by Mary Balogh
He smiled at her, and she could see that he must once have been very handsome. He still was, but there were cares worn into his face now where once there must have been pure youthful charm. As there had been with Matthew, though she did not suppose Sir Benedict had ever been as breathtakingly good-looking as her husband.
“The years of my convalescence were the worst of my life,” he said, “and also, strangely enough, the best. Life has a habit of being like that, giving and taking in equal measure, a balance of opposites. Beatrice would have had me here to nurse back to health, but she had young children at the time, and it would have been unfair to foist the burden of my wounded self upon her. I was fortunate enough to be brought to the notice of the Duke of Stanbrook. He took me and a number of other wounded officers into his own home, Penderris Hall in Cornwall, hired the best doctors and nurses, and kept some of us there for longer than three years while we healed and recuperated. There is a group of us, seven in all, who still meet there for a few weeks every year. Those five men, including the duke, and one woman are my closest friends in the world. They are my chosen family. We call ourselves the Survivors’ Club.”
“Are two of its members by any chance the hero of a Forlorn Hope who was brought home in a straitjacket and a young blind man?” she asked.
“Hugo, Lord Trentham, and Vincent, Viscount Darleigh, yes,” he said.
“And one of the members of your club is a woman?”
“Imogen, Lady Barclay,” he said. “She was in the Peninsula with her husband, who was a reconnaissance officer. A spy, in other words. He was captured while he was not in uniform, and he was tortured, partly in her presence. Then he died.”
“Poor lady,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I wonder,” she said, “if there is anyone of our generation or the generations directly above and below our own whose life is unaffected by the wars. Do you think there is?”
“We are all always affected by the major events of history,” he said. “It is unavoidable. Who was it who said—” He stopped and frowned in thought. “It was John Donne in one of his essays. No man is an island entire of itself. That was it. There is always some poet or philosopher who has captured in brief and vivid words the greatest truths of human existence, is there not?”
“Are you a philosopher, Sir Benedict?” she asked.
“No.” He laughed. “But I fear I am being a bore. You told me last week that you are tired of sickness and suffering and death—or something to that effect. You told me you wanted to live, specifically to dance. Has it been a long time since you danced? Tell me of the last time—or the last time that was memorable. Where was it? When? What did you dance? And with whom?”
“Goodness.” She found herself laughing back at him. “Can I remember that far back? Oh, let me see. When was it? There were a few regimental balls before the regiment was sent to the Peninsula. I did not particularly enjoy them.”
It was during those balls she had seen Matthew dance with other women, both married and single. Not just dance, though—every officer danced with ladies other than their wives, of course. It was what was expected at any ball. Matthew had openly flirted, and all those wives and others had responded and been flattered and flirted right back. She had hated those balls and having to smile and dance and pretend to be finding nothing distasteful in her husband’s behavior. She had hated the looks of kind sympathy in the eyes of some of the other officers with whom she danced.
“The last memorable dance was at an assembly when I was still living at home,” she said. “Several of the officers billeted nearby were there and sending flutters of excitement through the hearts of every girl in attendance. How the other men must have hated the sight of scarlet regimentals. I had not thought about that before now. Lieutenant Matthew McKay, with whom I already had something of an acquaintance, singled me out for two dances. One was the Roger de Coverley. I can remember the sheer joy of dancing it. I was very much in love, you see. And he asked me that same night if I would marry him, though he had to talk to Papa before he could make an official offer, of course.”
He was smiling at her, she saw when she turned her head toward him. Oh, goodness, when had she last indulged in happy memories?
“When was the last time you danced?” she asked him.
“I suppose it was at one of those regimental balls you did not enjoy,” he said. “In fact, I know it was. I waltzed with my colonel’s niece. I was waltzing for the first—and only—time. The waltz was very new then. There is no lovelier dance in the world for sheer romance.”
“Was there a romance between you and the colonel’s niece?” she asked.
“Oh, yes.” He smiled softly. He was no longer looking at her but was gazing over the flower beds, and she knew that he too was lost in happy memories for the moment. “I had known her for a month and believed she was the other half of my soul.”
“What happened?”
“War happened.” He laughed softly. “We cannot get away from it, can we? Tell me about your home and your family.”
“My father was a gentleman who lived contentedly in the country with his books,” she said. “He was a widower with one son when he met my mother during a rare visit to London. She was twenty years younger than he, but they married and had me. My mother died when I was twelve, my father when I was eighteen.”
