by Mary Balogh
As she had not been shy about pointing out.
Something else had quickly become clear to him—two things, actually. She was not an old crone. She was in fact a youngish female, though he had not been able to see her face through the hideous funereal veil that covered it. And she was a lady. Her voice and her demeanor had both given evidence of that fact.
Not that his guilt would have been lessened even if she had been a crone. Or a beggar woman. Or both. He had yelled at her, and he could not be sure he had not used some inappropriate language while doing so. He certainly had when fighting for control of his mount. He had not gone to her rescue. Not that he could have done so literally, of course, but he might have shown considerably more concern, perhaps even explained why he could not get off his horse.
In short, he had behaved badly. Quite abominably, in fact.
He briefly considered turning back and begging her pardon, but he doubted she would be delighted to see him again. Besides, he was still feeling too irritated to make a sincere apology.
Pray God he never saw the woman again. Though he supposed it altogether probable that she lived in the neighborhood since she was out on foot with her dog—unescorted. And she was obviously in deep mourning for someone.
Good Lord, he had been terrified. How must she have felt when horse and rider erupted over the hedge a mere whisker from where she stood? Yet he had ripped up at her for walking and exercising her dog in a public meadow.
After he had ridden into the stables at Robland Park and dismounted, he was still feeling considerably out of sorts. He made his slow way to the house.
“Ah, you are back safe, are you?” Beatrice said, looking up from her knotwork as he lowered himself to a chair in the drawing room. “It concerns me that you insist upon riding alone, Ben, instead of taking a groom with you as any sensible man in your circumstances would. Oh, I know, I know. You do not have to say it, and I can see your brows knitting together in vexation. I am acting like a mother hen. But with Hector gone to London already and the boys back at school, I have no one to fuss over but you. And I cannot ride with you as I am still under physician’s orders to coddle myself after that chill. Did you have a pleasant ride?”
“Very,” he said.
She rested her work on her lap. “What has ruffled your feathers, then? Apart from my fussing, that is.”
“Nothing.”
She raised her eyebrows and resumed her work.
“The tea tray will be here in a moment,” she told him. “I daresay you are a bit chilled.”
“It is not a cold day.”
She laughed without looking up. “If you are determined to be disagreeable, I shall make a companion of my knots.”
He watched her for a short while. She wore a lacy cap on her fair hair. It offended him somewhat, though it was a pretty confection. She was only thirty-four, for God’s sake, five years his senior. She behaved like a matron—which was exactly what she was, he supposed. It was longer than six years since he had been wounded, and sometimes it seemed that time had stood still since then. Except that it had not. Everything and everyone had moved on. And that was, of course, part of his recently acknowledged problem, for he had not. He had been too absorbed in trying to put himself back together so that he could pick up the threads of his life exactly where he had left them off.
The tea tray was brought in, and Beatrice set aside her work to pour them both a cup of tea and to carry him his, together with a plate of cakes.
“Thank you,” he said. “I must smell of horse.”
“It is not an unpleasant smell,” she told him without denying it. “I shall be back to riding myself soon. The doctor will be calling here tomorrow, for the final time, it is to be hoped. I feel perfectly restored to health. Relax there for a while before you go to change your clothes.”
“Is there a widow living in these parts?” he asked her abruptly. “A lady? Still in deep mourning?”
“Mrs. McKay, do you mean?” She lifted her cup to her lips. “Captain McKay’s widow? He was the Earl of Heathmoor’s second son and died three or four months ago. She lives at Bramble Hall on the far side of the village.”
“She has a big, unruly dog?” Ben asked.
“A big, friendly dog,” she said. “I did not find him unruly when I paid a call upon Mrs. McKay after the funeral, though he did insist in quite unmannerly fashion upon being petted. He came to lay his head on my lap and looked up at me with soulful eyes. I suppose he ought to have been trained not to do such things, but dogs always know who likes them.”
