The Escape by Mary Balogh

5

Samantha scarcely set foot over the doorstep for the rest of the week. It rained almost without ceasing—though that was not strictly accurate. She might almost have enjoyed an honest-to-goodness rain. This was drizzle and mist and heavy gray skies and chill temperatures. Pea soup weather, she could remember her mother calling it, the sort of weather that seeped beneath doors and around window frames even when they were tightly shut and made one feel damp and cold and miserable despite a fire crackling in the hearth and a woolen shawl drawn about one’s shoulders.

She did not even go to church on Sunday, a rare omission. Matilda had a head cold as well as one of her headaches and submitted to being sent back to bed with a hot brick for her feet. Samantha might have gone to church alone, as she had done for five years, but Matilda became agitated when she suggested it, and she was actually quite glad to avail herself of the excuse not to go out.

She had seen no one but Matilda and the servants since Tuesday. The visit of Lady Gramley and Sir Benedict Harper seemed weeks ago rather than merely days. But when she had broached the idea of their driving over to Robland Park one day next week to return the visit, Matilda had looked pruneish, as Samantha had fully expected she would. It was a courtesy to pay an occasional call upon a neighbor in mourning, she had explained, but no one would expect a return visit. Indeed, most people of any gentility would be surprised and even shocked if it happened.

Samantha simply did not believe her. Not any longer. And even if Matilda was right about social expectations, how could she possibly submit to remaining inside the darkened house for another eight months with only the occasional foray into the garden for fresh air and one weekly attendance at church? She would go out of her mind with the tedium of it.

She was going to pay that return call, she decided between journeys up and down stairs as she tended to the invalid, a long-familiar role that did nothing to lift her spirits, though she was always careful to be cheerful when she was in her sister-in-law’s room and seeing to her comfort by turning and plumping her pillows or straightening the bedcovers or moving her glass of water closer to her hand or laying a cool cloth on her fevered brow or closing the almost invisible gap between the curtains that was letting in a flood of hurtful light.

She was going to go to Robland Park even if it meant going alone. Indeed, she would far prefer to go without Matilda. Good heavens, she had allowed herself to become a virtual prisoner in her own home since Matthew’s death. And she had somehow relinquished her role as lady of the house.

She liked Lady Gramley, who was refined and elegant with the easy manners of a true lady. She had always been kind, though even after five years of living here Samantha scarcely knew her or any of her other neighbors. She hoped it would be possible to make something of a friend of Lady Gramley in the future, even though there must be a ten-year gap in their ages.

Sir Benedict Harper was a different matter. She had felt considerable antipathy toward him before his visit, and it was only with the greatest reluctance that she had admitted to herself that it had been handsome of him to call on her and maneuver matters in such a way that his apology was made to her alone. He had been sensitive enough to realize that it was altogether possible Matilda knew nothing of her escapade that day. And his apology itself had been irreproachable, for he had taken all the blame upon himself. It had been unhandsome of her, on the other hand, to withhold the words of forgiveness for which he had asked. But it was hard to forgive someone who had ruined the only hour of true freedom she had enjoyed in at least six years.

And now she felt like the guilty one. Perversely, she resented him for that. But he was merely visiting at Robland Park. Perhaps he would be gone soon and she need never see him again. Perhaps he would be out riding again when she called on Lady Gramley.

She remembered with some embarrassment her passionate outburst in Sir Benedict’s hearing. Whatever had possessed her? She had told him she wanted to live. She had even told him she wanted to dance. But she knew what had caused her to speak so. He was more than half crippled. He had suffered other injuries, all courtesy of the late wars. If she had had to encounter a stranger, even under the circumstances in which they had met, did he have to be yet another wounded soldier?

She could positively scream!

But he wanted to dance too. She wished he had not said that. The words had unnerved her, for they had expressed such an impossible dream that she had wanted to weep. The last man on earth over whom she wished to shed tears was Sir Benedict Harper.

But he wanted to dance.

