Someone to Cherish by Mary Balogh
Sixteen
Thank you,” Harry said to his mother as they walked back home an hour or so later. “It would not, as you pointed out to me last night, have been appropriate for me to go there alone this morning.”
“Tell me, Harry,” his mother said. “Were you disappointed?”
“That she refused me?” he said after thinking about it for a moment. “No. As she herself pointed out, we would have been marrying for the wrong reason—because of some vicious gossip.”
“Gossip can irreparably destroy reputations and lives, however,” she said.
“She was on her way out as we got there, Mama,” he said. “She was not cowering beneath her bedcovers or behind drawn curtains, or both, as I feared she might. She has backbone.”
“When the two of you put an end to your … acquaintance a few weeks ago,” his mother asked, “did you do so happily, Harry?”
“It was a relationship that was headed nowhere except possible disaster,” he said. “She had made it clear from the start that there could be no courtship. She had a restrictive girlhood and what I understand was an unhappy marriage, though I know no details, and is enjoying her freedom. She is quite determined that she will never marry again. It did not take long to discover that it was impossible for us to have any other sort of relationship, even friendship. Not here, anyway. Present events have proved just how right we were.”
“But were you happy that all ties were broken?” She was persisting with this line of questioning, it seemed.
“No, I was not,” he admitted. “Perhaps you were right at Christmastime, Mama. Perhaps I have been a bit lonely. I have a few close friends here and a host of friendly acquaintances. Perhaps they are no longer quite enough. But I am contented here. This is where I belong and where I want to be. Forgive me, please. I am feeling a bit confused at the moment. I wish this had not happened at this precise time. It was very good of everyone to make the effort to come here. Even the grandmothers. Even Camille and Joel. I really was not—”
“Do you love her, Harry?” she asked softly, interrupting him.
“Lydia?” he said. “Good God, no. Pardon my language.”
“That is what I thought,” she said just as softly, though strangely he was not sure quite what she meant.
He had no chance to ask her. And she had no chance to explain. Three people were approaching down the drive, arm in arm—Winifred Cunningham, Camille and Joel’s eldest; Ivan Wayne, Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas’s youngest; and Gordon Monteith, Great-aunt Edith’s great-nephew. Winifred was in the middle and laughing at something.
“I noticed at Christmas,” Harry said, “how Winifred has suddenly grown up. She is no longer a girl, is she? She makes me feel like an elderly uncle. She has grown really rather pretty.”
Winifred had been at the orphanage in Bath where both Anna and Joel Cunningham had grown up and where Camille had taught for a while after the Great Disaster. She had been very needy then. She had apparently tried to stand out by being almost ostentatiously well behaved and eager to draw attention to all the other children who were not. She had been more than a bit obnoxious, in fact—or so Harry had been told. Camille had seen something of herself in the girl, however, and when she and Joel married they had surprised everyone by adopting her.
“She is seventeen, Harry,” his mother said. “And a real gem. She is not pretty. She never will be. But she has an inner beauty that transcends looks. Some man who is worthy of her is going to notice one of these days, though not just yet, I hope. She is only seventeen.”
It was Winifred who had devised a sort of hand language to use with her deaf brother, who was not particularly good at reading lips.
“Well, Harry?” Ivan called, raising his voice when the two groups were within earshot of each other. “Will she have you?”
Harry winced inwardly. He had hoped yesterday to keep the situation with Lydia quiet, mainly in the hope that by today or tomorrow at the latest it would have died down, as gossip usually did. His mother had soon disabused him of that notion. Gossip that involved a respectable woman—“and a vicar’s widow, Harry!”—could not be expected to die down quickly, she had warned, especially when the woman’s name was being linked with Major Harry Westcott’s. The arrival of the whole of the Westcott family on the scene just when the scandal was breaking, far from dousing the flames, would probably fan them. Everyone would be agog to find out what the Westcotts would do to squash Mrs. Tavernor beneath their collective heel. It was only fair to warn the family.
His mother, Harry had noticed, used the word scandal rather than just gossip. And Harry had realized, perhaps for the first time, just how bad this whole ridiculous situation might become. After he had talked with his mother in the privacy of the library last night, he had gone back to the drawing room, late as it had been by then, and told the whole story, barring only those details that were absolutely no one’s business.
