The Escape by Mary Balogh
23
It had been arranged that Ben would arrive at Cartref the day before the ball. His departure from Swansea was delayed, however, by a minor crisis at the ironworks. As a result, he did not arrive until late afternoon on the day of the ball. It did not much matter, he supposed, even though his legs were stiff and aching. It was not as though he would be dancing, after all.
The journey had been a long one across bare, windswept countryside, never far from the sight of a leaden gray, foam-flecked sea, under heavy lowering clouds. Hot bricks at his feet did not remain hot for long, and his greatcoat did not keep out as much cold as it ought. A few times there were flurries of fine pellets of snow, though fortunately they did not develop into any fall thick enough to gather on the road and make travel hazardous. There were tollgates at tediously close intervals to slow travel, though, and tollgate keepers too tired or too cold to hurry.
As he drew closer to the white house on the hill above Fisherman’s Bridge, Ben could think only of the fact that he was within a couple of miles or so of Samantha, that he would see her again soon. Perhaps at the ball tonight if she was not estranged from her grandfather? Perhaps tomorrow at her cottage if she was—and if she was willing to receive him. But there was no reason, surely, why she would not even if she did not wish to continue their acquaintance.
Had she forgotten him? That was a ridiculous notion, of course. Certainly she would not have done so. But … had she moved on with her life to a point where he no longer had any place in it? Her official year of mourning was at an end. She had been here several months. Was there someone else by now? Someone who did not remind her in any way of the late wars? And did she have any sort of relationship with her grandfather? Bevan had not said either way, and Ben, of course, had not asked.
He took his canes from Quinn’s hand when he had descended from the carriage and made his slow way up the steps and into the house. He was immediately cheered by the welcome warmth given off by twin fires on either side of the marbled hall, which was decorated with festoons of ivy and bright-berried holly for the season. His host was waiting for him and came forward to greet him, right hand extended, a broad beam of a smile on his face.
“Major,” he said—he always called Ben that even though the rank was not really a part of his name any longer. “You must be frozen and fatigued. And you are the last of my guests to arrive. It is quite dusk out there already, isn’t it, even though it is still only late afternoon. Never mind. Today is the darkest day of the year. Things can only get better from now on. What? No wheeled chair today?”
“Bevan. Good to see you.” Ben clasped his hand. “Unfortunately, no one has yet invented a chair that will climb or descend steps. Besides, I am not a cripple and feel the occasional urge to prove it.”
“I don’t think anyone in his right mind would think of calling you any such thing,” Bevan said. “Come upstairs to the drawing room. Never mind your appearance. The tea tray is still there and more hot water will be brought. I’ll see that some brandy is added to your cup, purely for medicinal purposes, of course. Come and meet my other guests.”
It took a while, as usual, to climb the stairs, but Quinn was waiting at the top with his chair, into which Ben sank gratefully. He would more easily be able to greet the other guests and shake hands with them if he did not have to cling to his canes while trying to ignore his discomfort.
There were a dozen people or so in the room. A few of the men, Ben had met before since they were business colleagues of Bevan’s. Others were strangers, as were all the women.
Ah.
Except one. He inhaled deeply and held the breath.
She was coming toward them across the room, a smile on her face, both hands extended. She was wearing a wool day dress of deep forest green to match the greenery with which the drawing room too was decorated. It was obviously a new dress, far more elegant and fashionable than anything he had seen on her in the early summer. Her dark, almost black hair was swept back in a sleekly elegant chignon. She was smiling warmly.
He exhaled slowly.
She was a part of her grandfather’s life, then.
“Ben.” She set her hands in his, and his fingers closed tightly about them. They were warm while his were still cold from the outdoors.
“Samantha.”
For a moment they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. But then she stepped back the length of her arms, though her hands remained in his.
“But what is this?” She was looking at his chair. “Oh, don’t answer. It is obvious what it is. You have not—grown weaker?”
“Stronger,” he said. “I am no longer ashamed to admit that my legs do not work as other people’s do. I am as I am. I still walk, but I can get around much faster and more efficiently with my chair.”
Her smile deepened and she squeezed his hands before releasing them and looking up at Bevan.
