Someone to Cherish

by Mary Balogh

  The Dowager Countess of Riverdale, his paternal grandmother, came despite her advanced age, as did Great-aunt Edith, her sister. The aunts came, his father’s sisters—Matilda, Louise, and Mildred, the eldest and youngest of them with their husbands. Then there were Avery and Anna; Alexander and Wren; Elizabeth and Colin; and Cousin Althea, Alex and Elizabeth’s mother. They all brought their children, a few of whom were adults, most of whom were decidedly not. Viscount Dirkson and Aunt Matilda brought his son from his first marriage, Adrian Sawyer.

  Aunts and cousins and assorted others shook Harry’s hand, slapped his back, clasped his shoulder, hugged him, kissed him, laughed and squealed over him, scolded him, and generally greeted him with hearty enthusiasm and unabashed affection. Children, released from long hours of being cooped up inside stuffy carriages, roared and shrieked over the terrace and the lawn and darted into the house, where those who remembered being there before led the way up to the nursery floor while parents largely ignored the mayhem and nurses clucked and fussed and shooed and tried to bring order out of chaos.

  Then there was Harry’s immediate family. First to arrive of that group was his mother, with Marcel and Marcel’s two adult children from another marriage, the twins, Bertrand and Estelle Lamarr. Harry’s stepsiblings.

  “I suppose,” his mother said after hugging him tightly, “you were expecting us.”

  Harry felt like the village idiot because the answer was no. He refrained from answering.

  Truly remarkably, Camille and Joel had done what they had avoided doing at Christmastime. They had left their home in Bath and come all the way to Hinsford with their whole brood.

  “Because I could not possibly allow you to turn thirty without being here to hold your hand, Harry,” Camille remarked as she kissed his cheek.

  Andrew, the deaf one of her children, plucked at Harry’s sleeve and then held up all ten fingers, closed his fists, held up all ten again, and did it once more. Thirty.

  Harry ruffled his nephew’s hair. “Your uncle Harry is getting to be an old man, alas,” he said, making sure the boy could read his lips, though he was not an expert at it.

  Joel was carrying a sleeping twin on each arm and was thus unable to shake his brother-in-law’s hand. He winked at him instead.

  They had brought with them Mrs. Kingsley, Harry’s maternal grandmother. His aunt and uncle, his mother’s brother, had come from Dorsetshire, though somehow they arrived with everyone else.

  Abigail and Gil were the last to arrive, with their three children.

  “We have a bit of a soft spot for Hinsford, Harry,” Gil said, wringing his friend’s hand almost hard enough to break bones after Abigail had hugged him. “It was here that we met and married.”

  “The only reason you came, I suppose,” Harry said, rescuing his hand.

  “There should be another reason?” Gil grinned at him.

  It said a great deal for Mrs. Sullivan’s competence, Harry thought during those hours as he fought bewilderment over the invasion of his quiet, peaceful home and park, that she had a bed for everyone without exception in the house, though it was surely almost bursting at the seams. And presumably she had enough food and space for everyone in the dining room. Harry decided that he simply would not worry about any of it. The women’s committee and Mrs. Sullivan between them would have thought of everything, down to the finest detail and beyond. He would only cause confusion if he tried issuing orders. But he felt a bit as he had when he was brought home from Paris—totally helpless, that was, and rather as if his presence in his own home was redundant despite the fact that he was the reason for everyone’s being here, as he had been then.

  Oh, and upon the theme of the house bursting at the seams—there were a few other guests, all strangers to Harry. They included Miss Leeson, who a month or so ago had become betrothed to Boris Wayne, Harry’s cousin, eldest son of Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas. Miss Leeson’s mother had come too, with another daughter, Miss Fanny Leeson. Great-aunt Edith had brought her great-nephew and great-niece, Gordon and Miranda Monteith, who had come to London from the north of England with their parents for a month or two and had been persuaded to spend a week or so of that time here. And there was Miss Sally Underwood, a cousin of Adrian Sawyer’s on his mother’s side.

