Langdon’s collection was extensive, old copies of law books and Latin references. A few novels, Defoe and Swift, a few folios of criticism of Donne and Milton. Diderot. A treasure trove.
“Good afternoon, my lady.”
She turned to find Langdon quite hale and hearty, save for the arm that he bound in a black sling close to his chest. Millicent who had a quiet golden mien to her had matched this man well. With his thick brown hair and silver eyes, he put Mary in mind of an avenging angel. Please heaven, he wished no vengeance on her.
“Please do come sit with me. I gave instructions for tea.”
“Thank you, sir. I do not wish to stay long.”
“But I insist.”
She could be polite, but she wished to be brief—and to be gone.
“Brandy, then?” He baited her.
She had more gumption than he assumed. “Excellent.”
He made no face, but marched across the room to a table where she would have sworn maps should be instead of an exquisitely cut glass brandy bottle and matching glasses. He poured. Liberally.
If she drank all that, she’d never live to leave the room.
With two tumblers of umber liquor in his hands, he motioned toward the floor-length windows. “Shall we sit in the sun?”
What there was of it, yes. The weather had not improved, the chill of spring an odd unsettling that kept her in a quiet panic to survive this challenge she faced.
He strode across the room beside her, his expression hospitable but his posture rigid. When he stood before two wide winged chairs upon which rays of weak sun did shine, he cocked a brow at her.
She joined him. Settled, she met his gaze. The dark flash of his eyes was like quicksilver, fluid, curious and unnerving. She cleared her throat. “I’ve come for a task, long overdue.”
“I assumed so.” He took a long draught. “Drink up. I think you need it.”
One thing she was not was a mouse about alcohol. She liked her brandy, as any discerning woman should. So she took a delightful drink of what was—she knew by rich notes upon her tongue—quite excellent brandy.
“I’ve come, sir, to ask your pardon.”
He stared at her, his glass dangling from his fingertips, one leg crossed over the other.
Very well. She shifted. “I owe you an apology for what was a very bad mistake on my part.”
“She asked you to do it, did she not?”
“Not come to you, no. This is my effort.”
“I meant the act. The charade.”
“Yes. But—”
“You had done this sort of thing before?”
“Yes and quite well, too. That’s not what I mean, sir. What I do mean is that my actions were done with the best intentions.”
“Though not the best results.”
“No. Millicent regretted the entire thing immediately. She disliked the folly of it and wished it never had happened.”
“As did we all.” He took a quick sip. “So? Why are you here? Really?”
“Millicent tells me she has written to you but you do not reply.”
He scoffed. “Ah. So you apologize but then wish to move me to your ends? Isn’t that the very thing you say you apologize for?”
“It is. But my intentions are good. Very well, as good—no, better than before! Yes. If you care for her. If you wish to be free of the past, then yes. Write to her. Set her free.”
“She has always been free to do as she wished.”
“No, she has not. She wishes to make amends to you. Wishes that you might allow it.”
“I bear her no ill will.”
“If so, please write and tell her so. She does not look for any other suitor. If you might find it in your heart to tell her you have moved on with your life, she might be able to as well.”
“You are aggressive, my lady.”
She had to swallow that insult, but state her case as best she might. “I fear I cannot change it, at least not for this request. I have wronged you, sir. And Millicent, too. I apologized to her years ago. Once more the other day. I should have done the same to you then, but had not realized the fullness of my mistake until recently.”
“The Courtlands’ event?”
“Yes.” That news had traveled far and wide.
“This visit was…unexpected of you. Thank you for coming.”
So he would give her no inkling of his actions. Very well. She would not belabor her point but picked up her walking stick and got to her feet. “You are welcome. I appreciate you receiving me.”
A smile flickered over his handsome mouth as he focused on her stick. “Is your affliction a treasure?”
She recognized his words as variation on a famous phrase of John Donne’s. “Never.”
