Web of Love (33 page)

“And this is your home,” he said, patting her reassuringly on the back. “You must come here, Ellie, when you come back from Amberley's home. You must not rush into buying a place that you may not really like. You must come here. I'll stay sober if you come home, you know.”

She withdrew her cheek from his and smiled up into his face. “No, you won't, Papa,” she said. “Be honest. But it does not matter. I love you anyway.”

He smiled a little sheepishly.

And so the visit to her father-in-law was made, where Ellen lived through surely the most uncomfortable half-hour of her life. And could not collapse with relief even when it was over, because it had to be repeated with her sister-in-law.

She asked only that Jennifer not be told. She would tell the girl in her own time. At the end of the visit to Amberley, she planned. Indeed, she was somewhat surprised that someone did not suggest that she was no fit companion for Jennifer and should not accompany the girl into the country. But no one did say that. In fact, Dorothy was not even unkind and did not order her from the house.

It had all been a lot easier—and many times worse—than she had anticipated.

 

L
ORD
E
DEN HAD
a few confrontations of his own to face before leaving London behind him.

His twin did not even allow him the night in which to get used to the totally new fact of his life. She came to his dressing room soon after he had escorted Susan home, and came inside without waiting for his valet to answer her knock. He dismissed his man.

“Dom,” she said, leaning back against the door, “did you know?”

He did not pretend ignorance. “No,” he said.

“It is yours?”

“She says not,” he said.

“I saw you talking to her.” She pushed away from the door and came toward him. “Is there any chance that she is lying, Dom? You were lovers, weren't you?”

“She says it is Charlie's,” he said, turning away from her.

“Oh, Dom,” she said, “I am so very, very sorry. And tomorrow you leave. And you will never see her again.”

“I am going to Amberley,” he said.

“Oh.” There was silence for a moment. She sounded almost her normal cheerful self when she broke it. “You are going to fight, then. I am glad to hear it. She is by far the most sensible female who has ever taken your fancy, Dom.”

“She has not taken my fancy,” he said. “There is nothing between us, Mad. Except this, of course. There are a few matters to settle, that is all.”

“Yes,” she said, “that is all.” She reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek and whisked herself from the room. She paused as she was closing the door. “But that is quite enough, Dom. I know it. I feel it in my bones.” She laughed lightly as she shut the door.

Edmund was not nearly so sympathetic or so easy to deal with. It was a mere courtesy call Lord Eden made to inform his brother of his intentions. He found him in the library.

“What is happening?” the earl said with a frown. “You are coming to Amberley, Dominic?”

“You don't need to look quite so enthusiastic,” Lord Eden said with a grin.

“I am not particularly enthusiastic,” his brother said. “We have invited guests. I think you know that one of them may not welcome your presence there too.”

“Ellen?”

“Well, you tell me,” the earl said. “Will she mind your being there, Dominic? I don't know quite what happened in Brussels, and I do not know what has happened since. And I would not presume to pry. But she did not look overjoyed to see you when you arrived here a few afternoons ago.”

“She knows I am going,” Lord Eden said, “and says that she is still planning to go too.”

Lord Amberley looked uncertain. “Well,” he said, “there is not much I can say, then, is there? Amberley is your home, Dominic. I would never dream of closing its doors to you. But I will make one thing clear. I will not have Mrs. Simpson harassed. Is that clear?”

“I feel like a young boy who has been hauled onto the carpet,” Lord Eden said. “I will not harass her, Edmund. But I have to be there. Do you understand?”

“No, quite frankly, I don't,” his brother said. “But you are an adult, Dominic. I will not even try to tell you how you should behave, beyond what I must do to protect a guest in my home, of course.”

“Of course,” Lord Eden said. “I will take myself off, then, Edmund.” But he paused with his hand on the library door. He did not turn his head. “You will doubtless hear it from Madeline or Anna. I might as well tell you myself. She is increasing.”

He continued on his way out of the room.

B
EING AT HOME AGAIN AFTER SUCH A LONG absence was a pleasure too deep to put into words, the Earl of Amberley found. Fortunately for him, he was able to communicate with his wife at a level beyond words, and he knew that she shared his happiness. It seemed incredible to him that there could ever have been a time without Alex. Yet they had been married for only a little longer than three years.

His guests arrived only a scant day after his own family, and at the same time the Carringtons were coming home, bringing with them Walter's friend Lord Agerton. And Susan and Mrs. Courtney had decided to travel down in their company.

There were visits to receive—from large, genial Mr. Courtney, who was beaming with delight at the prospect of having his beloved daughter and his wife home once more, and from the rector, who brought the local news, including the fact that Miss Letitia Stanhope was recovering from a severe chill and that his dear helpmate was in expectation of a happy event. The happy event had been an annual one for a number of years.

And there were visits to be made—to the Mortons and the Cartwrights, to the Misses Stanhope and the rector's wife, to Mr. Watson. And to his dearest friend, Sir Perry Lampman, and his family. And of course to the laborers on his estate.

