by Mary Balogh
They walked in silence again. But a little farther along there was a wooden seat on one side of the path, the only one on the whole walk. The gardeners always did a good job of keeping it reasonably clean and free from both rot and moss. There was a gap in the trees ahead of it and something of a view diagonally across the eastern corner of the house to the summerhouse in the near distance and an edge of the village beyond it and a bit of countryside beyond that. It was a pleasant place to sit in the summer, either with a book or without.
Lydia stopped by it, though she did not move around it to sit down. Instead she grasped the back with both hands, the dog’s lead still in one of them.
“You asked me why I do not have children,” she said.
He ought not to have asked.
“You do not owe me an explanation,” he said.
And suddenly he did not want to hear of disappointments stretching over months and years or of barrenness or—worse—of miscarriages. He was about to change the subject and point out his cousin Jessica, who was approaching the summerhouse with Gabriel and Abby and Gil. But she resumed speaking before he could do so.
“I did not have children,” she said, “because there was never any possibility of its happening. Ever.”
He closed his mouth. What the devil was that supposed to mean? It means exactly what you think it means, Harry. He had not been imagining things that night.
She was staring downward, her eyes directed at the ground in front of the seat. If she had noticed there was a view from here, she was showing no awareness of it.
“He told me he loved me,” she said. “Before we were married, that is. And after too, a number of times. All the rest of his life, in fact. I believe he meant it. Isaiah did not tell lies. It was just not the sort of love I thought he meant. He explained to me on our . . . on our wedding day. Wedding night, actually. He wanted me to be more than a wife, he told me, that burning ardor in his eyes and his voice that had so attracted me. He wanted me to be his helpmeet. It was the word he always used of me after that. He wanted us to be servants of the Lord together. He wanted us to devote our time and energies, the pledge we had made to each other that morning, our whole lives, in service to the Lord. If there was one thing he admired about the Roman faith, he told me, it was the celibacy of its priesthood. But he believed that actually our priesthood could be even better than that because it could have both a man and a woman, both the male and female sensibility, in service together as a married couple.”
Good God.
“He wanted us to dedicate ourselves to a celibate marriage,” she said. “In fact, he had decided that we would.”
There were a few moments of utter silence. Well, not quite. That robin, or perhaps one of its mates, was singing its heart out from somewhere among the trees not far off. A distant shriek of children at play rose from the front of the house.
“He did not discuss this with you before your marriage?” he asked. “Even though it was something that would drastically affect the whole of your life?”
“Isaiah never discussed anything,” she said. “He decided and then he told. With all people and in all things. He spoke and acted out of . . . love and devotion to God. He spoke what he firmly and sincerely believed. But he would not brook opposition. He never had to. No one ever argued with him. It was because of his . . . charisma.”
“You did not argue?” he asked.
“No, of course not,” she said. “I was young and naïve. I had grown up under the benevolent despotism of my father and brothers. I had that very morning—on my wedding day, that is—vowed to honor and obey the man I had married. The man I loved with my whole heart. And I do not think I fully grasped at the time what it would mean. When I did, I . . . Well, one did not argue with Isaiah. I thought he must be right. I tried to make his vision of life and service my own. I thought my . . . longings were mere selfishness. Even sin.”
She lowered her chin and wept.
Harry took the lead from her hand and wound it about the lower bar along the back of the seat. He took Lydia in his arms and pulled free the ribbons of her bonnet. He tossed the bonnet onto the seat and held her face against his shoulder.
Good God and good God, and were there no other words?
Good God!
He had not been mistaken. She had been a virgin.
He kissed the top of her head and turned his own to rest his cheek against her hair.
“Lydia,” he murmured. “You are free now. You are free, my love.”
Suddenly he could understand her absolute determination to remain that way, never again to surrender her freedom to a man, even one who professed to love her. Even to one she loved. Especially to one she loved.
She had thought it possible to take a lover and enjoy simple, uncomplicated pleasure with him. It was totally naïve of me, she had said.
Ah, Lydia.
He buried his face in her hair and had to swallow several times to prevent himself from weeping with her. She fell quiet after a while but made no immediate attempt to move away from him.
“I wanted a child more than anything else in the world,” she said at last into his shoulder.
He rocked her in his arms.
“Or thought I did,” she said. “But I have discovered that I want freedom more.”
Pointless to tell her she could have both. With him. In order to discover that with him she could be as free as she was now—more so, as she would not be hemmed in by the rigid code of behavior imposed by society upon a widow who lived alone in an English village—she would need to take a colossal leap of trust.
In him.
But why should she trust him? He was a man.
“I am so sorry.” She drew back from him at last and fumbled in a pocket for a handkerchief. She dried her eyes, blew her nose, and put the handkerchief away before looking up at him. “I must look a fright.”