  It did not take Harry long to detect a theme.

  If they could not matchmake for him in London at the great marriage mart, his fond female relatives would do the best they could here. Each of the three unattached young ladies was pretty in her own way and refined in manner and doubtless of impeccable lineage and accomplished in all the arts in which young ladies were expected to be accomplished.

  If someone would just be kind enough to shoot him now, Harry thought when he was finally alone and dressing for the evening with more than usual care, that someone would be doing him a great favor. He grinned rather grimly at his image in the glass.

  “A rather elaborate creation, Mark, do you not think?” he asked his valet as he saw what had been done with his neckcloth.

  “Any London valet would weep at the simplicity of it,” Mark said.

  The insubordination of valets! Harry viewed it with a jaundiced eye and turned away from the mirror.

  Amid all the bewildering bustle of the past few hours, he had not for one moment forgotten about Lydia and what had happened to her today. There just had not been a single moment in which to do anything about it, however.

  “We decided to surprise you for your birthday, Harry,” Grandmama Westcott informed him unnecessarily when he weaved his way across his crowded drawing room to make his bow to her. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying predinner drinks without his having to do anything about offering them. “I hope you are happy.” Her manner warned him that she expected an affirmative answer.

  “Ecstatic. And certainly surprised, Grandmama,” he said. “You could have knocked me down with one of the feathers from your bonnet.”

  He smiled at her when she looked at him suspiciously.

  He had not asked yet what was planned for the actual day of his birthday, and no one had volunteered the information. Perhaps that was to be a surprise too. On the whole, he thought it best that it remain that way. It was going to be unavoidable anyway, whatever it was. Just as with a looming battle, all he could do was carry on with his life and face the ordeal with as much courage and fortitude as he could muster when the time came.

  What the devil had happened to Tom Corning this afternoon? He had probably made his escape even before the first carriage rocked to a halt outside the doors of the house, and slunk home to his quiet tea with Hannah. Lucky devil.

  And what was happening with Lydia? Perhaps nothing. Maybe by now the whole stupid storm had blown over for lack of fuel. Was there a mixing of metaphors there? Perhaps the procession of so many grand carriages through the village earlier had provided enough food for chatter and speculation to crowd out all else.

  And just perhaps he was being very naïve.

  Mrs. Piper had decided to whip up trouble—with some success, if Hannah had thought it necessary to send Tom here after school to warn him. Jeremy Piper was a notorious mischief maker, and it sounded very much as if he had been spying upon Lydia, no doubt in the hope of digging up some dirt to feed his mother’s love of a good salacious story to carry to her neighbors. Most of the Reverend Tavernor’s fervent women followers had been half in love with him, Harry had always thought. They were probably jealous of Lydia since she now had all the glory of being his widow.

  Most people must realize what nonsense it all was, of course. What was so very scandalous, after all, about a single man kissing a single woman on her doorstep when he escorted her home in the rain—with his coachman as a witness? Or about his chopping wood for her? Or accepting refreshments from her afterward? But . . . Going to call upon her during an evening and staying a good long while when it was common knowledge that she l
ived alone? Dash it all, he had known there might be a problem if that ever became known. So had she. It was why she had ended the affair almost—though not quite—before it began.

  Even if only a few people chose to be shocked and outraged by Mrs. Piper’s story, though—and actually there might be more than just a few who would be disapproving, even if not fully outraged—Lydia’s life would be less than comfortable for a while. That realization gnawed at Harry all evening while he was besieged with news and chatter from his uninvited guests.

  “Mama,” he said quite late in the evening, when a number of the guests, especially those who were not family, had retired after a long day, “may I have a word with you?”

  “Of course, Harry.” She looked up at him with an expectant smile and raised eyebrows. Wren and Alexander and Bertrand Lamarr, with whom she was conversing, looked at him with interest.

  “In private?” he said.

  “But of course.” She got to her feet.

  He might as well have stood in the middle of the drawing room blowing a bugle, he thought ruefully as he opened the drawing room door to allow her to precede him out. A sort of hush had fallen upon the occupants, who had all been chattering merrily in their own groups a moment ago.

