, if you don't mind. Richard?"
Richard, who had assumed his usual unpleasant expression, shrugged. "Don't get too dirty, Jane," he warned, and left.
Neil watched the door close behind him. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, hoping there wasn't so that Jane wouldn't ask him to fix it.
"A little." She smoothed her skirts again. Then, confused, she stood up, went to the window, paced, and seemed like she did not know what to do with herself.
"I should like to help." Neil did not. He could hardly help himself and his wife and daughter, let alone anybody else.
"You -" She twisted, to look at him over her shoulder. It was a pose that took the most advantage of her natural beauty, but in that moment, both she and Neil were completely unaware of it. "Neil. I've got this fear in my head now, about seas and boats â I'm worried I won't come back." She laughed a broken laugh. "It's silly of me. But I'm scared this might be the last time I see you. And I've always been -" She broke away and looked through the window again.
Neil stood up, and moved ever so slightly toward the door. A love confession was nothing he could handle right now. And it seemed to be dangerously drawing close to it. Beautiful, beautiful, charmless woman, he thought desperately. She was exactly the kind of girl you did fall in love with at fifteen. Exactly the kind of girl who never achieved any greater affection. Affection demanded vulnerability. There was nothing vulnerable about Jane. She could command adoration and admiration alone.
"I've always been the kind who leaves without goodbyes," she finished slowly. "I'd like to say goodbye this time. And fare thee well."
* * *
Richard knocked on Neil's door, and entered at Verity's call. She was standing by the window, adjusting a final hook on her dress. Annie was in the crib, drooling contentedly onto her new pillow.
"She just wanted attention," Verity said fretfully. "I should think I give her enough."
Richard stood over the baby and ticked her belly through the linen dress. She chattered nonsense with delight. "I think she needs her father's attention too â I'm glad we came." He stood back, and watched her. The gentle, late afternoon light made her look younger, softened the strained lines around the corners of her mouth and eyes. "What if I leave you here, just you and him? Would that be best?"
"Do you think?" Her eyes brightened. "You have been so kind. You have always been so kind."
"Not always. Most certainly not always." She laughed, and the sound tore his heart just a little.
"Why did you change your mind about me?" she asked suddenly. "You changed so quickly that I didn't believe it at first. I thought you must be lying, or trying to trick me. I couldn't believe it was kindness. Why?"
Richard considered her, swinging his stick slightly. There were times when it was best to keep a secret, and times when it wasn't. But he didn't think it would break her to know, not now that she was safe with Neil again, and it was breaking him, slowly, that she didn't.
"Because I love you."
Her eyes opened wide. His tone made it all to clear that it was not brotherly love he spoke of. Recklessly, he pressed on,
"I fell in love with you the day I met you â and by then it was far, far too late. I've always known that. And I never expected anything by it, either. But it's true. And I won't repeat it either, not ever again. It is what it is."
She took a step back, her arms pressed close to her side.
"I don't expect anything by it," he repeated. "But I wanted you to know."
"I don't know what to say." She was blushing, just a little. "You're not leaving on that account, are you?"
"No. It hurts me as much at a distance of five inches as at five hundred miles. You mustn't pity me," he added, seeing the look on her face. "I say it hurts â but it is a good kind of hurt. And I don't think I could love you if you pitied me."
"I've never pitied you," she said bluntly. And he knew it was true. By the time she had stopped loathing him, they were too close for her to waste condescending pity on him. "Richard, I'll send word if anything goes wrong here, but I think it is best, if you do go. Here we were together, just us, and if it's just us, and Annie, then he might begin to remember some more. I can see he's stronger, physically. He just needs time."
"Yes. And you were always better for him than we were." Richard bowed, his knee aching, over his stick. "Then I suppose this will be goodbye for a time. I'll take the carriage to the crossroads, and stay in the inn. The first night will be important."
"You're very-" she broke away. "Thank you."
He did not move as she stepped briskly towards him, stooped a little, and kissed his cheek. But he was smiling, and could not stop smiling, as they went back downstairs. Jane and Neil were waiting in the entrance hall. They looked up.
"I'll be leaving too," Richard said, trying to hide his smile, and failing.
"Already?"
Richard shrugged. "There's a very comfortable inn in the village, and you two have much to talk about. I don't wish to impose. And I am returning to Albroke tomorrow anyway."
Outside, it had begun faintly to rain. He looked at the butler: "Tell them to send for my carriage again, if Mrs Armiger's things have been unloaded."
"I shall take you to the inn," said Jane. "Let your horses rest tonight. Mine are fresh."
"Well â thank you. That will make it easier. Georges, send for my things alone, then. My travel bag."
The footman ran off. Richard went with Jane to the front steps. The four of them stood there for a few minutes, waiting. Jane admired the baby with an excitement Richard was sure was entirely faked. Jane had never liked children. He wondered what she and Neil had spoken of. When the servant brought his bag, and they were safely in the privacy of the carriage, he asked her, with a savagery that dimmed only a little of his optimism:
"Did you fail to seduce him again?"
She flushed. "That's not very nice, Richard."
"He is married, Jane. Leave them alone."
"I am. Why do you think I'm going to such a godforsaken place as Denmark?" she replied pertly. And then, removing her gloves and folding them neatly in her lap, "I didn't even try. I thought I was going to. I thought I was going to confess my love to him, like some innocent schoolgirl, and then, when it came to it â I realized I didn't. I have never loved any man. The closest I have ever been is fondness." She laughed. "Insipid fondness! I fear I have no heart, Rich. None at all."
"You might grow one later in life," he suggested. "Some people do." He did not add that he had. That was private.
The eyes that looked up at him had some faint tears in them. She shook them away. Realizing that she was rather more wounded than she let on, he touched her hand. It closed around his. A moment later, her head dropped to his shoulder.
"Marry me," she said bleakly, "And keep me sensible."
"Absolutely not."
She laughed a little, her head shaking on his shoulder. "Well then, run away with me, and let me drive you crazy."
"Veto," he said firmly. "There are thousands of men in Copenhagen, Jane. Thousands."
Jane sighed. There was a hint of theatricality in it. Her spirit was returning to her. It never stayed down for long. "And it is bound to be that every one of them is twice as charming as any Armiger â but equally certain, not a one even half so interesting!"
~~~
A/N: This is Jane and Richard's last appearance in the story - well, Richard appears in the epilogue too, but that doesn't quite count.