“Well, let me see.” He tipped his head to one side and regarded her critically. “Red eyes. Red cheeks. Shiny red nose. Flattened hair. Yes, you do.”
She smiled, and then laughed. “At least you are honest,” she said.
“Always,” he told her. “With you, always, Lydia. Your hair is flattened and untidy. You look beautiful.”
“Not always honest,” she protested, laughing again.
“Yes,” he told her. “Always. I am sorry I pried. But I am not sorry I know.” I am glad he is dead. He stopped himself from saying it aloud, but he thought it quite explicitly and without guilt. “There will be love for you. The sort of love you were denied when you were younger. There will be love, Lydia. And trust. And freedom. And surely children. But not yet. Not until you are ready.”
He handed her her bonnet. He watched while she drew it on and tied the ribbons beneath her chin. The dog seemed to have fallen asleep in a slant of sunlight.
“You are a kind man, Harry,” she said, looking at him again. “Have you always been?”
“Ask my sisters,” he said. “The answer is no anyway. I was a very selfish young man. While my mother and my sisters donned black and dutifully curtailed all their social activities after my father died, unworthy as he was of even a day of mourning, I donned a token black armband and proceeded to sow some very wild oats. Every ne’er-do-well and sycophant in London was my best friend. I was the Earl of Riverdale and a very wealthy man. I often wonder how I would have turned out if the truth of my birth had not been discovered and I had not been suddenly stripped of everything. I believe I might have become a worthy successor to my father. Sometimes what seem to be the worst things that happen in our lives turn out actually to be the best.”
“I think character runs deeper than circumstances, Harry,” she said. “I think you must always have been a decent, caring man—and boy. I think kindness is something that is an inherent part of you. You were very young when it happened.”
“Twe
nty,” he said. “Is that an excuse?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is. Forgive yourself.”
“Your face is back to normal,” he told her. “It is still beautiful, though, so you need not worry.”
She laughed again. “You are also very absurd,” she said.
“I like to see you laugh,” he told her, and shrugged. “This is probably a stupid question. But would you like to come and meet my grandmothers? They may still be outside. If not, they will probably be in the drawing room, since neither likes to admit to the need of an afternoon sleep. Not during family gatherings anyway. And not when they have each other to compete against. They know what has happened to you. They know I offered for you and you refused. They did not turn their heads to stare at you when we passed earlier, but I am sure they were very well aware of you.”
He was surprised to see that she was giving the question some consideration.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like it. Thank you.”
He ought not to have been surprised. Lydia had backbone, by Jove.
Nineteen
Her dark secret was out at last, Lydia thought as they continued walking along the path, which was sloping slightly downward now. Her dark, bizarre secret, which had always seemed a bit shameful to her. As though she must have been lacking somehow as a woman. And Harry had not known. It had not been obvious to him on the night they made love. Perhaps he had suspected, but he had not known.
He had not said a word in condemnation of Isaiah. Nor had he ridiculed her for so meekly accepting her lot during six years of marriage. He had held her instead. Yet rather than assuring her that he would shelter her in his strong, manly arms and protect and care for her for the rest of her life, he had reminded her that she was free now. Then, rather than assure her that she looked none the worse for her crying session, he had admitted she looked a mess and called her beautiful anyway. He had made her laugh. Deliberately.
He had mentioned trust.
There will be love, Lydia. And trust. And freedom.
He had talked more about the effect the discovery of his illegitimacy had had upon his twenty-year-old self. Sometimes what seem to be the worst things that happen in our lives turn out actually to be the best. He had shared something painful from his own life, she guessed, in order to distract her from her own. Or to remind her that everyone suffers in the course of a lifetime. No one is immune. And perhaps to remind her that there is an end to suffering.
There will be love, Lydia. And trust. And freedom. And surely children. But not yet. Not until you are ready.
She was terribly, terribly in love with him.
And trust.
It was the word that of all others had lodged in her mind. And she understood that it was what everything was all about for her. Trust. Or lack of trust. She had stopped trusting in love when it had prevented her from moving into adulthood as other girls of her social class did. It had wrapped her in a stifling cocoon of male protection instead. It had stopped her from developing any sort of discernment that might have saved her from the marriage she had made. For she could look back now and see that all of Isaiah’s ardor, all the burning passion in his eyes, had been focused upon his faith. Yes, he had told her he loved her, but it was easy now to understand that there had been nothing personal in his protestations. He had loved her as a helpmeet, as a meek, biddable woman who would share his faith and his life of service.
What had been destroyed in her more than anything else was her ability to trust. And her ability to know what and whom she could trust. It had become safer to trust only herself.