He indicated his wounded arm. “I’ve had enough of mine.”
“I made mistakes because of mine. Interfering in others’ lives was one.”
“You won’t do it more?”
“Never.”
“Tell that to Lord Bridges, will you?”
That made her blink. “What?”
“I suggest you go to the Abbey soon.”
“I do. I planned it but…”
“He called here this morning. He needs to hear that you’ve been here and talked with me. Will you go?”
“I will.”
He grinned at her.
“Marvelous.” He stood. “So then, will you sit again for a few minutes? If you do, I’ll fill your glass and tell you what I plan to do now.”
* * *
As her coach passed her childhood home of ochre and red brick, she tingled with yearning to visit. She’d sent a letter to her cousin yesterday that she might be along today or tomorrow and she hoped she might prevail upon him to visit with him a night or two. Without any expectations that Blake would receive her, she thought to plan well before she returned to Bath. The carriage took her along the straight path to the front door of Lawton Abbey and her pulse picked up a pace. Unlike her other visits, she’d not sent advance notice to Blake she would arrive.
But it was late afternoon and the winds of dusk buffeted the coach and chilled her hopes of reconciliation.
“Good afternoon, Lady Mary!” The family butler helped her alight. He was a man who’d served as long as Mary could remember. Though he spotted her walking stick, he made no reference. A good thing. “Welcome to Lawton Abbey. We did not know you would visit.”
“Still I hope I might be received. Very good to see you, Walters.”
His brown eyes sparkled in greeting. “Right this way, my lady. May I say,” he told her as they strode into the hall that shown serene in shades of palest blues, “you look well.”
“You are kind. Is Lord Bridges at home, I hope?”
“Do allow me to see if he can receive you.” Off he trotted with such good cheer, she worried he might be dismayed when Blake rejected her.
She distracted herself by considering the facial expressions of reliefs of tiny putti who pranced upon the plaster lintels and cornices. As children, she and Blake had made faces at them to entice them to respond.
Two men approached, their footfalls on the wooden floors announcing her imminent fate.
“My lady?” The velvet baritone was Blake’s.
“Good afternoon, my lord. I hope I might have a few minutes of your time?”
“Join me.” Casually attired in shirt and waistcoat, he looked tired and pensive as he stepped to one side. “The main salon. Will you have tea?”
“None.”
“Please.” He extended a hand toward the room.
Walters frowned at his master, then backed away to the far stairs.
She walked ahead, knowing well the way, her stick clicking on the age-old wooden floor.
“You’ve adopted your stick? A new affliction?” he asked, his tone impersonal, nigh unto cool.
“My old one. I thought it time I took it up. Claimed it as I should have long ago.”
He indicated the settee for her, while
he took a post beside the wide white Adams mantel. “Do you visit Dalworthy?”
He meant her cousin. “Afterward, I will go.” She sank to the cushions. He did look weary, unsettled. That worried her, but she rushed onward. “My purpose is to talk with you and apologize. I should have sought you out immediately after that incident in the orangery at Courtland Hall but…to be honest, words failed me. It seems I have courage for much, but not the right things. I intend to change that. But in the meantime, I come here to say I am sorry for it all.”
“I bear my own regret for leaving you as I did,” he said with sadness. “I should have come to your rooms to talk, but I was shocked.”
“I understand.” Nerves eating her, she removed her gloves, finger by finger and clasped her hands together. “I have taken days to come to terms with my failures. Many of them over the years. I want you to know that I attempt to remedy them.”
“I am sorry for believing so badly of you. I was caught up with the problems of Miss Weaver and my friend, Langdon. I was wrong to blame you for the end of that relationship. You had a part, not all. They could have—should have—cured it themselves.”
Shocked at his confession, she dare not tell him she agreed with him lest she sound as if she pardoned herself.
But Blake continued, “I went to see Langdon yesterday and told him so.”
“I know.”
He startled. “How?”