“Grandpapa, shall I introduce Ben to everyone else, or will you?”
She had the faintest trace of a Welsh lilt to her voice, Ben noticed. It was very attractive. Indeed, it sent a slight shiver up his spine.
“I will, my dear,” her grandfather said firmly. “You look after the major’s needs. Call for more hot water if you will and pour him some tea. And add a touch of brandy. He looks frozen.”
“Yes,” she agreed before turning away. “The tip of his nose is red.”
Ben’s hand went up to cover it as though he would be able to feel its redness.
He was soon involved in a round of introductions to those he did not know, an exchange of greetings with those he did. Everyone was in a sociable, festive mood. Conversation was brisk and hearty, and Ben settled to enjoying himself despite his undeniable fatigue.
And despite the fact that his head was spinning from seeing Samantha again. He had forgotten just how very vibrant her beauty was.
Had her greeting been anything more than sociable? He had thought so, but he noticed now that she spoke as warmly and with just as bright a smile to everyone else during the minutes before she brought him his tea.
Was she glad to see him? More than glad?
Of one thing he was certain. The months he had spent apart from her had not dimmed his feelings for her. Quite the opposite, if anything. Seeing her again now, he knew that he was more than just in love with her. He knew she was essential to his happiness.
And then she did come with his tea and a piece of fruit cake on a tray. But she did not give them to him or set them down beside him. Instead she bent to speak quietly to him.
“I am going to have a servant carry the tray and show you the way to your room,” she said. “You are in pain, Ben. And you may not deny it. I recognize the signs.”
“I suppose,” he said, “I am smiling too much.”
“Not too much,” she said, “but in too wolflike a way, with your teeth clenched. Quite frightening, in fact.”
He laughed at her as she straightened up and led the way to the door. He made his excuses to the group around him and followed her.
She had not forgotten, then, that travel did not agree too well with him. She had noticed that he was in pain though he had made an effort to disguise the fact.
Ah, Samantha.
It should seem like a sign of defeat that he was propelling himself about in a wheeled chair instead of walking with his canes, Samantha thought as she dressed later for dinner and the grand ball. Yet it was not. Somehow it was quite the opposite.
I am no longer ashamed to admit that my legs do not work as other people’s do. I am as I am.
Despite the fact that he had been in obvious pain—obvious to her, at least—she had been able to see a new confidence in him. He looked like a successful man who had found his place in the world and was at peace with it. And yet he was working for a salary for a man who was not even a gentleman by birth, while he was a titled gentleman with property and a fortune of his own.
Sir Benedict Harper was a fascinating mixture of contradictions, with which he seemed quite happy.
She had come to Cartref yesterday, bringing a delighted Gladys with her as well as Tramp, of course, who had taken up happy residence in the kitchen, where he had become a favorite during the past months. Ben had been expected yesterday but had not arrived even though she and her grandfather had waited up late for him. And today he had been the last of the guests to arrive. Each time someone else came, she had hidden her disappointment and growing sense of gloom behind smiles of welcome. He was just not going to come, she had concluded at last. Something had changed his mind. Perhaps it was the prospect of seeing her again. Perhaps he just could not face telling her that he had moved on since early summer, that he had no desire to renew or to further their acquaintance.
And then, when the gloom of early evening was already settling in, he had come.
She had forced herself to remain in the drawing room with everyone else while her grandfather went downstairs alone to greet him. It had been something of a shock to see him wheel himself into the room in a chair. She had sensed something different about him at the same time as he had looked so achingly familiar that it had amazed her she had not always been able to bring his face into clear focus in her memory.
His greeting had been warm despite his cool hands. Certainly he had watched her with steady eyes as she approached across the room. But he had been in pain, and their journey from County Durham had rushed back to her memory. Of course he was in pain—and hiding the fact behind smiles and warm handshakes, the foolish man, and so there had been no chance for further conversation with him.
Ah, but if she had ever doubted it during the last few months, she doubted no longer. She loved him utterly, totally, pain and lame legs notwithstanding. She loved him.
But perhaps he had come here only to discuss business with Grandpapa.