Matilda came down to sit in the drawing room early the following afternoon, though she still had a wretched cold, poor thing. She sat near the fire, a shawl drawn closely about her shoulders, a handkerchief clutched in one hand and never too far from her reddened nose.

Samantha mentioned casually that since the rain had stopped at last perhaps she would take the gig and return Lady Gramley’s call.

“Your sense of duty is misplaced,” Matilda said. “But you will not go, of course, especially since I am unable to accompany you. Matthew would forbid it if he could, God rest his soul.”

Quite possibly he would not have done. He had made great demands on her time and presence while he was ill, it was true, but he hated the puritanical, straitlaced attitudes of his family. It was a measure of his annoyance with her, after she had kicked up a fuss over his infidelity, that he had decided against taking her to the Peninsula with him or permitting her to go home to her own father, but had sent her to Leyland Abbey to live for that year instead. It was undoubtedly the worst punishment he could devise. It had been downright mean.

“There is an assembly in the village in a few days’ time,” Samantha said. “Attending that would be scandalous, Matilda. I do not, however, have the least intention of going. Paying a courtesy visit to a neighbor who paid one here last week, on the other hand, must be quite unexceptionable. And as for going in the gig myself, I did it every Sunday while Matthew lived, until you came a short while before his death, that is, and he never once voiced any objection.”

“Then he ought to have done,” Matilda said sharply before pausing to blow her nose. “Father would not have allowed it.”

“The Earl of Heathmoor was not my husband,” Samantha retorted, “or my own father. Oh, Matilda, let us not quarrel. How tedious this topic is! I need air and a change of scene. And I really ought to show a courtesy to Lady Gramley, who has called here twice since Matthew’s funeral despite the fact that she was not at all well the first time. I am going. I daresay I will not be gone long. The bell pull is within your reach. If you need anything at all, Rose or one of the other servants will bring it.”

Her sister-in-law looked thin-lipped and mulish as Samantha got to her feet. No doubt she would inform her father about this in her next letter home. Well, so be it. The rules he imposed upon his family, even at this distance, were Gothic, to say the least. Samantha was no longer going to accept them without question. She could show respect for the memory of her husband without incarcerating herself in her own home and being slavishly obedient to a family whose standards of propriety went far beyond what society demanded.

These thoughts caused her only a fleeting moment of uneasiness. Bramble Hall, which Matthew had been convinced would be made over to him while he lived, still belonged to the earl. But it had been willed to Matthew—except that Matthew was now dead. It would be her home for life, though, he had assured Samantha shortly before his passing. His father had to look after her since she had no fortune of her own and no relatives who would be glad to take her in, and he never shirked his responsibilities. It would suit his purpose to perfection to keep her far away here in the north of England in a house he had never lived in himself. The very last thing he would want was to have her living as a pensioner at Leyland and as a constant thorn in his side. Her future was quite secured.

Sir Benedict Harper was riding around the corner of the house at Robland Park as Samantha drew the gig to a halt before the front doors. He looked splendidly virile on horseback, she could not help but notice, his disability not at all apparent. She could have wished, though, that she had come earlier or that he had extended his ride longer.

He reined in his horse beside her and swept off his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. McKay,” he said. “You are making the most of this welcome break in the weather too, are you? So is Beatrice, I am afraid. She is out on a round of sick visiting with the vicar’s wife.”

“Oh.” How very unfortunate, and what an anticlimax after all the fuss that had preceded her coming here. “Well, no matter. At least I have had an outing. I would have had no excuse for it if I had known Lady Gramley was from home.”

“There is no need for you to go away,” he told her. “If you will give me a few minutes to stable my horse, I will join you. A groom is already on his way to see to your gig. Do go inside. No, I beg your pardon. That would not do, would it?”

He looked about him.

Samantha ought to announce her intention of leaving immediately. Matilda would be horrified if she stayed, and on this occasion her sister-in-law might be justified. Besides, she had no wish for another conversation alone with the gentleman. On the other hand, she desperately wanted to prolong her outing for at least a little while.