“I visited him this morning and he told me you’d called.”
“Did he tell you he’s decided to visit Millicent?”
“Yes. It’s wonderful,” she said, but wanted wonders of her own to savor and feared there were none.
“They may have a future together.” His expression softened to what she dared to name as compassion.
But she had others to speak of how she’d failed them and herself. “Then there is the matter of what you heard from Fiona. It’s true that before she and I went to Courtland Hall, we did talk about her feigning an attraction to a man who would attend. She wished to show Esme and Northington that she had directed her affections elsewhere. Thinking of it now, I know she didn’t need to do that, but I encouraged her in the ruse. That was wrong, unnecessary.”
She paused at the part she hated but must admit. “I agreed to fake affection for a guest, as well. If Fifi thought that was what was happening between you and me, it was primarily because I’d never spoken of my affection for you. Not to anyone. My feelings for you were too…fond, too intimate to share with anyone. The only reason she believed I might feign my affection for you was my agreement. Not my actions with you there. I would never do that. Could not. Not to you.”
He took that in silent contemplation. “Thank you for that. For coming here, too. I appreciate your care to do so.”
“I’ve come to realize why I even thought it useful for me to interfere in other people’s lives. Painful to admit, but I must. I thought, after my accident, that I was less than anyone else. Useless. Ungainly. That wasn’t so awful as a child, but when I grew older, I was supposed to be a lady. Delicate, fine-boned, I might be in stature and form. But in grace? Never. Able to walk into a room? To glide? To dance? No. I struggled, hobbled, a spectacle. So I must have some redeeming feature, mustn’t I?
“I cannot say I actively thought of myself that way. But in some secret parts of my head, yes, I did. Oh, no one ever called me names. Or made fun of me. Most in our set are too polite to do such a thing. But I felt it. And so to be knowledgeable about others, to be helpful was to be in control. That is powerful. I could do positive things for others. And they would like me. Love me. Want me to be their ally. Their friend. And so, I continued.”
“Mary, sweetheart, I knew you were hurt. That you wanted to be whole. And to me you were.”
Whole? To him. Wonderful. But not enough.
She shot up. Unsteady on her feet, she bent to grab her stick and poke it into the Axminster for support. “I want you to know that I care for you too much to ever have done anything so reprehensible as to pretend I love you. I do love you. I did as a child, as a friend. But two years ago, I came to love you as more. Much more. I was so thrilled you cared for me. Your letters were my comfort and my hope you’d return to me. And when you stopped writing, I would re-read the old ones to hear your voice and hope that…”
She swallowed, words like stones in her throat. Then she dug in the pocket in her skirts and brought forth the item that had symbolized what he was to her. “For all these years, I kept this as a talisman that every day could be better than the last. After you stopped writing to me, I looked at it and vowed that some day we might find adventure and growth and love, together. I see now I invested it with too much wishful fantasy. I was wrong.”
She strode forward and put the small brown acorn on the deal table near him.
He stared at it, astonished, then met her gaze. “What I gave you after you fell?”
She nodded.
The first smile she’d seen on his face in what seemed like years dawned, bright and glorious. “Oh, Mary.”
But his smile was not enough. She needed love from him, a man’s for a woman—and could not, would not lure it from him.
She turned abruptly for the door, hot tears on her lashes, sorrow crushing her heart.
He caught her before she made it to the hall. An arm around her waist, he pressed himself against her, his lips in her hair. “Don’t go. I was wrong, too. Wrong to believe you could be arrogant. To me you have always been perfect. Perfect.”
She gasped for air and logic. “But I’m not perfect. I’ve done horrible things.”
He walked around her, never letting go. “No. You’ve made mistakes. Mistakes, Mary. Like any of us imperfect beings.”
She couldn’t believe he could exonerate her.
He brushed his fingers through her hair. “I want us to have a future together, Mary.”
“Friends?” she asked him as if she stood upon a sinking ship.