“There, Mrs. McKay,” Gladys said. “I do like your hair with some curls and ringlets. And you look awfully good in royal blue. The color would swallow up most women, me included, but you can take it with your bold coloring. I wish I was dark like you. I bet all the single men will have an eye for you tonight and some of the married ones too, I don’t doubt, though I oughtn’t to say it out loud, ought I? My mam says it comes natural to men to look at women no matter if they are married or not. That major is here, isn’t he? I thought he was ever so gorgeous back in the summer there. I was disappointed when he went away and nothing happened. Disappointed for you, I mean, not for me. That would be silly. But he has come back even if he was late and almost missed the ball. I bet he will have an eye for you. He did back then, but I suppose he knew you was in mourning for Mr. McKay and it wouldn’t be right to press his attentions on you, didn’t he? You aren’t now, though. Are you glad to see him? I bet you are.”
“It is very pleasant to see him again,” Samantha said.
“Ho, I bet it’s more than pleasant,” Gladys said. “Even more than very pleasant. There. Your necklace is done up. I always have trouble with that particular catch. You are ready to go. Oh, you look a treat.”
“Thank you,” Samantha said, laughing, and she wondered for a moment what Matilda would think of a maid like Gladys. But Matilda was someone from her long distant past even though it was considerably less than a year since they had been living together at Bramble Hall.
She went downstairs early in order to step into the ballroom to see that all was ready for later. Not that it was her responsibility. Her grandfather had made all the arrangements.
The ballroom was large and two stories high. Floor-length mirrors on both long walls made the room seem even larger and multiplied the effect of all the Christmas greenery with which it was decorated. The wood floor gleamed. There were instruments on the dais—the orchestra members would be downstairs having their dinner. Three great chandeliers rested on the floor. All the candles would be lit just before the ball, and they would be raised to hang from the ceiling.
It seemed an extravagance to have such a room in the depths of the country, but her grandfather had told her it had almost always been used several times each year for balls and fetes and grand banquets.
She did not linger. It was time for dinner.
Samantha was seated at the foot of the table as her grandfather’s hostess. He had arranged the seating though she had offered to do it for him. She had Mr. Morris, his white-haired lawyer, on her left, Ben on her right. She was surprised by the latter placement. She would have expected him to be seated higher at the table. But when she glanced along its length, her grandfather’s eyes twinkled back at her.
He had been matchmaking from the start, of course. Interfering, she had called it back then. But after Ben had left, he had scarcely mentioned him, and she had concluded that she must have been mistaken. She knew now she had not been. Wily old Grandpapa had known that they must be separated so that her new neighbors would not be scandalized, that she must be given time to live out the year of her mourning. And now, just as he had planned it from the start, he had brought them back together—on the day of his grand festivity. He had set the stage and hoped they would play their parts.
Wouldthey?
She had not seen Ben for the past several months, and she knew something fundamental in him had changed. Did she have any part in his new life?
Samantha turned her attention to Mr. Morris while Ben conversed with Mrs. Davies, wife of one of Grandpapa’s Swansea friends, on his other side. But before the first course was finished, Mrs. Fisher, wife of Grandpapa’s physician from Tenby, claimed Mr. Morris, and Samantha glanced at Ben. He was gazing steadily back.
“You are in fine looks, Samantha,” he said. “Finer than fine, in fact, even if you are looking a little less sun-bronzed than when I last saw you.”
He was looking very fine too in his black form-fitting evening coat, gold-embroidered waistcoat, and gleaming white linen. His starched shirt points were high but not ridiculously so. His neckcloth was tied in an intricate style that had drawn glances of envy from two of the younger male guests in the drawing room earlier. A single diamond winked from its folds.
“You have changed.” She leaned a little toward him. “You have found what you were looking for, have you not? Down a coal mine.”
He smiled at that. “There are worse places,” he said, “though I cannot for the life of me think of any.”
She had always loved his smile. It was the expression she had remembered best through the past months, she realized. He had white, even teeth, and his eyes narrowed slightly and crinkled into laugh lines at the outer corners.
“You are happy?” she asked him.
“I have enjoyed the experience,” he told her. “And I have learned a great deal from it, both about the job and about myself.”
“Whatabout yourself?”
“Mainly,” he said, “that I can work with my handicap rather than let it work against me. Indeed, I do not even think of it as a handicap any longer.”