“She had him in a meadow not very far from here,” he said. “I almost bowled them both over when I jumped a hedge.”
“Oh, goodness gracious,” she said. “Was anyone hurt? But—you jumped a hedge, Ben? Where is my hartshorn? Ah, I have just remembered—I do not possess any, not being the vaporish sort, though you could easily make a convert of me.”
“What the devil was she doing out unchaperoned?” he asked.
She clicked her tongue. “Ben, dear, your language! I am surprised to know she was. I have never seen her outside her own house except at church on Sundays. Captain McKay was very badly wounded in the Peninsula and never recovered his health enough to leave his bed. Mrs. McKay nursed him almost single-handedly and with great devotion, from what I can gather.”
“Well, she was out alone today,” he said. “At least, I assume it was the lady you named.”
“I am surprised,” she said again. “Her sister-in-law has been staying with her for some time. I have very little acquaintance with her, and it seems unfair to judge a near stranger, but I would guess she is as much a stickler for propriety taken to an extreme as the earl, her father, is. He is not my favorite person, or anyone else’s that I know. Had he lived a couple of centuries ago, he would have joined forces with Oliver Cromwell and those horrid Puritans and sapped all the humor and enjoyment from everyone else’s life. I am surprised Lady Matilda did not insist that Mrs. McKay remain at home behind closed doors and curtains.”
“You sound indignant,” he said.
“Well.” She set down her cup and saucer. “When one arranges a quiet dinner with the soberest of one’s neighbors, including the vicar and his wife, with the intention of extending the hand of sympathy and friendship to two ladies who have recently lost a husband and brother, and one has been turned down and made to feel that one’s very existence is frivolous and contaminating, then one can surely be excused for being slightly ruffled when one is reminded of it.”
He grinned at her until she caught his eye and laughed.
“The answer to my invitation was written by Lady Matilda McKay,” she said. “I like to believe that Mrs. McKay would have declined it in a far more gracious manner, if she had declined it at all.”
The grin faded from Ben’s face. “I owe her an apology.”
“Do you?” she asked. “Did you not apologize when it happened? She was not hurt, I hope?”
“I do not believe so,” he said, though he remembered that she had been sitting on the ground when he first became aware of her. “But I ripped up at her, Bea, and blamed her for the near catastrophe—and her dog, which is an ugly brute if ever I saw one. I owe her an apology.”
“Perhaps we will see her at church on Sunday,” she said. “I would not go riding up to the doors of Bramble Hall, if I were you. For one thing, you have not been introduced and it would be vastly improper. For another, I do believe the sister-in-law might well have an apoplexy if she discovered a single gentleman on the doorstep. Either that, or she would attack you with the nearest umbrella or knitting needle.”
He could just forget about the whole episode, Ben supposed a few minutes later as he made his slow way upstairs to change out of his riding clothes. But he hated to recall that he had behaved in a manner unbecoming a gentleman—and that was a bit of an understatement.
He definitely owed her an apology.
Samantha and Matilda went to church as usual the following Sun
day. It might have amused Samantha that Sunday service had become the big outing and social event of her week, if it had not also been so pathetic. For so it had been for the past five years, even though she had been only nineteen when she first came to live at Bramble Hall. And the situation was not about to change, despite the fact that she no longer had Matthew to tend at home.
She sat beside Matilda in their usual pew at the front of the church, her prayer book on her lap, and turned her head neither to the left nor to the right, though she would dearly like to have seen which neighbors were also present. She would have liked to nod genially to them as she had always done in the past. But Matilda sat rigidly still, and, foolishly perhaps, Samantha felt constrained to match her piety, if that was what it was.
It was only after the service, then, when they had risen to pass down the aisle and out to the waiting gig, their faces properly hidden behind their veils, that she saw that man again. It was how she had been thinking of him, with growing indignation, for two days.
That man.