“More than that. Mary, I love you. I have for many years. And for most of them, I’ve thought myself unworthy to even ask you. And now, now—” He pulled her close, his arms urgent around her. “I have this title and this land. I have money.”
She leaned back to view the agony on his handsome face. “But what?”
“I have no confirmation of my status with the Corps. Am I on duty? Am I to be on half-pay? And if I separate, if I sell my commission, how much will I regret that I’ve left the very profession that gave me dignity, fulfillment and purpose? I have nothing but uncertainty to offer you, my darling. Still, I want you.” He caught a tendril of her hair and brushed it behind her ear. “I want you as my wife.”
His proposal was more than she’d expected, everything she yearned for. “I could want nothing else from life than to be yours.”
He crushed her near. “Even if I cannot offer stability?”
“The stability you speak of is but change of venue. Geography. What is that to the constancy of love as Mrs. Lindsey?”
He gave a laugh. “Or Countess London-Bridges falling down.”
“I wouldn’t want to be Birdie to you.” She shook her head. “I’d wish to be scandalously more than that.”
“My lover?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I want to be that. Wherever you go, I want to be with you.”
“In the wilderness of Canada?”
“Or the jungles of India.”
“The bedroom upstairs?”
“Now.”
He hugged her close and picked her up in his arms. “Leave that stick here.”
“I’m staying?” she asked with a chuckle.
“Don’t you want to marry me tomorrow?”
Alive in every nerve of her body, she ran her gaze over how delightful it would be to be naked with this man. “I do.”
“Then it’s convenient you remain the night, don’t you think?”
“Certainly.”
“You’ll promise to remain with me all our nights to come?”
“I will. Every night. Because I love you.”
“And I have always loved you.”
Epilogue
March, 1820
Lawton Abbey
Mary placed her two-month old baby to his cradle and tip-toed from the nursery. With deliberate care, she pulled the door shut, then ran along the hall to the master suite.
“I kept the bed warm for you.” Her husband lifted the sheets for her to climb in and she snuggled against his warm length. “Harry learns quickly to allow his mother to get her rest, too.”
She sighed, contented, and curled an arm around his waist. “He’s his father’s son in that kind regard.”
Their second child, the Lawton-Bridges heir, was an accommodating soul, who slept more than their first child ever had. Their daughter Collette was two, a bright imp, running everywhere, eager to touch every living creature in the forest and the river. Caesar, Mary’s talkative bird, encouraged her, having transferred his love from Fifi to the little blonde creature who fed him tidbits from the kitchens.
“As our first-born is her mother’s shadow in all things.” Blake swept her closer to him in the cozy comfort of their bed. “She asked me this afternoon if we could plant the acorn on your dressing table.”
“Ambitious girl.” Mary pulled back to stare at her smiling husband in the refracted rays of moonlight. “She’s proud her kale has sprouted. I can imagine she itches to grow a tree. What did you tell her?”
“I said she must ask you.” He cupped her cheek and thumbed the fullness of her lower lip. “That acorn is yours.”
“Ours, you mean.” She shook her head. “But I doubt it would grow. It’s been many a year in a warm and shady house. I wouldn’t want her discouraged.”
Blake toyed with the lace ties at the throat of her nightgown. “She must learn that not everything bends to her will.”
Mary studied her husband in the shadows of early morn. His face, a spectrum of grey, was so dear to her that she could draw his handsome features were she blind. Earlier the preceding afternoon, he’d received word from the Corps that his request to sell his commission had been approved. For many months, he’d been on half-pay due to the reduction in force of the Army. The year before, he’d served briefly in Quebec as adviser on a new project and been away from her and their daughter. The experience abroad was professionally invigorating, he said, but he’d longed for the peace of his wife and child. With his future now set as the lord of his manor, he’d seemed alternatively happy and pensive all through the day.
Lady Mary's May Day Mischief: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 2 Page 10