knew I could count on you. You’re so clever and quick. I’ve always admired you because of it.’ It wasn’t flattery and it left Jane speechless. Milton didn’t deserve his kind wife. ‘If you ever need someone to discuss things with, I’d be honoured to keep your confidences. I know how difficult it can be in this family.’
‘Yes, it can.’ Even if Jane wasn’t ready to spill her heart to the woman who whispered across the pillow to Milton, it was a comfort to think someone recognised a little of what she was facing, even if they didn’t know the true extent. It bolstered her confidence. If Camille could face her after what she and Milton had done, then Jane could be as courageous when it came to facing Jasper. She didn’t care if they were at his parents’ house. She wouldn’t run away from her fears any more, or try to act as if they didn’t exist or as if everything was fine. She’d knowingly gone along with his schemes, allowed him to set the tone for this marriage, afraid if she didn’t he would never give her all of himself, but it hadn’t worked. It had exhausted her and she couldn’t allow it to continue. She’d have a true husband and a real marriage.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I must find my husband.’
She had no idea where he’d gone, but she knew the Charton house well. She’d spent hours here with Jasper and Milton as a child, going up and down the servants’ passage to steal sweets from the cook while doing her best to avoid the dancing lessons Mrs Charton had imposed on her and her older girls. Dancing hadn’t interested her and she’d stolen away to find the brothers after the first quadrille. Mrs Charton, seeing the futility of pressing any more lessons on her, had never chased after her or demanded she act like a proper young lady. No one had. She missed the freedom of those old days, especially in regard to Jasper. Her relationship with him had been so simple and straightforward back then without all the complications of secrets, the past and the involvement of her heart.
She headed for Mr Charton’s study, remembering how she’d found Jasper there the night of his going-away party. He’d been contemplating the atlas on the stand near the desk, measuring again and again the distance between London and Savannah, the distance between himself and his family, and her. She’d tried to bolster his spirits, realising then how unlikely it was they would ever see each other again. Storms took ships all the time, as did sickness. Yet he had survived it all. He’d come back to her and made her his wife. She wouldn’t allow the past or another woman or whatever tormented him do what the entire Atlantic had failed to do—separate them for good.
She peered inside the study, relieved to find him here and not on his way to catch a ship to America. He stood before the fireplace, staring at the portrait of Mrs Charton’s siblings from five decades ago. The girls wore the fuller skirts then in fashion, their hair powdered and piled high on their heads. Mrs Charton, her round face fuller but her lively eyes unmistakable, stood holding the hand of her young brother, Patrick, while her elder brother and sister lounged on a nearby chaise.
Jane slipped up beside Jasper, the questions about Mrs Robillard and their future together begging to be spoken, but she held back. She was risking being hurt again and for the pain of abandonment to crush her, but she refused to be left alone and forgotten by the one man who’d pledged before their family and friends to cherish her. Mrs Hale was right, she shouldn’t doubt herself, but being open with anyone about her fears had never been her strong suit, except with Jasper. It was time to put some faith in herself and her old friend again.
‘I had the most interesting conversation with Camille,’ she stated, refraining for once from being blunt and jumping right in. She wanted to avoid startling him or setting him on his guard.
This garnered his attention at last. ‘Camille?’
She nodded. ‘She apologised to me.’
Jasper’s eyes widened. ‘Wonders never cease.’
‘She also wants to help end the trouble between you and Milton.’
Jasper opened and closed his hands where he held them behind his back. ‘If she can manage it, then she’s quite the miracle worker.’
‘I said I’d help her.’
The faint humour in Jasper’s eyes faded as he studied the carpet beneath his feet. ‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘I’m not doing it for her, but for you, although I’m not sure I should.’ She trembled as she met his eyes. Once she broached the subject, there would be no going back. She would face the truth, no matter the consequences, and live honestly with herself and Jasper at last. ‘Who is Mrs Robillard and why are you sending her money?’
* * *
Jasper’s neck tightened, her question striking him as hard as the news about Mr Robillard’s death. Shame welled inside him, fuelled by his family’s censure and the widening gulf between him and Jane. He studied her, a thousand excuses and ways to put her off colliding inside him, along with the temptation to answer her questions. He’d tried to keep his past from her, but she’d discovered something of it and, unlike her concern about the hell, he couldn’t shrug her off or avoid answering her very direct question. The challenge for him to be honest with her at last tinged her steady gaze, along with numerous unspoken accusations.
He rubbed the back of his neck, for the first time understanding why Mr Robillard had done what he had. The shame of facing his mistakes had left him with little choice. Jasper forced his hand down to his side. No, Mr Robillard had been a coward, taking the easy way out and leaving others to deal with the consequences. Jasper wasn’t so cruel or weak. Where Mr Robillard had thrown away all chance to redeem himself, Jasper could reclaim the trust he’d damaged, but in doing so he’d have to show her the darkest parts of himself, the ones even he shied from viewing.
She shifted on her feet and the diamonds around her neck sparkled in the candlelight. They reminded him of her bright eyes the night he’d showed her the hell and her willingness to join with him in all his ventures, good and bad. He’d shown her the basest parts of himself then and she hadn’t run from him. It was time to trust she wouldn’t again and remove at least one of the obstacles he’d put between them.
He turned to the portrait and his uncle’s childish smile. ‘Mr Robillard was a plantation owner who used to gamble at the Savannah hell. A week before the yellow fever really took hold, he lost everything at the tables. The next day, he shot himself, leaving behind a widow with three children and no means of support.’
He could feel her ease beside him as she took in what he said. ‘So you send her money to help her?’
‘It’s the least I can do.’ He reached out and took hold of the mantel, leaning hard against his hand, hesitant to go on, but he had to. Maybe if she could forgive him he could at last forgive himself. ‘I was there the night Mr Robillard lost everything. I was the one who extended him credit, allowing him to continue playing, deeper and deeper until there was nothing left. I’m the one who drove him to ruin and to kill himself.’
She slipped her hand in his free one, squeezing it gently instead of offering him useless condolences or trying to convince him the planter’s death wasn’t his fault. Her silent patience allowed him to continue.
‘After Mr Robillard killed himself, I tried to convince Uncle Patrick to return the plantation to Mrs Robillard, but he wanted to be Lord of the Manor and he wasn’t going to let right or wrong get in the way of his dream. It was the first time I realised how cold he really was. Afterwards, I stormed out of his house, ready to be through with him because he wasn’t who I wanted to be and it wasn’t how I wanted to live. I didn’t see him again until a few weeks later when the fever was destroying the town and his maid
