Music rippled through the room, and he turned automatically towards the sound. Cecily was seated at the piano, as she had been through so many family musicales. Even as Harry watched, Sophie took up her own position beside the instrument.
“Good morning, everyone,” she began, smiling upon the whole company. “I’d like to thank you all for coming today—and for your good wishes. Some of you may recall that my husband and I first met at one of my family’s musicales. So, with your indulgence, I would like to dedicate this rather special song to him.”
Attuned to her sister’s cues, Cecily at once began to play a familiar tune. Sophie looked straight at her new husband and began to sing, her pure voice filling the room even as it was clear that she sang just for Robin, gazing back at her as if she were his hope of heaven.
“Oh, I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls.
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches too great to count,
Could boast of a high ancestral name,
But I also dreamt which pleased me most,
That you lov’d me still the same…”
At least half the guests were wiping away tears before she had finished, Harry observed; he too was obliged to blink now and then—to clear his vision, nothing more. But as the last notes of the song faded into silence, he sensed May beside him.
***
“I am—glad that you decided to come, after all.”
They were in the library, having found a moment to slip away unobserved. Mindful of the potential for gossip, Harry had locked the door behind them. May’s obvious relief when he did so spoke volumes, warned him not to get his hopes up: despite her appearance here today, nothing had really changed.
“It was kind of your sister to invite me, and it seemed churlish to refuse. Besides,” May colored slightly, toyed with the lace jabot at her throat, “ I did not wish to leave things as they were, between us. Or to make you think that… I did not care. Two years together should count for something,” she added, with only a slight trace of her usual flippancy.
“I’m glad we agree on that much,” Harry remarked dryly, though his heart warmed a little at her admission. “I hope you have been enjoying yourself?”
“For the most part. The ceremony was lovely, and I can’t fault the quality of the refreshments. Moreover, you were, quite unforgivably, correct,” May conceded, a faint smile ghosting about her lips. “Everyone here has been polite—genuinely so, rather than in that frozen way people are when they must be courteous to someone they dislike.”
He folded his arms. “Consider it great forbearance on my part that I have refrained from saying ‘I told you so.’”
Her eyes narrowed into amused slits. “My dear Harry, you just have!”
He grinned at her, and for a moment, they were on the old, comfortable footing again. Then May said, almost too lightly, “Your sister sings like a nightingale. I feel privileged to have had the chance to hear her.”
“She’s the most of talented of us, musically.”
“And she looks radiant, just as a bride should.”
“She’s waited years for this day,” Harry said. “There was a time, in fact, when it seemed she and Rob would never be together.”
“So you told me. A veritable pair of star-crossed lovers.” May’s reminiscent smile took the mockery out of the words. “I’m glad for everyone’s sake that matters turned out so well.”
“So are we all.”
“Your sister is fortunate to have found a husband who clearly adores her,” she went on. “And if he’s still looking at her the same way one year from now, I’d say their chances of lasting happiness are excellent.”
He eyed her narrowly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were advocating marriage.”
May shrugged. “Oh, I have nothing against marriage, in general. Only marriage where I’m concerned.” She turned a little away from him as though to examine the nearest bookcase. “A good marriage can be a heaven. A bad marriage is a hell. I learned that from experience.”
Something in her tone made the back of his neck prickle. “May-blossom—”
“I did love George Bettesworth, once,” she said abruptly, turning around. Her face was pale but composed. “A very long time ago. I was a sheltered but willful young miss, convinced at seventeen that I alone knew what was best for me. He was almost ten years older—handsome, dashing, adventurous. I thought him quite the man of the world, and was flattered when he singled me out at parties and dances. When he proposed, I was convinced that he alone could make me happy.” Her lips twisted. “My parents expressed some doubt, but they were no match for my intransigence. I have only myself to blame for my poor choice.”
“You wouldn’t have been the first young girl beguiled by a rogue,” Harry pointed out.
“Calling my late husband a rogue may be too generous.” May straightened, her back straight as a lance, her expression as uncompromising as that of a governess about to deliver a lecture. “I’d mentioned that George was adventurous. As it turned out, some of those adventures involved other women’s beds. And when he drank… he could be most unkind. Although, even at his worst, he was always careful never to mark my face.”
Dear God. Harry’s stomach dropped. He’d known May’s marriage had been unhappy, but she’d never related any but the most general details. That her husband had been difficult to live with, that she relished the freedom widowhood had conferred on her. But nothing like this, ever.
May continued, her voice eerily dispassionate, “I’d have left, if I had the means or anywhere else to go. But my parents had died by the time my marriage had become… intolerable. And Dorothea and her husband were living abroad. When George broke his neck trying to take a fence while drunk, I wept. Not for sorrow, for relief.”
Harry wondered if it might have been both, but held his tongue, even as his heart ached for her. Two years his mistress and he’d never even suspected. He saw now, how much of herself she had kept back not just from him, but from all of St. Perran. Like a fascinating book, in which he’d been permitted to read only as much as May herself would allow. Perhaps it was a measure of her trust in him that she was finally sharing these dark, unknown chapters with him.