The family had, of course, stayed up very late in the hope of finding out why he had needed to take his mother away for some private consultation. He would be surprised if during his absence this morning the family had not been discussing how they were going to deal with the crisis.
Gossip. Scandal. Crisis?
Had the world gone mad? He had kissed Lydia’s forehead on that fateful night. If it had lasted ten seconds he would be very surprised.
“She will not,” he said curtly in answer to Ivan’s question.
“I am so glad, Uncle Harry,” Winifred said.
“What you don’t have in your whole body, my girl,” Ivan told her, “is a romantic bone.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “What woman would find it romantic to be forced into marriage by a little spiteful gossip? And stupid gossip too. You agree with me, Grandmama, do you not?”
It occurred to Harry suddenly that not so long ago his mother had almost been forced into marrying Marcel for just such a reason. She had run off with him one day for a romantic fling without a word to anyone but had been tracked down by separate search parties sent out by the Westcotts and Marcel’s family. She had resisted all pressure and married him later for her own reasons. Not that Harry had witnessed any of those sensational events except the actual wedding one Christmas Eve. He had been overseas with his regiment.
“I agree, Winifred,” his mother said. “Men know nothing of romance, alas.” She was laughing.
“But did you go down on one knee, Harry?” Gordon asked, grinning at him. “It is no wonder she said no if you did not.”
Winifred tossed her glance at the branches over their heads. “If any man went down on one knee to me,” she said, “I would laugh at him.”
“You see?” Ivan said. “Not a romantic bone.”
They all turned to walk back to the house together. Winifred took Harry’s arm. “The great-aunts and great-grandmothers all have their heads together,” she told him. “But Mama says there is nothing they can decide upon until they know if Mrs. Tavernor will have you or not. That is not stopping them, however, from discussing what is to be done if she will not.”
“Personally, Winnie,” he said, “I keep hoping I will wake up any moment now. I have never got tangled up in a more ridiculous dream in my life.”
He kept thinking of Lydia walking into the village shop alone, with straight back and raised chin, after flatly refusing to allow them to accompany her inside. They had stood on the pavement outside for a few moments until it became apparent that she was not going to be tossed out.
Do you love her?his mother had asked a short while ago.
And God help him, he was beginning to ask himself the same question.
Lydia went to church the following day, as she always did on Sunday mornings. It was not easy this week, however. She had been served at the village shop yesterday, but with lowered eyes on the part of the shopkeeper and none of the usual bright chatter. On her way home someone had hastily crossed the street from her side to the other as though it had become suddenly imperative to be there rather than here. When she had passed her next-door neighbor’s house, Mrs. Bartlett had been in the garden tending her flowers. But just as Lydia had been drawing breath to comment upon how lovely they were looking, Mrs. Bartlett had half turned her head, jerked it back again, and hurried into her house as though she had suddenly remembered something urgent she needed to do inside.
She sat in her usual pew toward the back of the church. There was a pool of emptiness all about her, but that was not unusual. Most people preferred to sit farther forward.
And then there was a buzz of sound and activity coming from the direction of the doorway behind her, and her neighbors came scurrying inside all at once, it seemed, and took their seats so they could enjoy the show of what could only be the Westcott family arriving for church. And still the pew beside her and the ones directly in front and behind remained empty.
Lydia did not know any of the Westcotts, except Harry and his mother, but she distracted herself by trying to guess who some of them were. One of the three elderly ladies who came in together must be the Dowager Countess of Riverdale. Lydia guessed it was the one with the most plumes in her bonnet. One of the men must be the Earl of Riverdale, the one who had taken on the title when Harry was stripped of it. She guessed it was either the tall, dark-haired, very handsome man or the slight blond man of medium height who, despite his size disadvantage, fairly oozed aristocratic hauteur. One of them, the one who was not the earl, was perhaps the Duke of Netherby. One very distinguished-looking man of middle years was easy to identify. He had the Marchioness of Dorchester, Harry’s mother, on his arm—she turned her head and nodded graciously to Lydia as she passed on her way to the front pews. He must be her husband, the marquess.
