Someone to Cherish by Mary Balogh
Twenty-two
Lydia had expected the days between Monday and Friday to be quiet ones. They were not to be, however.
On Tuesday morning, when she was out of bed but only just—she had let Snowball outside and was getting the stove heated up in the kitchen to make her morning porridge and tea, but she was still in her nightgown, with bare feet and her hair in a braid down her back—the yapping of her dog preceded a knock upon her front door.
“I am on my way,” Harry said when she opened the door a crack and peered about it. “I thought you must be up when I saw Snowball outside. Just listen to her, Lydia. She is putting the fear of God into my poor horse.” Lydia opened the door wider. “And I hoped you would be up. I forgot to ask you for the loan of a ring, if you have one. You look rather gorgeous.” He grinned appreciatively.
She looked dubiously at her wedding ring, which she was planning to take off today and put away.
“No,” he said. “Not that one.”
“There is my mother’s ring,” she said, “which I rarely wear.”
“Does it fit your ring finger?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I will go and fetch it.”
She handed it to him a few moments later in its leather box.
“I will guard it with my life,” he said in all seriousness, “and return it tomorrow.”
“I trust you,” she said.
“Thank you.” He put the box into an inner pocket of his long drab riding coat. “I also wanted an excuse to give you an early morning kiss.”
She stepped right into the doorway and set her hands on his shoulders. He grasped her waist and kissed her.
“Ride carefully, Harry,” she said.
“I will,” he promised, grinning at her again. “I have much to return for.”
“Your birthday party?”
He laughed. “That too. Stay safe.”
“I will,” she said.
She stood in the doorway without even a dressing gown to lend decency to her appearance until he had ridden out of sight; then she waited for Snowball to trot inside, and she shut the door with a sigh. The next few days were going to seem endless.
The Earl and Countess of Riverdale and Baron and Lady Hodges called upon her before the morning was out. At least by then she was dressed, with her hair coiled neatly at her neck and her apron on. She had a batch of fruit scones almost ready to come out of the oven.
“Do come in,” she said. “I hope I do not have flour on the end of my nose or something embarrassing like that to see in the mirror after you have gone.”
“Not a speck,” Lord Hodges said. “Let me have a closer look, though. A dab on your left cheek, actually.”
“Oh.” She dashed a hand across her cheek.
“Got it,” he said. “Something smells good.”
“Scones,” Lydia said. “They will be ready in five minutes. Will you have some with a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, we will not bother you, Mrs. Tavernor,” the countess said. “We came—”
“Speak for yourself, Wren,” Lord Hodges said. “Coffee and a scone sound lovely to me.”
“Agreed,” the earl said. “Thank you, Mrs. Tavernor.”
“All we came for,” the countess said, laughing as Lydia directed them all to seats in the living room, “was to see that you had recovered from that nasty incident yesterday. The way you handled that boy was quite admirable, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said. “Jeremy Piper has caused a great deal of trouble in his short life, poor boy.”
“Poor boy?” The earl raised his eyebrows. “I cannot help but feel a bit sorry for him, you see,” Lydia said.
“Even though he was responsible for your husband’s death?” he asked.
Lydia had to excuse herself to take the scones out of the oven and brew a pot of coffee.
“Those scones really do smell heavenly. May I butter them for you while you make the coffee?” Lady Hodges had followed her to the kitchen. She had an open, kindly face and a warm manner seemingly designed to set other people at their ease. And she was the “Cousin Elizabeth” Harry had spoken of, the one who had once escaped a violently abusive marriage.
“That would be good of you,” Lydia said.
“Harry went to London this morning—at some deadly hour, before anyone else was up,” Lady Hodges told her. “To buy a shirt suitable to wear at his birthday ball, if you please. Have you ever heard of anything more absurd? He is abandoning his house guests for two whole days for the sake of a shirt.”
“Oh,” Lydia said.
“Alexander suspects a less trivial reason for his going,” Lady Hodges added as she sliced a few scones and set a pat of butter on each to melt into them.
“Oh?” Lydia said again.
“But Harry was not saying, and we—the four of us—are not going to spread any unfounded rumors,” Lady Hodges said, a thread of laughter in her voice. “There. Two scones each for the men and one each for the women.”
“The coffee is ready,” Lydia said.
Her visitors sat with her for half an hour before taking their leave. Lydia walked with them to the gate. The earl turned back to her as the others walked away.