“Why do you not stroll among the flowers here?” he suggested. “There is even a seat over there.”

He put his hat back on, touched his whip to the brim, and rode away before she could answer him. She hesitated for only a moment before getting down from the gig and leaving it in the care of the groom.

Matilda would say this served her right, coming to call and finding Lady Gramley from home. Matilda would certainly believe that she ought to drive away without further ado now that she had made the discovery.

Oh, stuff Matilda McKay and her father, the Earl of Heathmoor, too. Samantha was mortally sick of measuring her every move by what they would think. She could perfectly understand why Matthew had left home as soon as he was old enough and had never gone back there to live. Even when he had come home from the Peninsula, dreadfully wounded and expected to die at any moment, he had begged to be taken somewhere other than Leyland. His father had sent them here, to one of his smaller properties, the one most remote from Kent.

Sir Benedict Harper looked at his best on horseback. He looked at his worst when walking, she thought as he came from the stables a few minutes later to join her. He walked with the aid of his canes, though he did not use them as crutches. He really was walking, slowly and painstakingly, and looking rather ungainly as he did so. It would be far easier, surely, and more graceful to use crutches—except that one needed one sound leg for crutches, did one not?

She could not help feeling a reluctant admiration for a man who clearly ought not to be walking but was. Matthew had never made any effort to overcome any of his disabilities or even to control his peevishness. Perhaps this man really would dance.

She went to meet him.

“Come and sit in the garden,” he said.

“Oh, look,” she said, tipping back her head. “The sun has come out. It would be a great pity to miss all its brightness by being cooped up indoors. Perhaps I am fortunate after all that Lady Gramley is from home. There has been so little sunshine lately.”

And she would have missed it even if there had been. She could perfectly understand how a prisoner must feel, incarcerated in a dungeon year after year. Impulsively, she tossed her heavy veil back over the brim of her bonnet and was rewarded with bright sunlight and warm, delicious air.

“Lady Matilda did not wish to accompany you?” he asked.

“She has the most dreadful head cold,” she said. “I do hope I am not carrying the infection here with me. She was huddled beside the fire in the sitting room when I left. She would not have come anyway, though. She considers such social calls improper while we are in deep mourning.”

They had reached the flower garden and were soon seated side by side on the wrought iron seat she had seen earlier. He propped his canes beside it.

“Your husband was an officer,” he said. “He died of wounds sustained in the wars, did he?”

“Most of them healed,” she told him, “though some of them left him scarred. He lived in a darkened room because of them and would not see anyone except his valet and me. He had always been proud of his good looks. His worst injury, though, was a bullet lodged somewhere inside his chest, close to his heart. It could not be removed without killing him. It affected his lungs as well as his heart and made it progressively more difficult for him to breathe. There was never any hope of his making a full recovery.”

“I am sorry,” he said. “You have had a difficult time of it.”

“Those words for better or for worse are no idle addition to the marriage service,” she said. “Some of us are called upon to live up to what we have promised. Yes, I have had a difficult time of it. So have thousands of other women, wives and mothers and sisters. And for their men, life has been no easy matter either. Some of them die, as Matthew did. Some live on with permanent disabilities and pain. You must have had a difficult time of it too.”

“Even though only my legs were affected?”

She turned her head sharply in his direction. It was unkind of him to remind her of that foolish assumption.

“That was shortsighted of me,” she said. “You did admit there was more than that. Much more?”

He smiled at her, and she could see that he must once have been very handsome. He still was, but there were cares worn into his face now where once there must have been pure youthful charm. As there had been with Matthew, though she did not suppose Sir Benedict had ever been as breathtakingly good-looking as her husband.