  So much for quiet discretion.

  Fifteen

  Lydia was preparing to go out late the following morning. She was going to walk into the village to buy a few items she did not really need. She was not going to hide away at home, she had decided overnight. Nor was she going to hang her head and hurry along the street and hope no one noticed her. She had certainly had plenty of time to make her decision, for she had scarcely slept. If people had anything to say, they could say it to her rather than just about her. That would be a nice change for them. If people wished to shun her or give her the cut direct, then she would give them the opportunity to do it today. In the meanwhile she was going to carry on with her life as usual.

  She had started the day by throwing wide every curtain in the house. And when she let Snowball outside, she went too and even played the stick game for ten minutes, though admittedly she did so in the back garden rather than the front.

  She really had no idea just how bad it was going to be. Denise had been a bit vague about it when she called earlier. She had fully supported Lydia’s decision to go out and face the whole thing down, however, and had even offered her company. Lydia had said no. This was something she must do alone. There was going to be no more hiding behind or clinging to anyone, not even another woman. What she had begun doing on the evening of the assembly, despite the rather disastrous results, she was going to continue doing.

  She would not retreat back into her shell.

  Perhaps the village would be talking today about the new arrivals at Hinsford Manor. Lydia had not counted the number of carriages yesterday, but it had been considerable. Where had all the people been put? And all the horses and carriages? Had anyone been expecting them? Had Harry? Lydia’s guess was that the whole of the Westcott family had come to stay, and they were an illustrious lot, to say the least. Surely it was not too much to hope that the pathetic gossip that had erupted yesterday into near scandal over the silly fact that Major Westcott had kissed her in her doorway would be superseded today by all the excitement of knowing that a good chunk of the English aristocracy was virtually on their doorstep?

  There was a knock upon her front door just as she was getting up her courage to don her pelisse and bonnet. It would be Hannah this time or Mrs. Bailey, she supposed. But when she opened the door, she discovered that it was neither.

  “Oh,” she said while Snowball went into an ecstasy of yipping and bouncing and tail waving. Harry Westcott was removing his hat, his expression surely as grim as it must have been when he was facing a regiment of enemy soldiers charging into battle. He was not alone. There was an older lady of aristocratic bearing and elegant appearance with him. Her eyes, steady and grave, were leveled upon Lydia.

  “Lydia,” Harry said, “may I have the honor of presenting my mother, the Marchioness of Dorchester?”

  “It is too late to ask permission, Harry,” his mother said. “The deed has already been done. How do you do, Mrs. Tavernor? May we step inside? Or are we interrupting something?”

  “I was about to go out,” Lydia said none too graciously. “But it can wait.”

  She stood reluctantly to one side while the Marchioness of Dorchester stepped into her cottage, filling it, dwarfing it with her aristocratic presence and the faint smell of some expensive perfume. Lydia would have scooped up Snowball and held her out of the way, but Harry had already done it himself. The dog was trying to lick his face and was wriggling with what looked very like sheer joy.

  Lydia had not felt kindly disposed toward Major Harry Westcott during the night, imagining as she had that he was reveling in the company of his family, untouched by scandal, contemptuous of gossip, and sparing not a single thought for what she might be enduring. She had known that she was being unfair, but sometimes it was hard to ward off self-pity and an accompanying irritability. Sometimes it was hard to admit that one was almost entirely and solely to blame for the ills that came into one’s life. For he would not have kissed her forehead the night before last if she had not asked him some time ago if he was ever lonely. He would not have chopped her wood or any of the rest of it. By his own admission he had hardly known she existed.

  The marchioness had moved right into the living room, but only, apparently, to make more room in the porch. She turned to look steadily at Lydia again.

  “I believe I had an acquaintance with your mother,” she said. “She was Julia Winterbourne? Your father is Mr. Jason Winterbourne?”

  “Yes.” Lydia raised her eyebrows. “You knew her well, ma’am?”