“It is of some importance to my wife and the other ladies of the family who have been diligently planning a party for Harry since Christmastime that as many people as possible from the neighborhood attend,” he said. “Will you come, Mrs. Tavernor?”
He must know, Lydia thought, or at least suspect. His sister’s words earlier had suggested it.
“I will,” she said. “I am honored to have been invited.”
He smiled—a very handsome man indeed—and held her gaze for a moment before turning to catch up with the others.
And that was just the beginning. Denise called and helped her eat a few more scones. “Are you going to the ball?” she asked. “You really must. I shall come and drag you there myself if necessary.”
Hannah called a little later, and both Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Bailey came while she was still there. Mirabel Hill and her cousin Miss Ardreigh arrived on her doorstep a mere five minutes after they had all left, claiming to be feeling footsore after an outing during which they had been talking so much they had not realized how far they had walked.
All of them wanted to know if Lydia was going to the ball.
And no sooner had they taken their leave than the Reverend and Mrs. Kingsley came from Hinsford to introduce themselves since they understood Mrs. Tavernor was the widow of the former vicar of Fairfield. The Reverend Kingsley was the Marchioness of Dorchester’s brother and therefore Harry’s uncle. They stayed for half an hour, though they would not take refreshments, a pleasant couple who were easy to talk with. The whole time she was there, Mrs. Kingsley had Snowball on her lap, patting and petting her and threatening to kidnap her and take her back to Dorsetshire.
On Wednesday afternoon, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale came in person with Viscount and Viscountess Dirkson and accepted the offer of tea and cake.
“You have a pretty place here, Mrs. Tavernor,” the dowager said as she looked around from her chair to one side of the fireplace. “But if you were my granddaughter, I would scold you for disdaining to have even as much as a maid to lend you respectability here.”
“But Mrs. Tavernor is not your granddaughter, Mother,” Lady Dirkson pointed out.
“You have scolded her anyway,” the viscount said, looking at Lydia with twinkling eyes.
“And the only way she ever could be,” his wife added, pursuing her point, “would be if she were Harry’s wife. Or Peter’s or Ivan’s, though they are far too young for her. And she has already refused Harry.”
“But do not let that fact deter you from attending Harry’s birthday ball, Mrs. Tavernor,” the dowager countess said, glaring very directly at her. “I can assure you that none of his family will make any reference at all to his ill-advised proposal and your very proper refusal.”
“But she has already accepted her invitation, Mother,” the viscountess said. “She told Alexander so. We look forward to seeing you on Friday evening, Mrs. Tavernor.”
They left soon afterward. She had the stamp of approval from the family, then, did she? Lydia thought as she watched until the carriage had moved away from her gate. And the head of the family—both heads, the Earl of Riverdale and the dowager countess—had made a point of coming to tell her, if not in so many words. She smiled, though the smile faded when she thought of the trick that was to be played on them on Friday morning. They were trying to ensure that she would attend the ball—with their blessing—but had no idea that by then she and Harry would be married. Somehow it was a bit of an uncomfortable thought.
And finally—finally!—Harry returned late on Wednesday afternoon, looking weary and travel worn and cheerful. Lydia had been watching for him since before he possibly could be expected. She flung open the door and dashed out to the gate as he drew rein beyond it. She did not even stop to wrap a shawl about her shoulders, though it was a chilly day.
He swung down from the saddle, leaned across the fence, and kissed her. “Mission completed,” he said. “Two new shirts. Oh, and—” He reached inside his coat and drew out the leather box with her mother’s ring. “Returned safe and sound, as promised, though I had to fight off three sets of highwaymen to guard it.”
“Thank you.” She laughed as she took it from him and held it for a moment to her lips.
“Lydia.” His own smile faded. “You have had two days to do nothing but think. Any second thoughts?”
She laughed. “I have had nothing but visitors,” she said. “I have had scarcely a moment to think at all. But no, Harry. No second thoughts. You?”
“Yes, actually. I ought to have taken you with me and married you in London.” He grinned ruefully at her. “Dash it all, I will not be able to see you tomorrow much either. There is to be a family picnic, weather permitting, in honor of my cousin Boris’s betrothal to Miss Leeson. I will come tomorrow evening, though, to make final plans for Friday. I had better get back to the house and get bathed and changed for dinner.”