“The years of my convalescence were the worst of my life,” he said, “and also, strangely enough, the best. Life has a habit of being like that, giving and taking in equal measure, a balance of opposites. Beatrice would have had me here to nurse back to health, but she had young children at the time, and it would have been unfair to foist the burden of my wounded self upon her. I was fortunate enough to be brought to the notice of the Duke of Stanbrook. He took me and a number of other wounded officers into his own home, Penderris Hall in Cornwall, hired the best doctors and nurses, and kept some of us there for longer than three years while we healed and recuperated. There is a group of us, seven in all, who still meet there for a few weeks every year. Those five men, including the duke, and one woman are my closest friends in the world. They are my chosen family. We call ourselves the Survivors’ Club.”

“Are two of its members by any chance the hero of a Forlorn Hope who was brought home in a straitjacket and a young blind man?” she asked.

“Hugo, Lord Trentham, and Vincent, Viscount Darleigh, yes,” he said.

“And one of the members of your club is a woman?”

“Imogen, Lady Barclay,” he said. “She was in the Peninsula with her husband, who was a reconnaissance officer. A spy, in other words. He was captured while he was not in uniform, and he was tortured, partly in her presence. Then he died.”

“Poor lady,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I wonder,” she said, “if there is anyone of our generation or the generations directly above and below our own whose life is unaffected by the wars. Do you think there is?”

“We are all always affected by the major events of history,” he said. “It is unavoidable. Who was it who said—” He stopped and frowned in thought. “It was John Donne in one of his essays. No man is an island entire of itself. That was it. There is always some poet or philosopher who has captured in brief and vivid words the greatest truths of human existence, is there not?”

“Are you a philosopher, Sir Benedict?” she asked.

“No.” He laughed. “But I fear I am being a bore. You told me last week that you are tired of sickness and suffering and death—or something to that effect. You told me you wanted to live, specifically to dance. Has it been a long time since you danced? Tell me of the last time—or the last time that was memorable. Where was it? When? What did you dance? And with whom?”

“Goodness.” She found herself laughing back at him. “Can I remember that far back? Oh, let me see. When was it? There were a few regimental balls before the regiment was sent to the Peninsula. I did not particularly enjoy them.”

It was during those balls she had seen Matthew dance with other women, both married and single. Not just dance, though—every officer danced with ladies other than their wives, of course. It was what was expected at any ball. Matthew had openly flirted, and all those wives and others had responded and been flattered and flirted right back. She had hated those balls and having to smile and dance and pretend to be finding nothing distasteful in her husband’s behavior. She had hated the looks of kind sympathy in the eyes of some of the other officers with whom she danced.

“The last memorable dance was at an assembly when I was still living at home,” she said. “Several of the officers billeted nearby were there and sending flutters of excitement through the hearts of every girl in attendance. How the other men must have hated the sight of scarlet regimentals. I had not thought about that before now. Lieutenant Matthew McKay, with whom I already had something of an acquaintance, singled me out for two dances. One was the Roger de Coverley. I can remember the sheer joy of dancing it. I was very much in love, you see. And he asked me that same night if I would marry him, though he had to talk to Papa before he could make an official offer, of course.”

He was smiling at her, she saw when she turned her head toward him. Oh, goodness, when had she last indulged in happy memories?

“When was the last time you danced?” she asked him.

“I suppose it was at one of those regimental balls you did not enjoy,” he said. “In fact, I know it was. I waltzed with my colonel’s niece. I was waltzing for the first—and only—time. The waltz was very new then. There is no lovelier dance in the world for sheer romance.”

“Was there a romance between you and the colonel’s niece?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled softly. He was no longer looking at her but was gazing over the flower beds, and she knew that he too was lost in happy memories for the moment. “I had known her for a month and believed she was the other half of my soul.”

“What happened?”

“War happened.” He laughed softly. “We cannot get away from it, can we? Tell me about your home and your family.”

“My father was a gentleman who lived contentedly in the country with his books,” she said. “He was a widower with one son when he met my mother during a rare visit to London. She was twenty years younger than he, but they married and had me. My mother died when I was twelve, my father when I was eighteen.”