  “Not very, I am afraid,” the marchioness admitted. “But I do recall that she was quite pretty and seemed amiable and sweet-tempered. However, I believe she is about to become a very dear friend from my younger years. And I am about to be transported with delight at the discovery that her daughter is living in the very village where I spent so many years with my children during their growing years.”

  Lydia stared mutely at her. She was very aware of Harry standing silently just behind her. At the edge of her vision she could see his arm moving as he petted Snowball. “But I do not suppose,” she said, “you can be feeling any great delight at the way my name has been coupled with your son’s in local gossip since yesterday.”

  “Lydia—”

  But his mother cut Harry off with a look and a lifting of her eyebrows. “It is being said, apparently, that you exchanged a good-night kiss with him on your doorstep a couple of evenings ago when you had every reason to believe yourself to be unobserved,” she said. “Is that what happened, Mrs. Tavernor? Harry says not quite. He says he kissed your forehead, but you did not return the kiss in any way. I believe him, unless he is being chivalrous and is lying to shield your good name. But even if you contradict him and say it was a mutually shared, even passionate, embrace, it would seem hardly deserving of being spoken of as though there were something sordid about it. I do not remember Mrs. Piper, though I do recall her husband’s family. Vaguely, however. They never worked on the Hinsford estate. I understand she feels a particular obligation to honor the memory of your late husband, who died saving her son’s life. That is understandable, but it is no excuse for spreading unsubstantiated and doubtless exaggerated rumors in a deliberate attempt to cause embarrassment, even trouble, for his widow. According to Harry, her son appears to have been spying on you for some time.”

  “I will not apologize for what happens in my own home,” Lydia said. “Or try to explain or justify. But to you, ma’am, since you are his mother and have been civil to me, I will say that I am not ashamed of anything that has happened between Major Westcott and me. And until the evening of the assembly there had not been any contact at all between us for a couple
of weeks. I was away visiting my father and brothers and sister-in-law. Your son and I are not close friends. We are friendly acquaintances.”

  She heard Harry inhale sharply behind her as though he was about to say something, but his mother looked at him again and he held his peace.

  “I believe you, Mrs. Tavernor,” she said. “This is a particularly lovely morning after a bit of a dull start. There is not a cloud in the sky, and there is scarcely a breath of wind. Your front garden is a glory of spring color. Is your back garden just as pretty?”

  “Not quite,” Lydia said, frowning at the sudden change of subject. “The woodpile is back there, and there is a shed. They take up almost half the garden.”

  “I will take a look out there anyway, if I may,” the marchioness said. “Perhaps your little dog would like to accompany me. I will find a back door in your kitchen, I presume?”

  “Yes,” Lydia said, taking a step toward the kitchen. “I will show you—”

  “Oh, I think it very unlikely I will get lost,” the marchioness said, taking Snowball from Harry’s arms and laughing as the dog first yipped at her and then licked her hand and tried to do the same to her chin. “No, little dog. Manners, please. I like you well enough, but I do draw the line at having my face washed.”

  And she stepped past Lydia, made her way through the kitchen, and let herself out into the garden. She shut the door behind her with an audible click.

  Lydia turned a frowning face upon Harry. “What—?”

  “She has deliberately left us alone,” he explained.

  Her frown deepened.

  “Lydia,” Harry said, “this is all absurd and bizarre and a number of other things. But it has happened. I walked over to Tom Corning’s earlier this morning, and he told me that Mrs. Piper has had some success in whipping up indignation in that segment of the population that believes you are not entitled to a life of your own but ought to commit the whole of it to grieving for your husband. They are the people who followed him with fervent devotion while he lived and have revered him as a martyr since his passing. They set you on a pedestal along with him when he was vicar here and elevated you even higher after he was gone. You became to them the model of the perfectly devout and virtuous widow. Your behavior in the year or so following his passing confirmed them in that opinion. They may not have appeared to pay you much attention, but your quiet modesty was a comfort to them, I suppose. They did not expect that the time would come when you would wish to start living again.”