The front pews filled fast. One family group alone took up more than one pew, and Lydia guessed that the woman must be Camille Cunningham, Harry’s elder sister. She and her husband were carrying seemingly identical babies, and they were trailed by a number of other children, varying in age, Lydia guessed, from three or four to sixteen or seventeen. It was pretty much impossible to identify any of the others.
Harry came with the last group, and Lydia clutched her prayer book and did not know whether to keep her eyes on it as he passed or to look across at him and nod pleasantly if he looked at her. She wished with all her heart that she could revert to the time when she had been virtually invisible. Oh no, she did not. She was not going to cower here. She turned her head to look very deliberately at him—and something inside her somersaulted, or felt very much as though it did. He had been inside her home, her very private space. He had been inside her. They had talked—really talked. He had admitted to her that he had had to struggle with a wave of hatred for his cousin and half sister though he had known he was being unjust. She had told him things about herself that she had not told anyone else, even Denise or Hannah.
He looked back at her. But instead of going on by, he came along her pew toward her. The man and woman who were with him came too, with a baby and a young child. A third child, a little girl, looked ahead before following them, just as the marchioness glanced over her shoulder and then smiled and beckoned. The child ran ahead to squeeze in between her and the man Lydia assumed was the marquess.
But really she scarcely noticed. She looked inquiringly at Harry and was aware that half the congregation must be looking too even though she sat close to the back.
“Good morning,” he murmured. “I have my sister and brother-in-law with me. Abigail and Gil Bennington. Mrs. Tavernor,” he told them. “May we sit here?”
Abigail was fair-haired and pretty. Her husband had very dark hair and a harsh, dark-complexioned, noticeably scarred face. He was carrying the baby.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Tavernor,” Mrs. Bennington said softly, and squeezed past her brother to sit beside Lydia. Her husband sat on his wife’s other side and Harry beyond him. Harry lifted the little boy onto his lap.
Had they all drawn straws to decide who would sit with her? And had Harry’s sister and brother-in-law drawn the short one? Lydia clutched her prayer book more tightly, murmured that she was delighted too, and was very thankful to see that the Reverend Bailey was coming from the vestry and the service was about to begin.
She knew what they were up to—the marchioness inventing a friendship with Lydia’s mother yesterday; her insistence that she and Harry walk along the village street with Lydia; Harry and some other designated member of the family sitting beside her at church this morning; the invitation, soon to be made official, to Harry’s birthday party next Friday. They were trying to make it seem that Harry had a casual friendship with her and that they found nothing scandalous in it and were quite happy to pursue an acquaintance with her. They were doing it, of course, for Harry’s sake, to protect him from any implication that there had been something improper in his behavior.
Lydia appreciated what they were doing anyway—and resented it. For they must, she realized, very deeply resent her.
She would not afterward have been able to recall anything of the service. She recited the prayers and sang the hymns without conscious thought, kneeled and stood and sat in all the appropriate places, responding entirely by rote. When Mrs. Bennington turned her head at one point to smile at her, she pretended not to notice. She was very aware of Harry three places away from her, bouncing the little boy on his knee once in a while, taking the child’s hands in his at one point to clap them silently together and leaning his head forward to whisper something in his ear. The child tipped back his head and smiled up at his uncle and Harry kissed his cheek.
How could she possibly see all that without either turning her head or leaning forward? She did not know, but she did see.
He had asked her to marry him.In an abrupt, unprepared speech that had affected her far more deeply than a more polished proposal would have done. She bit hard on her upper lip at the memory and blinked her eyes fast.
At last the service came to an end and Lydia rose in the hope of slipping out before anyone else and hurrying home so she could shut the door behind her and be herself again. But Mrs. Bennington had turned toward her, and it was impossible to pretend again not to notice.
“I am indeed pleased to meet you, Mrs. Tavernor,” she said. “Gil and I were married in this church four years ago. The Reverend Jenkins was the vicar then, and Mrs. Jenkins was still alive. She and my brother were the only witnesses. But I do believe it was the loveliest wedding ever. Not that I am biased or anything.” She laughed. “You and your husband came here very soon after that—after Mrs. Jenkins died suddenly and the poor vicar decided to retire. I regret that I never met the Reverend Tavernor. And I do sympathize very deeply with your loss. It must have devastated you.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said, and she shook the hand that was being extended for hers. “It was a distressing time.”