“After you were married?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He had died after a short illness during the year she was living at Leyland Abbey. Her brother, John, had not written to tell her about it until Papa died, and even then he had delayed a day or two until there was no possibility of her getting there in time for the funeral. She had wanted to go anyway. The house was to be sold and all its contents disposed of. There had not been anything of great value there, but there were several items she would have liked to retrieve as mementos, some things of her mother’s in particular, which could have been of no interest to John. But he said in his letter that there was no need for her to go, and the Earl of Heathmoor, her father-in-law, who of course had read her letter before giving it to her, had agreed. As far as he was concerned, the less contact his son’s wife had with her humble, even shady, past, the better for the whole McKay family.

“And your brother?” Sir Benedict asked.

“John?” she said. “He is my half brother, eighteen years older than I. He had left home before I was born. He is a clergyman with a living twenty miles from where our father lived. He has a wife and family. I do not see them.”

John had resented his father’s remarriage. He had hated both Samantha and her mother, though he had never said so, of course. He was a man of the cloth, after all, and clergymen did not admit to feeling hatred.

“It is your turn,” she said. “Tell me about your family.”

“There were four of us children,” he told her. “Beatrice is the eldest. Wallace, who inherited the baronetcy on our father’s death, was a member of Parliament destined for brilliance. He was already making a rapid climb up the political ladder when he was killed by a vegetable cart that overturned on the streets of London. I inherited from him, but only a few scant days after I heard about it, I was wounded in the Peninsula. Calvin, my younger brother, had been in sole possession of Kenelston Hall, the family seat, for a number of years. He was Wallace’s appointed steward there. He remained there with his wife and children and continued in that role after the double disasters. It was expected that I would not survive my injuries for very long, you see. I was not expected even to survive the journey home to England.”

“He expected to inherit, then,” she said. “Is he still living in your home?”

“Yes.” There was a slight hesitation before he continued. “He is an excellent steward.”

She turned her head to look at his profile. “And do you spend most of your time there too,” she asked, “now that you have recovered?”

“No.”

He did not elaborate. He did not need to. Obviously his brother had usurped his home and his estates and had made it difficult for Sir Benedict to oust him by doing an excellent job of running them. At least, that was what she guessed must have happened.

“Do you suppose,” she asked after a brief silence, “there is anyone on this earth for whom life is easy?”

He turned his face toward her and regarded her curiously. “One does tend to assume that life must be far easier for others than it ever is for oneself,” he said. “I suspect it rarely is. I daresay life was not meant to be easy.”

“How very unkind on the part of whoever invented life.”

They exchanged smiles, and she realized that she was enjoying this slightly improper visit more than she could have expected. He was really quite a pleasant companion.

“Life has been difficult for you for a long time,” he said. “It will get better, I daresay, once the pain of your husband’s passing has receded more. What do you plan to do when your mourning period is over?”

“I will make an effort to become better acquainted with my neighbors,” she told him. “I will try to make real friends among them and to find useful ways to spend my time.”

It sounded dull enough. In reality, it would be infinitely more delightful than anything had yet been in her adult life—if she disregarded the dizzy euphoria of the early months of her marriage.

“Will Lady Matilda remain with you?” he asked.

“Heaven forbid!” she exclaimed before she could stop herself. She set the fingertips of one hand over her mouth and gazed ruefully at him. “No, I believe she will feel obliged to return home to care for her mother. The Countess of Heathmoor suffers with palpitations and her nerves. We have an uneasy alliance, I am afraid, Matilda and I, and it becomes more uneasy by the day now that the early numbness of my bereavement has worn off. Matilda is so very correct in all she says and does, and I am sometimes a trial to her.”

“And she to you?” He was smiling again. “You will not go with her to your father-in-law’s home, then?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I lived there for a year after Matthew’s regiment was sent to the Peninsula.” She only just stopped herself from saying more.

He raised his eyebrows.

“I would not wish to return,” she said. “And I have no doubt my father-in-law shares my sentiments.”

“I do not have an acquaintance with the Earl of Heathmoor,” Sir Benedict said.