“Yes,” she said. “Do not make yourself late.”
He kissed her again, mounted his horse, and rode off up the drive, turning to wave before he rode out of sight.
Perhaps tomorrow she would have a quiet day, Lydia thought. To think at last. To prepare herself.
She was not to have it, however, for it was on Thursday that her father and two elder brothers arrived on her doorstep.
Harry was feeling unaccountably melancholy. He was out on the lawn south of the house, surrounded by his family and other house guests, celebrating Boris and Audrey’s betrothal. A happy occasion. Chairs had been set out for the older people, while blankets had been spread for everyone else. The sun was shining again. The wind that had gusted this morning had died down. They had just feasted upon sumptuous picnic fare. Alexander in his role as head of the Westcott family had toasted the couple with champagne. It was a dizzying thought that Boris, who seemingly just yesterday had been giving Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas fits of alarm and outrage with one mischievous boyish prank after another, along with brothers Peter and Ivan, was now twenty-five years old and a mature, responsible young man and obviously deeply in love with his bride-to-be.
They would all be together again tomorrow—along with numerous outside guests—to celebrate his birthday. It would be the culmination of this house party, which had been arranged for him by his family out of the depths of their love for him.
None of them would be at his wedding.
Except for Gil, that was, who had agreed to come as a witness and as Harry’s best man, though he had been a bit long-faced when Harry had made it clear that he did not want Abby to come too and would be obliged if Gil did not even tell her.
“I say, Harry,” he had said. “It is not so easy to keep secrets from one’s spouse, you know. And not terribly honorable either.”
Gil and Abby’s wedding at the village church four years ago with only the vicar and his wife and Harry present had seemed perfect. His and Lydia’s wedding tomorrow morning would be equally so, Harry told himself.
Except that the circumstances would be different.
His family—the whole of it—would be here, busily preparing for the party in the evening, perhaps wondering where he had gone, unaware that he was at the church nearby marrying Lydia.
He should be over the moon with excitement today. He was getting married tomorrow.
But he could not shake off the feeling that it was somehow not right. He looked at his mother, whose arm was drawn through Marcel’s as they talked with Aunt Matilda and Dirkson. And at Camille, who was sitting on one of the blankets repairing Alice’s braid while Joel beside her had one twin standing and bouncing on fat little legs between his thighs while the other twin was against his shoulder, having her back patted. And at Abby, who was almost forehead to forehead with Jessica on another blanket, the two of them giggling like girls. And at Anna, who was holding Beatrice, her youngest, and smiling while she conversed with Adrian Sawyer and Sally Underwood and Gordon Monteith.
The inner circle of his family.
Who did not know that tomorrow was his wedding day.
Dash it all, it did not feel right.
“Harry.” Alexander, still holding his champagne glass, set a hand on his shoulder. “Is this all a bit much for you, as it was four years ago, as I recall? Are you wishing us all a thousand miles away, as you were then?”
“No,” Harry said. “Quite the contrary, in fact. I am so extraordinarily well blessed, Alex, that I will make an idiot of myself if I try to put it into words.”
Alexander squeezed his shoulder. “None of us felt well blessed ten years ago,” he said. “Or six years ago after Waterloo. Or four years ago, when Avery and Gil and I brought you home from Paris.”
“Do you feel well blessed now?” Harry asked.
His cousin hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “I must confess I do, Harry. Though you must know that I really did not want—”
“I do know,” Harry said. “You need not be apologetic about being happy. I am a happy man too.”
“You did not look happy a moment ago,” Alexander said.
“The natural expression of my face in repose,” Harry said with a grin.
Ah, they were about to be disturbed. Someone had come up the drive—two people, actually, two men—and paused to look at the crowd gathered on the lawn. They were not any of the neighbors. They were strangers, in fact. Harry hoped they would proceed to the main doors so that Brown could deal with whatever their business was.
They were not proceeding to the door, however. They were striding across the grass, two men on some important mission and apparently unembarrassed at intruding upon a private event.
Most of the children were still roaring about the grass and among the trees, intent upon their noisy games. Almost everyone else turned to watch the men. The taller of the two, who walked slightly ahead of the other, stopped when he was close enough to be heard—most conversation had died away anyway.
“Which one of you is Westcott?” he asked.
