Mary Balogh (57 page)

“I
T IS TRULY
magnificent,” Anne said, “and a total folly to have it built out here in the middle of nowhere, glorious and wondrous as that nowhere is. We are agreed, Mary?”

“Oh, yes,” Mary said. “And a wonderful if improbable setting for a birthday party.”

“And having said as much to each other in a dozen different ways during the past fifteen minutes or so,” Anne said with a smile, “shall we confess to what is really on both our minds?”

“Are they not coming here?” Mary asked. “Have they turned back?”

“Either way,” Anne said, “I can only read hope into their absence. If they had continued embarrassed and tongue-tied in each other’s company, they would have hurried along on our heels, would they not, for fear of being left alone together?”

“You think they have talked?” Mary asked. “And come to some sort of an understanding?”

“Or bloodied each other’s noses,” Anne said with a laugh that sounded a little nervous. “I have wished for this for so long, Mary, that I hardly dare hope. Wallace has never been quite happy. Always, even at our most joyous moments—our wedding, the birth of the children, their christenings, a few other occasions—always I have been aware of something. And I have known him long enough to be quite aware by now of what that something is. It is guilt and grief. Grief fades when a person is dead, Mary. You would know that as a widow. But it does not go away when the person grieved for is still alive.”

“I have not known Lord Edmond long,” Mary said,
“and cannot pretend to know him or understand him well. But I am sure that it is guilt and this family rift that have … oh, that have kept him from being the person he might have been.”

“You love him, do you not?” Anne asked quickly.

Mary stared at her. “I am betrothed to—” she said.

Anne waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, yes,” she said. “But you are not serious about that, Mary. You will not make the mistake of marrying him, I think. And I must confess to some guilt of my own. I maneuvered this situation—him going to the abbey and you coming here. Am I not dreadful? You love him, do you not?”

“Lord Edmond?” Mary said. She hesitated. “I have grown fond of him.”

Anne chuckled and then sobered. “Oh, here they come,” she said. “We must pretend to be admiring this pillar, Mary. Corinthian, is it? I have never been able to remember what name goes with which kind of pillar.”

“It is Corinthian,” Mary said.

They both glanced with disguised curiosity at the two men when they came up, but absurdly they all admired and conversed about first the column and then the whole of the domed round pavilion in which Lady Eleanor’s birthday party was to take place the next day.

Five minutes or more passed before Lord Edmond grabbed Mary by the wrist, rather as he had done the afternoon before on their return from Canterbury, and drew her outside to look down on the lake.

“Well, Mary,” he said, “you insisted that I go back. I went back yesterday and I have been back today.”

“And?” she said.

“And I believe I have a brother,” he said, gripping her wrist so tightly that she began to lose the feeling in her hand.

She drew in a deep breath but said nothing.

“And a damned managing sister-in-law,” he said. “It
seems that nothing on this earth can stop her from setting up a similar ordeal with my father.”

She looked at him and smiled.

“And what the devil do you mean by that damned smirk?” he asked her.

“It is a smile,” she said. “And your language belongs in the gutter, my lord.”

“Which is where I live and picked it up,” he said. “And we are back to ‘my lord’ again today, are we?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said.

“Ah.” He looked out at the lake and said nothing for a while. “It is as well. If you called me by my given name again, I would as like be trying to steal kisses or more from you again, Mary. And it would not do with the good, rich man waiting to lead you to the altar, would it?”

“No,” she said.

His grasp shifted to her hand suddenly and he raised it to his lips before releasing it entirely. “Thank you, Mary,” he said. “Thank you for making me go back.”

I
F IT WERE POSSIBLE
,
THE DAY OF
L
ADY
E
LEANOR
’
S
birthday party was sunnier, more cloudless, and warmer than any other day of the glorious summer so far. Everything was perfect, everyone agreed, for the day of celebration. All morning, servants made their way to and from the pavilion, doing last-minute-cleaning and taking the food and the punch. An orchestra, a surprise addition to the party, arrived from Canterbury and made their way to the lake after taking refreshments at the house.