“George was dead, and I was free.” May’s eyes were black pools in her white face. “And I swore I would never walk back into that prison.”
He took an involuntary step towards her, was insensibly relieved that she did not flinch away. “You know, I would never lift a hand to you—”
“I do.” A hint of warmth crept into her voice, a tinge of color stole back into her cheeks. “And I want to thank you, Harry, for the—the years of kindness and care. I will always be grateful to you for that—for how our time together… helped me to become less afraid. Of men, of intimacy, of my own judgment.” She took a breath, visibly steeling herself. “But you must see that I can never make myself that vulnerable again. Never put myself in a man’s power again. Even as good a man as you.”
His eyes stung. “I wish I could make you see that marriage needn’t be the trap you fear.”
“I suspect that’s a task beyond any man’s capability.” May’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I must be free to walk away. I cannot… let myself become close to anyone without knowing that I can leave whenever I choose, with no pledges or promises, no obligations or encumbrances. I know how selfish that sounds, but there it is. Could you live on such terms? The truth, Harry,” she added, sounding unwontedly stern. “I wish you to be entirely honest with me. Does this resemble, in any way, your idea of marriage?”
Harry was silent, thinking of all the marriages he’d seen over the years, the ones that had shaped his own perception of what sharing a life meant. “No,” he conceded at last, on a long breath, and the whole room seemed to sigh with him. “Not even close.”
“That’s what I thought.” H
er eyes were very bright, but not with mockery. “But what I shrink from—marriage, children, commitment… that is what I want for you. Because you deserve it, even though I cannot be the one to give it to you. And because—” she broke off, as flushed now as she had been pale before.
“Because?” Harry prompted gently.
Her color deepened but her gaze never wavered. “Because… I do love you, Harry. Even if it’s not the sort of love to build a life upon.”
The last ice about his heart thawed. “And I love you, May-blossom. Even if it’s not enough to convince you to stay.” He paused to swallow, strove for a light tone. “When—do you mean to leave Cornwall?”
“Within the next fortnight,” she replied. “Dorothea’s invited me to spend Christmas with her. I believe I can have my own belongings packed up and ready by then.”
Let her go. Harry swallowed again. “I shall miss you, May. And I wish you every happiness in your new life.”
Her dark eyes glistened, suspiciously liquid. “And I wish you the very same, my dear.”
He cleared his throat. “May I—may I kiss you goodbye?”
The old bewitching smile curved her lips. “I was hoping that you would.”
They met halfway, and he drew her into his arms, his lips unfolding against hers in a kiss that sought to convey all he felt in that moment: affection, regret… and, finally, acceptance. May’s response was equally tender—and no less final.
They parted at last, damp-eyed but smiling fondly. May reached up to brush back a lock of his hair. “I should go, I suppose.”
“Stay until the cake is served,” he urged. “I should hate for you to miss Cook’s triumph.”
And “triumph” was not too strong a word. The wedding cake was four tiers high: a rich, dark fruitcake frosted in white, with candied violets scattered across the top. Harry had observed several guests regarding it admiringly—and several children eyeing it acquisitively.
“It certainly looked impressive. Very well, my dear.” May’s eyes glinted with fond amusement. “Far be it from me to turn up my nose at a slice of wedding cake!”
Epilogue
Gallop apace you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus’ lodging! Such a wagoner
As Phaëton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
The Wedding Night…
THE cake had been served, the speeches made, and the toasts drunk. Now all that remained, Robin mused, was for the bride and groom to make a stealthy departure.
He glanced up the stairs. Not ten minutes ago, Sophie, accompanied by her mother and sister, had slipped away to change into her “going-away” dress—and, he suspected, to have some private time with her family. Eager though he was to be alone with her, Robin understood. He’d always admired and sometimes envied the closeness between the Tresilians. He felt touched and honored at being included, along with Sara, in their family circle now.
A hand descended on his shoulder and he turned his head to see Harry—his brother-in-law!—smiling at him. “You seem uncommon anxious, Rob. Is all well?”
“Very well,” Robin assured, returning his smile. “I’m just waiting for my wife.” He marveled at the easy way the words slipped off his tongue.
Harry grinned. “Impatiently, by the look of you. But then, you and Sophie have had to wait longer than most.”
Their eyes met in a glance of perfect understanding.
“Harry,” Robin began, “I want to thank you for your support today. I know you weren’t best pleased when Sophie and I first… took up with each other. And even less so when you learned about Nathalie.” That revelation had, in fact, strained their friendship for a couple of years. “But I hope you realize how very much I love your sister. And how determined I am to see that she never regrets our marriage.”
Harry cleared his throat, looking slightly embarrassed, but pleased too, Robin thought. “The past is—it’s all water under the bridge, Rob. As for the rest… well, a blind man could see how you and Sophie feel about each other. Just make her happy.”
“I plan to make that my life’s work,” Robin promised.