It was not surprising. When he went to London, that den of all iniquity, the earl divided his time between the House of Lords and his clubs. He rarely attended any of the entertainments of the Season, and his womenfolk were not permitted to attend any. As soon as the spring session ended, he withdrew to Leyland and stayed there until duty called him forth again. He attended the Church of England, but one would never guess it from his attitudes and behavior. He was the quintessential Puritan. Anything that smacked of pleasure must by its very nature be sinful. Anything that ran counter to his sober principles and rules must be of the devil, and anyone who disobeyed him was the devil’s spawn. He ruled his family with an iron fist, though to be fair, physical violence was rarely if ever necessary.

“I do not believe you would enjoy such an acquaintance,” she said.

“You may rely upon my discretion not to tell anyone you just said that, ma’am,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. But he continued to look at her, and the smile faded from all but his eyes. “When I spent those years at Penderris Hall with my fellow Survivors, I had six confidants. They understood my thoughts and feelings because they were experiencing similar ones. They knew when to advise, when to laugh at me or cajole, when merely to listen. They knew when to draw close and when to keep their distance. I believe it was only after I had left there that I fully understood how blessed I had been—and still am. I can say anything in the world to those friends, and they can say anything in the world to me without fearing censure and with the sure knowledge that what is said will remain confidential. We all need people to whom we can speak freely. I have my sister too. We have always been close even though she is five years my senior. The older we get, however, the less wide that gap appears.”

Was he telling her that he knew and understood all the things she had not put into words? That he understood her loneliness and sense of isolation? She only partly understood them herself. She had always been lonely and had always denied it, even to herself. To admit it would be to allow self-pity a toehold in her consciousness. And there was something almost shameful about loneliness, as if one must be unlovable as well as unloved.

“I envy you,” she said. “It must be lovely to have close friends.”

Too late she realized what she had admitted. For surely Matthew ought to have been such a friend.

“I am afraid,” she said, “that I must already have committed that dreadful social faux pas of outstaying my welcome. We must have been sitting here for close to an hour. Matilda will be having forty fits. Perhaps forty-four if she ever discovers that Lady Gramley was not here.”

She got to her feet and waited for him to rise too.

“Do you ride?” he asked as they began the slow walk up to the terrace.

“I learned as a girl,” she told him, “though I did not have the chance to ride often. My father owned only the ancient beloved mare that pulled our gig at a speed roughly equivalent to a brisk stroll. Matthew insisted I ride more often after we were married, and I became quite proficient in the saddle, though it was not something that was encouraged when I was at Leyland. I have not ridden since I came to Bramble Hall.”

“There are several horses in the stables here,” he said. “Bea was commenting just yesterday that they are not exercised as often as they ought to be. She was indisposed over much of the winter and has only now been cleared for regular activity. Will you ride with me one day? Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”

“Oh,” she said. “I—”

She was about to decline—for all the usual and obvious reasons. But she remembered the fright and exhilaration of those rare rides in her childhood, and the wonder and joy of riding what she had called a real horse after her marriage.

She was overwhelmed by temptation.

What would Matil—No! She did not care what Matilda would say.

“I shall ask Bea to ride with us, of course,” he added.

“I would like to.”

They spoke simultaneously.

“I shall choose a horse for you, then,” he said, “and have a groom lead it over to Bramble Hall when we come.”

“Thank you.” She turned her head to look at his face in profile. She could tell from the set of his mouth that walking was not easy for him. It was very probably painful too, but he moved at a steady, though slow, pace, and he uttered no complaint.

She wondered what other injuries he had suffered.

She was so glad she had made this visit, she thought a few minutes later as she drove away in the gig, a groom having brought it up to the terrace for her. She was even glad Lady Gramley had not been here, for it was unlikely they would have sat out in the garden in the brightness of the sunshine, feeling the heat of it on their faces and bodies.

And she was glad she had had the courage to agree to ride with Sir Benedict—and Lady Gramley.

She felt really quite restored in spirit.

Perhaps she was coming alive again.

But whatever would Matilda say?