She did trust herself. That was a start. She had not done so throughout her marriage. She had convinced herself that any disappointment she felt, any unhappiness, any stirring of rebellion, was wrong, even sinful, because Isaiah said so and he was both her husband and her pastor. She had put her trust in obedience, one of her marriage vows, and in her husband instead of in herself. She could trust in herself now, though. In her real self, that was, the self that was deep down inside her where she knew what was right for her and from which well of knowledge and strength she could withstand any outer force that might try to destroy her or make her doubt herself.
She was the social equal of anyone. She was the daughter of a gentleman of birth and property and means, and she was the sister-in-law of an earl. She was the widow of the late vicar of Fairfield. But over and above those connections, she was herself and did not need to hide or cower from anyone.
She did not want to go and meet any of Harry’s family, especially the elders, the grandmothers, who would very probably look at her as though she were a scarlet woman who had seduced one of their own. She would much rather go home, preferably alone, shut her door, make herself a cup of tea, and give in to the exhaustion the last few days had loaded upon her like a leaden weight. But she would do it. She could not—would not—hide away. She was probably going to feel obliged to attend Harry’s birthday party—a ball. She would be able to dance again if she wished. And she would wish it whether she wanted to or not—a mildly head-spinning thought. There was no point, then, in not going now to meet some members of the family. All the better that they were to be the two most intimidating ones: Harry’s grandmothers.
Besides, he wanted her to go, and she owed him something. He had been kind to her. He had listened while she poured out her painful, embarrassing story and had not passed judgment. He had held her while she wept.
He was, perhaps, a man she could trust.
There. She had articulated the thought.
Perhaps she could trust Harry Westcott.
* * *
* * *
They came off the path to the east of the house, still among trees, though they were more widely spaced down here. There was a glass summerhouse off to their left—Lydia had seen it from that seat against which she had braced herself while she told Harry her story. Mrs. Bennington was sitting inside with her husband and another couple. Mr. Bennington turned his head, and then they all did and smiled and waved, though they did not come out and Harry did not turn in their direction.
“The couple you have not met are the Earl and Countess of Lyndale,” he explained. “Gabriel and Jessica. She is our cousin, daughter of my aunt Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, my father’s middle sister. Avery, Duke of Netherby, is her stepson, but he is quite a bit older than Jess. He is married to Anna, my half sister. He was my guardian too after my father died. This is too much information, is it not?” He turned his head and grinned at her, and Lydia laughed.
“Is there to be a written test?” she asked.
“And the passing mark is one hundred percent. Ninety-nine will not do,” he said.
“Ouch,” she said. “I hope spelling does not count. So the little girl who has just lost one of her baby teeth—Rebecca?—is your half sister and the Duke of Netherby’s child? Your niece?”
“Well done,” he said. “All three of them are my nieces. I have an army of them. Nephews too. All here. And all to be included on that written test. There are cousins and cousins’ children. And spouses, with family names and title names.”
“That really is too—” she began.
“Hush!”
He slowed their steps suddenly and clamped her hand more tightly to his side while Lydia stopped talking and looked at him in surprise. He had not stopped walking altogether, but he seemed to be listening intently. She listened too. She could hear the faint murmur of voices coming from the summerhouse, the distant crack of a cricket bat followed by a cheer, Snowball yipping at something in the trees that offended her.
Lydia drew breath to ask what he had heard.
“Shh.”
And then he moved his head a little closer to hers. “You will like everyone, Lydia,” he said in normal tones before jerking his arm free of hers, whirling about, and dashing off into the thicker trees from which they had just emerged
. Almost before Lydia had stopped gaping, he came back out with Jeremy Piper almost literally dangling from his shirt collar, which was in Harry’s firm grip.
“Ow!” the boy yelled, both hands clawing at his collar. “Put me down. I’m choking.”
“Obviously not too badly if you can still talk,” Harry said, jerking his hand higher until Jeremy was running along at his side on the toes of his boots.
Lydia held on to Snowball’s lead. Her dog was barking and bouncing.
“I wasn’t doing nothing. Put me down,” Jeremy cried, his voice strained.
“Apart from trespassing?” Harry halted when they were several feet away from Lydia.
“I didn’t mean nothing by it,” the boy protested. “You’re choking me. Let go.”
Harry did let go suddenly, and the boy staggered and darted a look off toward the denser growth of trees.
“On your knees,” Harry said.
“What?” Jeremy took one half step away.
Harry took a full step after him. And Lydia’s eyes widened as he was transformed before her eyes into a very menacing military officer despite the absence of a uniform.
“On. Your. Knees,” he repeated in a voice that turned Lydia’s own knees a bit liquid.
Jeremy plopped down.
“Ow,” he protested. “There’s stones and roots digging in my knees. And what’s this all about anyway? I didn’t do nothing. I’ll tell my—”
“Silence. Arms at your sides. At. Your. Sides.”
“There’s a stone—”
“Silence.”
Jeremy fell silent and held his arms to his sides. His eyes were still darting frantic glances at the trees.