Only Enchanting by Mary Balogh

23

It was Easter Sunday morning, and the sun shone from a clear blue sky. There was warmth in the air. The church bells pealed out the glad tidings of renewed life, and the inhabitants of the village of Candlebury stood about on the churchyard path greeting one another, wishing one another a happy Easter while their children darted about among the nearer gravestones as though they were a playground constructed specifically for their amusement.

The rector stood outside the church doors, smiling genially and shaking hands with his parishioners as they came out of the church, his vestments lifted by the slight breeze.

There was a heightened buzz of excitement this morning, even apart from the joy that Easter always brought. For Viscount Ponsonby—Mr. Flavian, that was—had come home at long last, apparently none the worse for his long and dreadful ordeal, but actually looking more handsome than ever. And he had brought a bride with him, and she was not that Miss Frome, who had abandoned him, poor gentleman, all those years ago at just the time he had most needed loved ones about him, and had gone off and married an earl.

Mr. Thompson would lose his wager with Mr. Radley, though he did not look particularly upset about it this morning. He had wagered that, now the countess was widowed and back living with her mama and papa at Farthings Hall, she would maneuver matters so that she would marry the viscount after all, and before summer was out too.

The new viscountess was not the sort of dazzling beauty Lord Ponsonby might have got for himself, handsome and rich as he was, not to mention the title. But everyone was glad of that fact. He had not chosen on looks alone. Not that the viscountess was not a beauty in her own way. She was nicely dressed and elegant, without being ostentatious about it and making all the rest of them feel rustic and shabby. She had a neat figure and a pleasant face, and she smiled a lot with what appeared to be genuine good humor. She looked them all directly in the eye as she smiled. She had done it when she went into the church on the viscount’s arm, and she had done it again when she came out. And she lingered on the path with her husband, exchanging a few words with some of their number.

Most of the conversations beyond the earshot of Lord and Lady Ponsonby centered upon them, as was only natural. The previous viscount had suffered ill health for years before his death, poor gentleman, and they had scarcely seen him. And this one had been gone since even before his brother’s demise. Now he was back, looking fit and healthy and handsome and . . . happy.

Any new bridegroom ought to look happy, of course, but it did not always happen, especially among the rich and titled, who married for all sorts of reasons, most of which had nothing to do with love or happiness.

The bride looked happy too.

And was it true that they had promised a garden party for everyone at some time during the summer? Yes, it most certainly was true. They had said so to Mrs. Turner, head of the altar committee, when she had called upon them two days ago, and Mrs. Turner had told Miss Hill in strictest confidence, and, well, they all knew what Miss Hill was like.

Agnes did her best to memorize a few names and faces and occupations. It would take a while, as she confessed candidly to some of the people to whom she was introduced. She begged the indulgence of a little time while she became acquainted with the neighborhood and everyone in it. Everyone seemed perfectly happy to grant her as much time as she needed.

It must be the weather, she thought, that made this setting seem so idyllic and these people so amiable. She had never felt such a sense of home as she felt here. And she had never felt so happy. She had done the right thing. She had.

Were you always waiting for me? And was I always waiting to meet you?he had asked a few nights ago.

All my life,she had replied. And all your life.

And, foolishly extravagant though the words sounded, they felt true. They surely were true.

“Agnes,” he said now, bending his head closer to her ear so that she would hear clearly above the babble of voices and the lovely pealing of the bells, “will you come with me?”

She knew where without having to ask. And she was glad of it. He had one more thing to do. She nodded and took his arm.

There was no vault for the family Arnott, Viscounts of Ponsonby, and their families for more than two centuries back. But there was a separate area of the churchyard, well tended and set off from the rest by low and neatly clipped box hedges. The newest grave with its white marble headstone stood just a few feet inside the gate.

David Arnott, Viscount Ponsonby, it read, together with the dates of his birth and death and a rather flowery inscription informing the world of his blameless existence and instructing angels to carry him up to the throne of heaven, where he would be welcomed with open arms. A marble angel, wings spread and trumpet held to its lips, stood atop the headstone.

“He wanted something simple and to the point,” Flavian said. “Poor David. He used to shudder and laugh at the sorts of things people put on gravestones. Our grandfather, whom we remembered as a foul-tempered old tyrant, is written of as though he had been a saint.”

But he spoke fondly and with a slight smile on his face, Agnes noticed—and without a trace of a stammer.

“A graveyard ought to be a place of horrors,” he said. “It is not, though, is it? It is peaceful here. I am glad he is here.”

His grip on her hand had tightened, and she saw, when she stole another glance at him, that his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“I did love him,” he said.

“Of course you did,” she said. “And of course he knew it. And he loved you in return.”

He leaned down and set a palm flat on the grave before straightening up.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Do you believe in an afterlife, Agnes?”

“I do,” she told him.

“Then be happy, David,” he said.

They had walked to church, even though it was all of two miles. They began the walk home after waving farewell to a few villagers who lingered. Agnes raised her parasol to shelter her face from the brightness of the sun.

“I am so glad we came here,” she said. “Will we go back to town now that Easter is over and the Season will begin?”

“Maybe later,” he said. “Maybe not. Do we have to decide now?”

“No,” she said.

“Those were very civil letters I had from your father and your brother yesterday,” he said. “Shall we invite them to visit us during the summer? And your sister too? Perhaps we can have the garden party while they are all here.”

“I would like that,” she said. “And I think I will write to my mother. I may never go to see her. Indeed, I doubt I ever will. But I think I will write. Ought I, do you think?”

“There is nothing you ought to do,” he said. “But write to her if it is what you wish to do. She will be pleased. So, I think, will you.”

He stopped walking when they came to the top of the rise before the descent into the bowl of the inner park about the house. She heard him inhale deeply and exhale on a sigh.

“This is not happily-ever-after, is it?” he asked her.

“No,” she said, “but there are moments that feel like it.”

“This moment?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Have I told you that I love you?” he asked her. “Deuce take it, Agnes, but they are the hardest words in the English language for a man to say. I have not said them. I would have noticed if I had.”

“No,” she agreed, laughing, “you have not.”

And her heart yearned to hear just those three simple words strung together into the loveliest phrase ever uttered. If, that was, the speaker was the right man.

He turned to her, took her parasol and tossed it unceremoniously to the grass beside the path, grasped both her hands, and brought them to his chest, where he held them with his own. His green eyes, unprotected by any hooding of eyelids, gazed into hers.

“Agnes Arnott,” he said, “I l-l-l—”

“I love you,” she said softly.

“That is what I am t-trying to say,” he told her.

“No,” she said, smiling. “I love you.”

“Do you?” He raised their clasped hands to his lips. “Do you, Agnes? It is not just my title and my money and my irresistible good looks and charm?”

She laughed. “Oh, well, and those too.”

He grinned at her and looked like the blond, handsome, carefree boy he must once have been.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know.”

He wrapped his arms about her waist, lifted her from the ground, and spun her twice about, at the same time tipping back his head and howling out his happiness.

And he was happy. So was she.

Agnes braced her hands on his shoulders, looked down into his face, and laughed.