There were guests to entertain. He spent the whole of a morning showing off Amberley Court to Mrs. Simpson and her stepdaughter. And he spent more than an hour of the afternoon showing Lieutenant Penworth the music room and the long gallery, before the latter tired and sat at a window in the gallery to look out along the valley that led to the sea and the cliffs. Madeline stayed there with him.

The earl and countess organized a dinner party on the first full day their guests were in their home. There were to be twenty persons present.

“Twenty!” the countess said in some amazement. “Is it possible, Edmund? There seemed to be only a handful when we listed them off. But now when I write the names down, I find there are twenty.”

“It is just that we are familiar with almost all of them, Alex,” he said, “and do not feel there will be any great effort involved in entertaining them all. Now, twenty strangers would be a formidable prospect.”

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose you are right.”

The Carringtons were invited with Lord Agerton, Mr. and Mrs. Courtney with Susan and their eldest son, Howard, Mr. Watson, and Sir Peregrine and Lady Grace Lampman.

Ellen was enjoying herself in a somewhat tense sort of way. It was not comfortable to be in the same house as Lord Eden, of course, and she fully expected that he would find the opportunity soon to carry out some of the threats he had made at her father-in-law's house. But so far he had stayed away from her. He had been out visiting friends much of the time. He had sat talking with his sister and the lieutenant for hours on end. He had accompanied Jennifer to the Carringtons'.

But if she could ignore what she knew must be coming, she could feel a certain contentment. The house and its surroundings were quite magnificent, though she had not yet seen the sea or been up onto the cliffs or been inland along the valley, all of which she had been told they would do during the next few days.

And the earl and countess were kindness itself, and treated her as a real friend rather than merely as a guest in their home. The countess had taken her to the nursery to see the children, and had marveled again that the baby was willing to come to her, though she did not smile. She rarely smiled for anyone except her father, Lady Amberley had explained.

The dowager countess was equally kind, as was Lady Madeline, though her time was taken up mainly with her betrothed.

And yet they must all know. They must know that she was with child. And they must suspect that it was not her husband's. Yet nothing was said, and there was no detectable hostility in their manner.

She sat between Mr. Carrington and Sir Peregrine Lampman at dinner and was thoroughly entertained by the humor of both. She could not remember when she had laughed quite so much.

And after dinner, when some of the young people went downstairs to the music room and Susan Jennings held court to Mr. Watson, Lord Agerton, and Sir Peregrine, telling them of her dreadful experiences in Spain, Ellen sat with Lady Amberley and Lady Lampman, who talked of their children.

“We are being dreadfully rag-mannered,” the countess said after a few minutes. “I am afraid, Mrs. Simpson, that we mothers of young children become dreadful bores when we discover other ladies in like case. Grace has a daughter just a little older than Christopher, and a son a little older than Caroline. And I must make sure, you see, that my two cut their teeth and smiled and crawled and slept through the night, and so on and so on, at no later an age than hers. It would be shameful to find that mine had lagged behind.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.

“We have to make a desperate effort not to match Christopher with Rose and Paul with Caroline,” Lady Lampman said. “It would be the depths of degradation for us to become matchmaking mamas, Mrs. Simpson. But Paul's fair coloring would be a wonderful complement to Caroline's dark beauty, Alexandra.”

All three of them laughed.

Ellen liked Lady Lampman. At first she had thought the Lampmans quite mismatched. Sir Peregrine, with his laughing eyes and relaxed, amiable manner, must be several years younger than his wife, whose slim, upright figure and narrow face and dark coloring gave her a rather severe appearance. But there was a quiet charm about her that became obvious on closer acquaintance.

And Ellen had noticed an exchange of looks between husband and wife at the dinner table. There had been nothing very significant. She had not smiled, though there had suddenly been a great depth to her gray eyes. He had smiled, though more with his eyes than with his facial muscles. It had been an entirely private and very brief interchange that had made Ellen's stomach quite turn over inside her with a longing and a nostalgia.

“You must tell me something about yourself, Mrs. Simpson,” Lady Lampman was saying now. “You lost your husband at Waterloo, I understand. I am so very sorry. Is it painful for you to talk about him?”

“No.” Ellen smiled. “For a few months I thought of him continuously and unwillingly—it hurt quite dreadfully. But I am beginning to remember with some pleasure. He was, I think, the kindest man I have known.” She proceeded to tell them about Charlie's habit of buying her gifts for no reason at all except that he felt like doing so and knew they would give her pleasure.

And then the moment came. Just at a time when she was relaxed and enjoying the company of the two ladies who she felt could be real friends.

“Would you care to walk in the formal gardens, Ellen?” Lord Eden was standing in front of their chairs, his head inclined toward her. “Susan and Agerton, Anna and Howard have decided that they must take the air.”