“A large number of us are,” Harry said, stepping forward with a smile on his face. “Which Westcott were you looking for in particular?”
“Major Harry Westcott,” the man said.
“That would be me,” Harry said, taking another step toward his visitor. “What may I—”
His visitor had taken more than one step toward him. He put an abrupt end to the sentence with a fist that collided with Harry’s chin and mouth with such force that Harry, taken completely by surprise, found himself measuring his length on the grass, gazing up at stars in the middle of the afternoon.
He became fuzzily aware of uproar. Voices, both male and female, all talking at once. A few screams. A demand to be let go. A command to stop struggling before an arm got broken. A contemptuous demand to get up and fight like a man. That one got Harry’s attention. Since he was probably the only one down, the invitation to get up was probably being directed at him.
No teeth—Harry did a quick check with his tongue— appeared to be missing or broken. His chin felt as if it might have been punched all the way through to the back of his head, but when he moved his jaw the chin seemed still to be attached to it. He shook his head—big mistake— and sat up. He shook his head more gently at the hand that was being offered him—Boris’s—and got to his feet.
Everyone was standing, including the elderly ladies. The children had abandoned their games for the greater excitement of seeing what was about to happen. The first man had Alexander’s hand clamped on his shoulder. The second man had his arms behind him, held there by Gil. Both men were frowning ferociously and breathing fire and brimstone—or so it seemed to Harry’s still-fuzzy brain.
“Fight, you coward,” the first man said from between his teeth. “Put your fists up, or are you going to hide behind all the skirts here and allow other men to protect you?”
Harry had a horrid premonition. And good God, yes. This was just how he would expect them to behave.
“I am not going to fight either one of you,” he said. “Alex, you can step aside. Gil, you would probably be sorry if you really did break his arm. Let go, there’s a good fellow. Is either one of you by any chance a Winterbourne? Or both of you?”
“You will name your time and place, Westcott,” man number one said curtly. “Your weapons too if you wish. And you will fight or be exposed to the world as a debaucher and a coward. I am James Winterbourne.”
“Oh, I say,” Uncle Thomas said above the swell of sound that succeeded Winterbourne’s words.
Harry held up a staying hand. “Have you spoken with your sister?” he asked.
“My sister’s name will not pass your lips,” Winterbourne said. “We will take care of her from this moment on, you may be assured. She will come home, where she belongs, and where we can keep her safe from the likes of you.”
“Well,” Harry said. “She may have something to say about that, you know. And if you have not had a word with her, perhaps you ought. In fact, maybe the three of us should. This is your brother, I assume?”
How the devil had they found out? Gossip had wings indeed, it seemed.
“William Winterbourne,” the brother confirmed, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “And you will get within a mile of our sister again over my dead body.”
“A rather suicidal threat,” Avery said, his voice languid, as he strolled into sight from somewhere to Harry’s left. “I believe Mrs. Tavernor’s cottage is within half a mile of where we stand. In my experience, it is always a mistake of colossal proportions for men to flex their muscles instead of recognizing that women have voices—and often surprisingly sensible minds behind those voices.”
“I shall go and have a word with Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry’s mother said, stepping up beside him and within range of the iron fist that had collided with Harry’s chin not so long ago. “She is very fortunate to have two brothers who care so deeply for her. I am the Marchioness of Dorchester, Harry’s mother. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Winterbourne.” And she extended her right hand to the elder brother, who still looked as though fumes might blow out his ears at any moment.
Bizarrely, he took her hand and even bowed over it, murmuring something unintelligible.
“Harry will accompany me,” his mother continued. “I shall certainly see to it that he offers no sort of insult to Mrs. Tavernor, whom I have found to be a woman of dignity and integrity. Will you accompany us, Mr. Winterbourne? And your brother?”
The Westcott family, Harry thought, might never have been more silent. Even the children were unnaturally quiet.
The brothers exchanged glances.
“I will not allow my sister to be bullied, ma’am,” William Winterbourne said.
“Good gracious,” Harry’s mother said. “Nor will I. More to the point, from what I know of Mrs. Tavernor, nor will she. Harry? Your arm, please.”
Two minutes later they were making their way down the drive, the four of them, Harry’s mother—bonnetless—on his arm, the two Winterbourne men coming along behind. Harry did not turn his head to look at them, but he would wager they both looked pretty sheepish.
“The power of women,” Harry’s mother murmured.