“My sister and I would like to call upon you within the next day or two,” Mrs. Bennington continued. “If we may, that is. Will it inconvenience you?”
What could she say? And did she want to say it would? Why should she, after all? If nothing had ever happened between her and Harry—nothing outside her dreams, that was—she would surely be delighted to make the acquaintance of a few members of the Westcott family. She was, after all, the widow of the former vicar here. She was the social equal of any of them. There would be no condescension involved in their visiting her.
“Not at all,” she said. “I will be delighted to see you.”
The little boy was pulling Harry by the hand toward the other end of the pew to greet what must be some of his young cousins. The congregation were beginning to move from their pews. Some of them would hurry outside as quickly as possible to watch the exodus of the Westcotts. And her exit too. She was very far from being invisible this morning.
She smiled at Mrs. Bennington and made her escape while she still could without having to run the gauntlet of her neighbors outside.
Harry had realized two days ago that his family had arrived at quite the worst possible time. For of course they had come not just to celebrate his birthday but also to do some determined matchmaking. They had even brought three possible bridal candidates with them, though he was not sure if those three young ladies knew why they had been invited here. And now, of course, the family would see Lydia in one of two ways—as another possible candidate or as a threat, as someone who must be ousted from any pretension to Harry’s hand with all the power of their influence. Not that the Westcotts always behaved as a cohesive unit, it was true. Opinion might well be divided.
A few of his male relatives had squeezed him reassuringly on the shoulder after he returned from the village with his mother on Saturday morning and reported on the failure of his marriage proposal. As far as they were concerned, that was the end of the matter, though it was possible more than a few of them knew their women well enough to suspect that the end was in fact nowhere in sight. The women seemed generally of the opinion that Mrs. Tavernor had behaved like a woman of principle. One could only admire her for saying no—and do all in one’s power to offer her some support.
It was unclear, of course, in what exactly they intended to support her. In her decision not to have him? In being persuaded to change her mind? The Westcott women were really not to be trusted, and Harry did not trust them to leave well enough alone and mind their own business. In their minds Harry was their business, and since Mrs. Tavernor had got herself into a bit of bother over him, then she became their business too.
The mind boggled.
At dinner on Saturday night, Elizabeth, Lady Hodges, had announced her intention of calling upon Mrs. Tavernor the next morning. She knew from experience just what it felt like to be the target of unkind and unjust gossip, having once upon a time been the victim of a spectacular scene in which her then-fiancé had accused her in the middle of a crowded ballroom in London of flirting outrageously with Colin, the man who was now her husband. Wren, Countess of Riverdale, had promised to accompany her. So had Anna, Cousin Althea, Aunt Mary Kingsley, and Cousin Jessica before Gabriel, Jessica’s husband, had reminded them that the next day was Sunday.
There had followed a discussion upon whether it was more likely that Mrs. Tavernor would go to church and brazen things out or remain at home to hide.
“From what I saw of Mrs. Tavernor earlier today,” Harry’s mother had said, “I would say she will most certainly go.”
“And until fairly recently she was the wife of the vicar here,” Uncle Michael—the Reverend Michael Kingsley— had reminded them. “Going to church is probably a matter of importance to her.”
“Gil and I and the children will sit by her,” Abigail had said with quiet determination. “If there is space beside her, that is.”
Everyone had looked at her without commenting—a rare occurrence with this family.
“We will, my love,” Gil had said.
“And so will I,” Harry had added, trying to picture the scene and wondering if Lydia really would go to church, since she must realize that a large number of his family plus all the gossips and the curious certainly would. He had believed that she would go, however.
“But not right beside her, Harry,” Aunt Louise had said.
“Close by but not next to,” Aunt Mildred had added.
“Close by. Looking amiable.” That contribution to the conversation, spoken with a great sigh of apparent boredom, had come from Avery.
“I cannot imagine Harry ever not looking amiable,” Adrian Sawyer had commented.
“Tell that to a few thousand Frenchmen from Napoleon Bonaparte’s armies,” Gil—the former Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert Bennington, that was—had added. “The ones who are still living, anyway.”
Through Saturday and Sunday, while the drama of Lydia was rumbling along in the family consciousness and in private family consultations, the matter of the three prospective brides somehow resolved itself quickly and painlessly and without embarrassment to any of those most nearly concerned. The Westcotts, in other words, were about as successful this time with their matchmaking schemes as they had ever been.