He was sitting in the pew across the aisle and one row back from hers. He must have been able to see her all through the service. He was still sitting, not jumping to his feet as soon as her eyes alit incautiously upon him, as any proper gentleman would have done, especially one who had treated her so ill. And it was not that he had not noticed her. His eyes were directly upon her.
How dared he?
He was not wearing his hat inside the church. His face was narrow and angular, as she had observed at their first meeting. He had a straight, finely chiseled nose and slightly hollowed cheeks, a firm chin and hard blue eyes beneath midbrown hair. He must have been exceedingly handsome in his youth. He was not a youth now, though. It was hard to guess his age, but his face bore evidence of having looked upon a great deal of hard living, perhaps of suffering. It was still handsome, however, she conceded grudgingly, perhaps the more so for not being boyish.
It would have been more satisfying if he had been ugly. All villains ought to look the part.
She would have looked away with deliberate disdain and continued up the aisle, but she had hesitated a moment too long, and the lady beside him, who was on her feet, spoke to her. She was Lady Gramley. Of course she was—this was her usual pew.
“Mrs. McKay,” she said kindly, “how do you do?”
“I am well, thank you, ma’am,” Samantha replied. She could feel Matilda’s hand firm on her back. Good heavens, was it improper for a grieving widow even to exchange pleasantries with her neighbors at church?
“Perhaps you will allow me the pleasure of presenting my brother, Sir Benedict Harper,” Lady Gramley said. “Mrs. McKay, Ben. And Lady Matilda McKay.”
And finally he considered getting to his feet, though he was in no hurry even now. He looked to one side, away from Samantha and Matilda, and picked up two canes, which he arranged on either side of him. They were not ordinary canes. They were longer and had handpieces partway down, with leather loops through which he slid his hands. They circled his arms as he grasped the handpieces and hoisted himself to his feet.
Had he fallen from his horse since she last saw him? Samantha wondered hopefully and unkindly. But no. Those canes must have been specially made. She had seen nothing like them before.
Even when he was slightly hunched over them, she could see that he was tall and thin. No, not thin. Lean. There was a difference. And his well-fitting, fashionable coat and pantaloons, over which he wore highly polished Hessian boots, emphasized his pleasingly proportioned physique. He was an attractive man, she admitted without feeling in any way attracted. She felt as irritated with him as she had been two days ago. More so, perhaps, because now she could see that he had had an excuse for not jumping from his horse to rush gallantly to her rescue on that day, and she did not want him to have any excuse at all.
“Sir.” She inclined her head with as much frosty hauteur as she could muster. She was aware of Matilda slightly curtsying and murmuring his name.
“Ma’am,” he said, inclining his head. “Lady Matilda.”
Benedict. It was far too pleasant a name for him. It sounded like a blessing—a benediction. She wondered if there was any profane word in existence that he had not used in that meadow. She doubted it.
“My brother has been kind enough to give me his company at Robland Park for a few weeks before I join my husband in London for the second half of the Season,” Lady Gramley explained. “Perhaps we may call upon you one afternoon, Mrs. McKay? I have not spoken to you since soon after your husband was laid to rest, and I would not have you feel that your neighbors are neglecting you in your grief.”
Samantha felt uncomfortable, for no longer than three weeks ago the Earl and Countess of Gramley had invited her and Matilda to dinner and Matilda had persuaded her that it would be unseemly to accept, that Lady Gramley ought not even to have suggested such a thing. Samantha had been surprised, but she had still been in the grip of lethargy and had allowed her sister-in-law to send a refusal, politely worded, she hoped. Even so, she thought it good of Lady Gramley not to have taken offense.
“That would be delightful,” she said, though she could have wished that the lady’s brother was not included. But perhaps she could suffocate him with courtesy if he came and show him what true gentility was. It would be a fitting revenge. It was more likely, though, that he would make an excuse not to come. “We will look forward to it, will we not, Matilda?”