She beamed at him and leaned slightly to one side while a servant removed her plate.
“But do you intend to keep working for Grandpapa?” she asked.
He seemed to give his answer some thought while his own plate was being removed. “That depends,” he said.
“Upon?”
“Oh, no.” He laughed softly. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
Mr. Morris touched her arm at that moment and she turned to listen to what he had to say.
Upon her? Was that what he had meant?
And this was not the time and place for what?
Sometimes life seemed like one big tease.
What it depended upon was whether or not she would have him.
Ben had known that from the start, but he had been confirmed in his decision since arriving here this afternoon. He had known as soon as he set eyes upon her again that he would not be able to bear any association with her, even with her grandfather, if she would not marry him. He would rather go away, back to England, and start again. Though he would not be right back where he had been for three years after leaving Penderris. He knew now where his interests lay and what sort of life suited him best. It would be a dreary life, at least for a while, if there was no Samantha and no hope of her, but he would survive.
Outside guests began arriving soon after dinner, and Ben moved into the ballroom. He had seen it before, when Bevan gave him and Samantha a tour of the house. It had seemed a grand room even then. Now it looked quite magnificent enough to belong to a London mansion. The chandeliers were filled with candles, all of them burning—a splendid extravagance. Holly and ivy and pine boughs were draped everywhere, giving the effect of an indoor Christmas garden. Smells of the greenery and of cider and mulled wine from an anteroom added to the festive atmosphere.
Ben took a seat—he was using his canes this evening—and looked around at it all. His eye paused on a few sprigs of mistletoe hanging from some of the window recesses, and he smiled.
Samantha stood inside the door with her grandfather, receiving the guests. Ben recognized a few of them. She looked nothing short of stunning tonight in her royal blue gown, her hair piled high in elaborate curls and ringlets. His eyes moved down her shapely figure. He had waited for her letter for a month or two after leaving here, but it had never come. He had been glad of it, though part of him had been disappointed too.
She seemed to know everyone. She was flushed and laughing, and she occasionally turned to say something to Bevan. Ben was glad she had not held aloof from him out of some sense of loyalty to her mother. She needed him. Her husband’s family had offered her no love. Neither had her half brother or any of her relatives on her father’s side.
She looked happy. The thought gave him a bit of a pang.
Someone was beaming down at him, hand extended.
“Major Harper,” the Reverend Jenkins said. “This is a pleasure.”
His wife, wearing a hideous headful of plumes, beamed and nodded at his side.
No London hostess would be entirely pleased, Ben thought when everyone had arrived and the orchestra members were busy tuning their instruments. The gathering could hardly be called a grand squeeze. Nevertheless, the ballroom was pleasingly crowded and everyone would have space to dance, while those who sat or stood on the sidelines would have a clear view of the dancing.
And the first set was forming.
Bevan led out Mrs. Morris, while a young man Ben did not know led out Samantha. She stood in the line of ladies, smiling across at her partner. She was to have her wish at last, then, Ben thought a little wistfully.
I want to dance, she had once told him, a world of yearning in her voice. She had been dressed in her heavy, ill-fitting blacks at the time and standing in the gloomy, darkened sitting room of Bramble Hall. A long time ago—a lifetime.
Ben watched her perform a series of lively country dances over the next hour. Meanwhile, he did not skulk in his corner. He got to his feet a few times and moved about, exchanging greetings with people he had met in Fisherman’s Bridge early in the summer and comments with his fellow guests.
He would wait until tomorrow, he decided. Or the day after. Would she be returning to her cottage? Perhaps he would call on her there. Tonight’s setting, though wondrously festive, even romantic, was quite unsuited to him. He fought a return of the old frustration with his condition.
He was laughing over a story the landlord of the inn had just told him when someone touched his sleeve. He turned, and there she was.
“Ben,” she said.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He smiled at her and tried to look as if he was. Well, it was not difficult, was it? On a certain level he was enjoying himself. He liked this place and these people.
“Come and sit with me,” she said. “The next dance is a waltz.”
“You do not want to dance it?” he asked her.