Sally Underwood was wide-eyed and pretty and shy and a bit blushy and giggly—and all of eighteen years and one month old, as she admitted to Harry when she walked beside him on the way home from church. He had the feeling the pairing had been maneuvered by Aunt Matilda, whose stepniece she was. She talked, after Harry had finally induced her to relax a little, about the balls and routs her mama planned for her to attend after she had returned to London and her come-out Season was properly launched. And then, her tongue having been loosened by what she seemed to consider pleasant prospects, she talked about all the shopping and fittings and dancing lessons that must be got through first and about the beaux her mama had promised she would attract, what with all her new finery and the dowry her papa had to offer with her, which was more than respectable, for Papa was a wealthy man.
It had become apparent to Harry as they walked that she saw him as a sort of elderly uncle figure. All the time she was prattling—after she had recovered from her early awe of him, that was—she was eyeing Ivan Wayne and Gordon Monteith, the good-natured, freckled, slightly pimply, and very youthful nephew of Great-aunt Edith. If Aunt Matilda seriously expected that he and Miss Underwood would make a match of it, she must have windmills in her head. Or perhaps she had just not known the girl well when she chose her.
Miranda Monteith, Great-aunt Edith’s niece on her late husband’s side, had never lived in Scotland and appeared to have no connection to the country apart from her name and probably a few long-forgotten ancestors. She was, however, obsessed with all things Scottish, including its complex and gory history, as Harry discovered when he sat beside her at luncheon after church. She was serious-minded and intense and forthright in manner, and seemed quite unaware of him either as a man or as a prospective husband.
“I intend to stride about the park and countryside while I am here,” she said. “With your permission, that is, Mr. Westcott. It is unfortunate that you do not have any of the mountains and rugged scenery around here that I most admire, but the landscape seems pretty enough. Mother insisted that I come to London this year, though I abhor cities and large towns. I was very happy to accompany Aunt Edith here for a week or so as soon as I knew that Hinsford Manor was in the country. Mother was not pleased, but she did agree to my coming with Gordon after Aunt Edith had had a private word with her, though I have no idea what she said.”
If he should ever get into the business of predicting the future, Harry thought, he would say with some confidence that Miss Monteith was headed for the ranks of happily confirmed spinsters.
Miss Fanny Leeson might have been a bit of a problem, since it was obvious to Harry almost from the moment of her arrival that she was very well aware of why she had been brought to Hinsford. She had come with her mother and her sister, a vibrantly beautiful young lady who was happily engaged to an equally happy Boris Wayne. The younger sister was just as lovely, if a little less vibrant. She seemed to be a sensible young woman, however, who spoke little but usually had something decent to say when she did speak. It might be difficult, Harry thought with unkind feelings for the Westcott ladies who had trapped him in this situation, to depress her expectations without either hurting or humiliating her. However, it was to prove far easier than he feared.
She addressed the main issue with him after luncheon on Sunday when she approached him out on the terrace as he waited for several others to join him for a walk down to the lake he had suggested when they rose from the table.
“I think it only fair that you should know, Mr. Westcott,” she said, keeping her voice low as she glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed close behind her, “that my heart belongs to another.”
Harry looked at her in some surprise. With almost any other young lady, some of those words would have sounded as if they must be capitalized—“My Heart Belongs to Another.” With Miss Fanny Leeson they sounded like simple fact. She was looking very pretty and very self-contained. Her cheeks were only slightly flushed.
“We are not betrothed,” she went on to explain. “He has not yet spoken to Papa because I did not want to take attention away from Audrey, who has only very recently become betrothed to your cousin and is very happy about it. But we have a secret agreement.”
“I must wish you every happiness, then,” Harry said. He looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. “And I think it only fair that you know, Miss Leeson, that I am not really in search of a wife. I do believe, however, that my female relatives are in relentless search of one for me. They are very determined to force me into being happy.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling at last and looking even prettier than before, “I know what that feels like, Mr. Westcott. Are not relatives an abomination?”
They shared a private moment of guilty amusement before Bertrand and Elizabeth and Charles, Viscount Dirkson, stepped out onto the terrace.