“We are still in deep mourning, ma’am,” Matilda reminded Lady Gramley, as if their heavy blacks were not hint enough. “However, there can be no objection to receiving an occasional afternoon call from a genteel neighbor.”
Oh, good heavens. It was no wonder Matthew had been the black sheep of his family and had detested the lot of them, his sister included. Matilda was calling a countess a genteel neighbor as though she were conferring some great favor upon her.
Sir Benedict Harper had not removed his eyes from Samantha’s face. She wondered how much he could see of it. And she wondered if he felt embarrassed at seeing her again. Did he recall calling her woman? She recalled it, and she bristled at the memory.
Samantha inclined her head again and moved on. The whole encounter had taken less than a minute, but it had left her with ruffled feathers. Would he accompany Lady Gramley when she called? Would he dare?
She inclined her head civilly to a few other members of the congregation and offered her hand to the vicar and a comment on his sermon. Matilda praised him at greater length and with stiff condescension. And then they were in the gig and on their way home.
“Lady Gramley appears genteel enough,” Matilda observed.
“I have always found her both kind and gracious,” Samantha said, “though I have not had many dealings with her over the years. Or with any of my other neighbors, for that matter. Matthew needed almost all my time and attention.”
“Sir Benedict Harper is crippled,” Matilda said.
“But not bedridden.” He could even ride, Samantha thought. “Perhaps he will not accompany his sister if she calls on us.”
“It would be tactful of him not to,” Matilda agreed, “since he is a stranger to us. It is a pity we could not have avoided the introduction.”
For once Samantha was in accord with her sister-in-law. It did not happen often.
Matilda was as different from her brother as it was possible to be. A self-avowed spinster at the age of thirty-two, who had long ago professed her intention of devoting herself to her mother in her declining years, she seemed to lack any softness or femininity. Her father was next only to God in her esteem. Matthew had been three years older, handsome, dashing, charming—and quite irresistibly gorgeous in his scarlet regimentals. Samantha had met him at an assembly when his regiment was stationed a mere three miles from her home. She had been seventeen years old, young, naïve, and impressionable. She had tumbled headlong into love with Lieutenant McKay, as he had been then, as had every other girl for miles around. It would have bee
n strange, perhaps, if she had not. When he married her, she had thought herself the happiest, most fortunate girl in the world, an impression that had remained with her for four months until she discovered that he was shallow and vain—and unfaithful.
Yes, he had been very different from his sister. Of the two, she would take Matthew any day of the year. Not that she any longer had a choice in the matter. The thought brought a stabbing of grief.
The severe wounds he suffered in battle had destroyed Matthew in more ways than one. He had been a difficult patient, though she had always tried to make allowances for his pain and his disabilities and the deteriorating condition of his lungs. He had been demanding and selfish. She had devoted herself to his care without complaint even though she had fallen out of love with him before he went away to the Peninsula.
His death had caused her real grief. It had been hard to watch the destruction of a man who had been so handsome and vital and vain—and to watch him die at the age of thirty-five.
Poor Matthew.
Matilda reached over and patted her hand. “Your grief does you credit, Samantha,” she said. “I shall tell Father so when I write to him tomorrow.”
Samantha reached beneath her veil and dashed away a tear with one black-gloved hand. She felt guilty. For there was relief mingled with the sadness she felt at Matthew’s having to die. She could no longer deny that fact. She was free at last—or would be when this heavy ritual of mourning was at an end.
Was it wicked to think that way?
4
“I wonder,” Ben said, “if Mrs. McKay has told her sister-in-law what happened a few afternoons ago.”
“I really do not know the lady,” Beatrice replied, “but I must confess that she strikes me as being a bit of a battle-ax.”
They were traveling toward Bramble Hall in an open carriage, with the blessing of Beatrice’s physician, who at last had pronounced her fully restored to health. It was a sunny day and quite warm for springtime. Two days had passed since their encounter with the McKay ladies at church.