Ellen looked at him and nodded, resisting her first impulse to make some excuse—any excuse. The moment must be faced. There was no point in putting it off. Somehow tonight she must find the words to tell him what he wanted to know, and what he had a right to know.

“You will need a cloak,” he said. “There is no wind, and it is rather a lovely evening. But of course it is autumn.”

“I will fetch one,” she said, getting to her feet and turning to the other two ladies to excuse herself.

 

J
ENNIFER HAD GONE
downstairs to the music room with Anna and Madeline, Mrs. Carrington, and the dowager countess. She listened while her two friends played on the pianoforte, and stayed at the instrument after they had crossed the room to sit with their mothers.

She had never been an accomplished musician. The music mistress at school had despaired of her when it seemed that she always had an excuse for having neglected her practicing. She would be sorry one day, the teacher had warned, when other young ladies were playing their way into the admiration of handsome young men.

It had sounded a little silly to Jennifer. Was the playing of a pianoforte the only way to a man's heart? And did only handsome men appreciate good music?

She sat down on the bench and played quietly to herself from the music that was propped against the stand. She was quite competent enough to play for her own amusement. She had no wish to play for an audience anyway.

“Are you going to play again?” a voice said from behind her when she was finished, and she jumped and turned in some embarrassment to find Lieutenant Penworth standing there, leaning on his crutches.

“Oh,” she said, “I did not know anyone was listening. I'm afraid I am not good.”

“Fairly competent,” he said. “There was something missing in the expression and feel for the music, I must confess.”

Jennifer was unreasonable enough to feel offended. “The piece is rather difficult,” she said. “Perhaps there is something easier in the pile.” But even as she reached out for it, she turned and looked at him again. “You are wearing just a small eye patch. I saw it as soon as we arrived, but have not had a chance to tell you that I had noticed.”

He propped one of his crutches against the pianoforte and seated himself at the end of the bench next to her. “Everyone has noticed,” he said. “How could they fail to do so? My face is a repellent sight. I wish now that I had not come.”

“Repellent?” she said in some surprise. “It is a great improvement on those bandages.”

He gave a bitter little laugh.

“Let me see.” She leaned forward over the keyboard so that she could see the right side of his face, which was turned away from her. “It is indeed a nasty scar. It curves all the way around from your eye to the corner of your mouth. And it is rather livid at present. That is because it is still quite new and because you have kept it covered for so long. In time it will fade, no doubt.”

He laughed again.

“I think,” she said, still peering around into his face, “that in time it will not be unsightly at all. In fact, I think it might make you look rather distinguished. And certainly very heroic.”

“Don't mock me,” he said.

She clucked her tongue. “Your sense of humor is something else you left behind on the battlefield of Waterloo,” she said. “You really should learn to laugh at yourself a little, sir. And if you find people shunning you, you know, it is only because you have such a ferocious and morose manner. It is not because of your appearance. I feel sad for you.”

“Don't pity me!” he hissed vehemently through his teeth. “For God's sake, don't pity me. I am mortally sick of being pitied.”

“I have no intention of pitying you,” she said tartly. “One has to like someone in order to pity him, does one not? You go out of your way to make yourself disagreeable, sir. I really do not know how Lady Madeline can tolerate you.”

“Perhaps because she is a lady,” he snapped back.

“And I am not,” she said, straightening her back. “Perhaps you had better move away, sir. I am about to murder your ears with my music again. Unless you want to turn the pages for me, of course. I suppose you can be a gentleman even if I am not a lady.”

“My right hand is occupied,” he said, indicating the crutch that he still held, “and my left hand is clumsy. But I will try.”

“Are you always going to have your crutches?” she asked. “You would have your hands free, would you not, if you had an artificial leg?”

“And I would doubtless fall flat on my face with every step I took,” he said. “I think not, Miss Simpson. Other people can find some other spectacle with which to amuse themselves.”

“Did it ever cross your mind,” she asked, “that other people might have better things to do with their time than stare at you?”

“Meaning that I have a false sense of my own importance,” he said. “Thank you, ma'am. You are always so very pleasant.”

“There is nothing forcing you to stay here,” she said, beginning to play, and finding that every finger was on the wrong note. But she played valiantly on. “I can turn my own pages, thank you very much. And you see? I am playing abominably and no one is noticing. It is a foolish and a conceited thing to imagine that everyone's attention is focused on oneself.”

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Carrington called, smiling kindly and nodding from the other end of the room, “that is a difficult piece of music, is it not? Would you like Anna to help you find something simpler?”

“No, thank you, ma'am,” Jennifer called back, lifting her fingers from the keyboard immediately. “I have just finished.”

She looked at the lieutenant out of the corner of her eye, and the next moment they were both bent forward behind the music rest, tortured by smothered laughter.

“Let me try it,” he said, “and see if I can do a little better.”

All of Jennifer's amusement fled. “Oh,” she said, “I suppose you are an accomplished musician, and I shall end up feeling doubly mortified?”