She shook her head slightly and turned to lead the way to a deep alcove at one end of the ballroom. It was the mirror image of the orchestra alcove at the other end, though without the dais. Heavy velvet curtains had been pulled across it, though they had been looped back tonight so that anyone sitting within—there was a long velvet couch there—could watch the dancing. But no one was there.
She sat on the couch, and he seated himself beside her and propped his canes against the arm.
“Is this the first time you have danced?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you remember what you once said to me about dancing?” he asked her.
She nodded. “And I remember what you said to me.”
Ah. He had told her he wanted to dance too.
“I meant,” he said, “that I wanted to run free. Now I ride free in my chair.”
She smiled at him. “But you were talking about dancing,” she said.
The orchestra struck an opening chord, and the lilting music of the waltz filled the ballroom. Soon couples were twirling past the alcove.
“I always thought,” she told him, “that the waltz was the most romantic of dances.”
“But you do not want to dance it tonight?”
“Oh, I do,” she said. “I want to dance it with you.”
He laughed softly. “Perhaps,” he said, “we can close our eyes and imagine it. Like rising above the rain clouds in our hot air balloon.”
She wanted to waltz with him, he thought.
“Stand up, Ben.” She got to her feet.
He gathered his canes and stood. Did she imagine he could dance? She took the canes from him, just as she had done with one of them when he had stepped into the sea with her, he remembered, and set them aside.
“Put your right arm about me,” she said.
He set it about her waist and took her hand in his. She did not set her other hand on his shoulder but about his own waist to support him, and she gazed into his eyes, laughter and perhaps anxiety in her own.
Good Lord, she was serious.
And they waltzed.
They danced one whole turn about the alcove while it seemed the music became part of them and her eyes lost both the laughter and the anxiety and they simply gazed at each other and into each other.
Reality was still reality, of course. They did not, as they might have done in a fairy tale, suddenly waltz out from the alcove to twirl all about the ballroom while everyone else watched in wonder. But … they had danced. They had waltzed. Together.
Something drew Ben’s glance upward. A sprig of mistletoe hung from the ceiling at the very center of the alcove.
“Ah,” he murmured to her while he could still stand. “And for this I do not even have to beg permission. Christmas has handed me its own special permit.”
He kissed her, wrapping both arms about her waist while she twined her own about his neck. And then they smiled at each other, and for the moment he felt invincible. But only for a moment.
“If I do not sit down immediately or sooner,” he told her, “someone is going to have to scoop me up from the floor and bear me ignominiously hence.”
And then they were sitting side by side again, their shoulders touching, hand in hand, their fingers laced. And they were both laughing as she tipped her head sideways to set her cheek against his shoulder.
“That was probably the shortest, most ungainly waltz ever danced,” he said.
“And that was perhaps the shortest, most glorious kiss ever enjoyed beneath the mistletoe,” she said.
He rested his cheek briefly against her dark curls. “I loved you before I left here in the summer, Samantha,” he said. “I did not mean to fall in love with you. It did not seem quite fair when I came with you to protect you. But it happened anyway. And my feelings have not changed.”
“Oh, you provoking man,” she said after several moments of silence between them while the waltz proceeded in the ballroom beyond their little haven. “How dare you stop there. You cannot stop there, Ben.”
He turned his head and grinned down at her. “I was giving you the chance to stop me if you did not want me to embarrass myself further,” he said.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I want you to embarrass yourself.”
“Wretch,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
He heard her swallow.
“Hmm,” she said, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual. “Let me see. I will have to think about this.”
“Right,” he said. “I will go away for another six months while you do so.”
She laughed softly and lifted her head so that she could turn her face to his. Her eyes were shining, he could see in the light of the chandeliers beyond the alcove. Shining with unshed tears.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
They gazed at each other for a few moments, and then they were in each other’s arms again and laughing—oh, yes, and shedding more than a tear apiece too.
“I love you,” she said, her breath warm against his ear. “Oh, Ben, I have missed you. I have missed you so very much.”
He drew back his head and smiled at her.
Samantha. His love.
Ah, the wonder of it.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked her.
She raised her eyebrows.
“For ripping up at you the day we met,” he said, “and swearing most foully. You never said I was.”
“I will think about it,” she told him, and laughed.