It was bound to storm before the day was out, Doris Shelbourne declared. She could just feel it in the air. But everyone either ignored her or politely agreed that it was a distinct possibility, but perhaps some other day.

Many of the guests walked to the pavilion during the afternoon. Others rode there in carriages. A few select neighbors had been invited. It was difficult to put a name to the entertainment, Lady Cathcart complained to Mary as they strolled across the pasture. It was not strictly a tea, since they were expecting to stay at the pavilion until dusk or perhaps even later. It was certainly not a dinner, since no hot meal was to be served. Though of course a veritable feast had been taken from the house, so they would not starve by any means. Had Lady Mornington observed the extent of it?

Lady Mornington had.

It was too formal for a picnic, Lady Cathcart declared. Yet it was not a ball, was it? There would not be enough guests. Besides, they were wearing day clothes, not nighttime finery. But there was the orchestra. Merely to entertain them as they ate and conversed? Or was there to be dancing? Had Lady Mornington heard?

Lady Mornington had not.

“It is all very provoking,” Lady Cathcart said. “One likes to be able to give a name to the type of entertainment one is attending, does one not, Lady Mornington?”

“Whatever it is,” Mary said with a smile, “we are all certain to enjoy it. Just the weather and the surroundings are sufficient to lift the spirits. Add the pavilion and the orchestra, the food and the company, and I believe Lady Eleanor has excelled herself.”

“Do you believe so?” Lady Cathcart asked doubtfully.

Mary smiled. But in fact she was not convinced. It was true that all those ingredients for a happy day were there, and true, too, that if anyone did not enjoy himself, then the fault must be entirely his. But she was not expecting to enjoy what remained of the afternoon or the evening.

She had been overhasty earlier in the week. Her desire to be married again, to enjoy all the security that marriage could bring, had clouded her judgment. Affection had been the single most prominent factor in her first marriage. She had not given enough attention to it in her plans for the second. Worst of all, perhaps, she had accepted Simon’s offer as much to escape from feelings she wished to deny as to embrace a life she did want.

It was true that no public announcement of her betrothal had been made, but her private word had been given. And she was sorry for it. Oh, it was as good a match as she could hope to make, and it had everything
to offer her that she had ever dreamed of—security, a home in the country, a husband who appeared to care for her. Everything except children, perhaps. She had not broached the subject with Simon again, but she feared that perhaps they could never be in agreement on that point. For him two sons seemed to be family enough.

That important difference notwithstanding, she would be mad, she thought, to end the betrothal. The only possible reason she could have for doing so was that she loved another man. Though when she verbalized the fact in her mind, she had to admit that it was a very major reason indeed for ending an engagement.

And so end it she must. And she feared that it would have to be done on the day of the birthday party. With her decision firmly made, she did not believe she could dissemble for a whole day. Besides, it did not seem fair to do so. Simon had a right to know of her change of heart.

The opportunity did not come until well into the evening. From the start the party was a great success. There was music to listen to and food to eat and punch to drink and conversation to be enjoyed. Later, there was dancing. There was the bank of the lake to be strolled along. The guests mingled freely so that there was little chance of any private
tête-à-tête
.

Mary stayed away from Lord Edmond, a task not difficult to accomplish, since he seemed equally intent on avoiding her. She also stayed away from the viscount as much as she was able, and acknowledged to herself that she was being cowardly, deliberately avoiding the moment that she knew must be faced.

But he finally sought her out and suggested that they join the Ormsbys, Stephanie Wiggins, and a gentleman from the neighborhood in a stroll up through the woods. It seemed that the moment could be avoided no longer,
Mary thought, smiling at him and taking his arm. Though there was perhaps safety in numbers.

They walked up past the follies to the edge of the trees and the beginnings of the pasture.

“Oh, dear,” Leila Ormsby said, pointing to the west. “That is why the heat is still so oppressive though it is evening already. Look!”

She did not need to point. They could hardly avoid seeing the heavy dark clouds banked in the western sky.