They clasped hands, two friends who were now family. After a moment, Robin ventured, “And your own suit—does it prosper?” He’d glimpsed Mrs. Bettesworth from a distance, had seen Harry in conversation with her at one point, but could discern nothing from their exchange.
Harry’s lips tightened. “Not exactly. She leaves Cornwall in a fortnight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I, but it can’t be helped. She and I want—very different things from life, and we’ll not find them with each other. At least we parted as friends.” Harry sighed, looking resigned, if not precisely happy. “Let’s not dwell on it. This is your day—yours and Sophie’s. I’ve no wish to be the death’s head at the feast.”
“Of course,” Robin said at once, relieved to let the subject drop.
A young couple with a child in tow approached Harry to take their leave, and as a good host, he went to escort them out. Reminded of his own daughter, Robin abandoned the stairs to go in search of her. He found her in the parlor, trying to coax Tatiana, Sophie’s pampered Russian Grey cat, out from under a chair.
“Sophie was keeping her in the dressing room,” Sara reported. “But she must have got out while we were all at church, and now she won’t let herself be taken back upstairs!” She placed half of a fish paste sandwich in front of the chair. A dainty paw darted out and snagged the morsel, but the rest of the cat remained hidden from view.
Robin smothered a smile. “She’ll come out when she’s good and ready, sweeting—probably after the guests have gone. Cats can be contrary that way.” He sat down on the floor, put his arm around his daughter. “Have you enjoyed yourself today?”
Her face lit up. “Oh, yes, Papa! It’s been lovely. The flowers, the music, and my new frock…” She smoothed the pearl-grey skirt almost reverently. Up until last month, she’d worn black—as she had since Cyril’s death last January—but Robin had seen no harm in relaxing the strictures of mourning for an eight-year-old girl, especially at a wedding.
“You looked beautiful,” he told her. “And you did a splendid job strewing the flowers.”
She smiled up at him. “You and Sophie won’t be away too long, will you?”
“Just a few days,” he assured her. “And in the meantime, you’ll have your new grandmother and all your uncles and aunts and cousins to keep you company here at Roswarne!”
“Oh, I know that! It’s just that I’m looking forward to the three of us being a real family.”
A real family. Robin’s own spirits soared at the prospect, and he hugged Sara closer. “So am I, my darling. So am I.”
Then he heard what he had been listening for: feminine laughter and feminine voices, Sophie’s soaring as effortlessly as a songbird’s over the rest. He stood up, offering Sara his hand, and together they hurried towards the entrance hall.
Sophie, wearing a smart traveling suit of jade-green wool, was descending the stairs. Family and friends clustered at the foot of the staircase, eager to offer the bride a parting kiss or embrace. Sophie returned their salutes heartily, stooped to kiss Sara’s cheek, and then turned to Robin, who held out his arm.
“Ready to come with me, my love?” he asked, pitching his voice for her ears alone.
Her smile outshone the sun, the moon, and the stars. “To the ends of the earth, dear heart.”
***
“So, where are we going for our wedding night?” Sophie asked, nestling in the circle of her husband’s arm as their coach rolled smoothly along the country lanes.
“Some place considerably closer than the ends of the earth,” he assured her.
“Care to be more specific than that?”
Robin grinned like a schoolboy. “Not just at present. I’ve a mind to surprise you a little.”
Intrigued
, Sophie regarded him more closely. This playful mood was unusual for him, but it should be encouraged, she decided. “Very well. Far be it from me to spoil a surprise.” She settled back against his shoulder. “This reminds me a bit of our excursion to the Cotswolds, remember?”
His arm tightened about her. “I remember everything, Mrs. Pendarvis.”
“Mrs. Pendarvis.” Sophie sighed. “I do love the way that sounds.”
“So do I. But even more I love the way ‘Mrs. Pendarvis’ feels.” He stroked her cheek, trailed a finger down the line of her throat. “Which, to my way of thinking, is warm, soft, and wonderfully inviting.”
“Why, Mr. Pendarvis, you’ll have me blushing like a schoolgirl!”
“I hope so. And I hope that a husband may be privileged to see just how far that blush goes…” His hand slipped down to cup her breast, one thumb skimming over her nipple, which peaked immediately at his touch.
Sophie bit back a gasp, pressed eagerly against him. Between wedding preparations and Robin’s responsibilities at the hotel, it had been weeks since they’d shared a bed. “It occurs to me,” she began, a little breathlessly, “that making love in a carriage is among the things we have yet to do. Could we—”
“Sadly, no.” His attentions to her ceased abruptly, and he gave her an apologetic grimace. “We’ve made better time than I expected, my love.”
At his nod, she leaned forward and peered out the carriage window. “That’s Chenoweth!” she exclaimed, recognizing the redbrick manor house at the top of the gently curving drive. James’s house, the one he’d lived in before his accession to the earldom, built by his father for his Tresilian bride, Sophie’s Aunt Carenza.
“It is,” Robin confirmed. “He’s lent it to us for the night, and the following week, should we care to stay that long. Does it please you?” he added, a trifle anxiously. “We could stay elsewhere if you’d prefer.”
A Wedding In Cornwall Page 5