“Rain will be welcome,” the Reverend Ormsby said. “Though it would have been better timed had it waited until tomorrow. Perhaps the clouds will pass us by after all.”

“Those are rain clouds if I ever saw any,” Mr. Webber said, shading his eyes.

“At least Doris’s predictions of a storm are unlikely to prove right,” the Reverend Ormsby said. “There is not a breath of wind.”

“That is the very fact that makes me expect one,” his wife said. “Do you think we should hurry back to the house, Samuel, to be with the children?”

He laughed. “And miss the rest of the party?” he said. “There are so many servants at the house, my love, that our presence would be supremely redundant. I suggest we get back to the pavilion in case the rain does come over.”

“I would look a perfect fright if I got wet,” Stephanie said, pulling on Mr. Webber’s arm and turning back to the woods.

The Ormsbys followed them, but Mary and Lord Goodrich by common but unspoken consent strolled out into the pasture.

“I have had so little time alone with you in the past few days,” he said. “Country parties are not the best occasions to enjoy a new betrothal, especially a partly secret one.”

“No,” she said. “Simon—”

“I am selfish, Mary,” he said. “I want you to myself. Waite has seen more of you than I. You are sure he did not harass you yesterday? I was more than annoyed at the unhappy chance that sent us in different directions.”

“It was a pleasant family picnic,” she said. “Lord Edmond spent much of the time with his brother. It seems that they are reconciled, and I can feel nothing but happiness about that.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “Certainly they went off riding together this morning. I cannot help feeling, though, that Waite is making a dupe of Welwyn.”

It was so easy when something unpleasant was to be said, Mary was finding, to grasp at any conversational straw, to put off the evil moment.

“Simon—” she said.

He covered her hand on his arm with his. “You are not really enjoying that party, are you, Mary?” he asked. “I expected something altogether more glittering and formal. I thought we would go to the house and spend some time alone together.”

They were halfway across the pasture, she noticed. She also noticed at the same moment a distant flash of lightning from among the heavy clouds. The old terror clamored for attention. Her breath quickened.

“It is going to storm,” she said. “Did you see that?”

“All the better,” he said, smiling down at her. “The others will stay at the pavilion until it is well past. We will have the house to ourselves, apart from the servants.”

There was a low rumble of thunder, so distant that it was felt more than heard.

“Perhaps we should go back to be with the others,” she said.

There was a suggestion of coolness against their faces.
The trees off to their right, at the edge of the pasture, were beginning to rustle in the breeze.

“Nonsense!” He chuckled. “Are you really afraid of storms, Mary? I will protect you, you know. It would be my pleasure.”

Vivid images of Vauxhall flashed into Mary’s mind with the next fork of distant lightning. “Simon,” she said, “let’s go back.” She held on to rationality. She tried not to want to reach the safety of Edmond.

“Look,” he said, laughing, “we are at the stile already. Come, Mary. We will be at the house before the clouds move over or the storm really begins. By that time I will have you warm and safe in my arms.” He vaulted over the stile, disdaining to use the stepping stones, and he held out a hand to help her up.

“Simon.” She stayed on her side of the fence and gripped the sides of her dress. “I have been trying to say something all the way across the pasture. I cannot seem to force the words out.”

He looked at her closely and dropped his hand.

“I am afraid I have to go back on my promise,” she said. “I cannot marry you. I cannot feel comfortable with the idea, and it would not be fair to marry you just for the security I crave.”

He stood staring at her for a few moments and then extended his hand again. “Come over the stile,” he said, as she set her hand obediently in his. “It is absurd to talk in this manner.” He lifted her down when she had swung her skirt carefully over the top bar. “Is it persuasion you want, Mary?” He drew her to him and kissed her.

“No,” she said, turning her head away. “I am sorry, Simon. I know I am treating you shabbily, but there is no decent way to break a betrothal. I am sorry.”

“It is Waite, is it not?” His voice was tight with anger. “You prefer to sink to the gutter than to marry me, Mary?”

“Please,” she said, “let us not get unpleasant.”