“After you were married?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He had died after a short illness during the year she was living at Leyland Abbey. Her brother, John, had not written to tell her about it until Papa died, and even then he had delayed a day or two until there was no possibility of her getting there in time for the funeral. She had wanted to go anyway. The house was to be sold and all its contents disposed of. There had not been anything of great value there, but there were several items she would have liked to retrieve as mementos, some things of her mother’s in particular, which could have been of no interest to John. But he said in his letter that there was no need for her to go, and the Earl of Heathmoor, her father-in-law, who of course had read her letter before giving it to her, had agreed. As far as he was concerned, the less contact his son’s wife had with her humble, even shady, past, the better for the whole McKay family.
“And your brother?” Sir Benedict asked.
“John?” she said. “He is my half brother, eighteen years older than I. He had left home before I was born. He is a clergyman with a living twenty miles from where our father lived. He has a wife and family. I do not see them.”
John had resented his father’s remarriage. He had hated both Samantha and her mother, though he had never said so, of course. He was a man of the cloth, after all, and clergymen did not admit to feeling hatred.
“It is your turn,” she said. “Tell me about your family.”
“There were four of us children,” he told her. “Beatrice is the eldest. Wallace, who inherited the baronetcy on our father’s death, was a member of Parliament destined for brilliance. He was already making a rapid climb up the political ladder when he was killed by a vegetable cart that overturned on the streets of London. I inherited from him, but only a few scant days after I heard about it, I was wounded in the Peninsula. Calvin, my younger brother, had been in sole possession of Kenelston Hall, the family seat, for a number of years. He was Wallace’s appointed steward there. He remained there with his wife and children and continued in that role after the double disasters. It was expected that I would not survive my injuries for very long, you see. I was not expected even to survive the journey home to England.”
“He expected to inherit, then,” she said. “Is he still living in your home?”
“Yes.” There was a slight hesitation before he continued. “He is an excellent steward.”
She turned her head to look at his profile. “And do you spend most of your time there too,” she asked, “now that you have recovered?”
“No.”
He did not elaborate. He did not need to. Obviou
sly his brother had usurped his home and his estates and had made it difficult for Sir Benedict to oust him by doing an excellent job of running them. At least, that was what she guessed must have happened.
“Do you suppose,” she asked after a brief silence, “there is anyone on this earth for whom life is easy?”
He turned his face toward her and regarded her curiously. “One does tend to assume that life must be far easier for others than it ever is for oneself,” he said. “I suspect it rarely is. I daresay life was not meant to be easy.”
“How very unkind on the part of whoever invented life.”
They exchanged smiles, and she realized that she was enjoying this slightly improper visit more than she could have expected. He was really quite a pleasant companion.
“Life has been difficult for you for a long time,” he said. “It will get better, I daresay, once the pain of your husband’s passing has receded more. What do you plan to do when your mourning period is over?”
“I will make an effort to become better acquainted with my neighbors,” she told him. “I will try to make real friends among them and to find useful ways to spend my time.”
It sounded dull enough. In reality, it would be infinitely more delightful than anything had yet been in her adult life—if she disregarded the dizzy euphoria of the early months of her marriage.
“Will Lady Matilda remain with you?” he asked.
“Heaven forbid!” she exclaimed before she could stop herself. She set the fingertips of one hand over her mouth and gazed ruefully at him. “No, I believe she will feel obliged to return home to care for her mother. The Countess of Heathmoor suffers with palpitations and her nerves. We have an uneasy alliance, I am afraid, Matilda and I, and it becomes more uneasy by the day now that the early numbness of my bereavement has worn off. Matilda is so very correct in all she says and does, and I am sometimes a trial to her.”
“And she to you?” He was smiling again. “You will not go with her to your father-in-law’s home, then?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I lived there for a year after Matthew’s regiment was sent to the Peninsula.” She only just stopped herself from saying more.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I would not wish to return,” she said. “And I have no doubt my father-in-law shares my sentiments.”
“I do not have an acquaintance with the Earl of Heathmoor,” Sir Benedict said.
It was not surprising. When he went to London, that den of all iniquity, the earl divided his time between the House of Lords and his clubs. He rarely attended any of the entertainments of the Season, and his womenfolk were not permitted to attend any. As soon as the spring session ended, he withdrew to Leyland and stayed there until duty called him forth again. He attended the Church of England, but one would never guess it from his attitudes and behavior. He was the quintessential Puritan. Anything that smacked of pleasure must by its very nature be sinful. Anything that ran counter to his sober principles and rules must be of the devil, and anyone who disobeyed him was the devil’s spawn. He ruled his family with an iron fist, though to be fair, physical violence was rarely if ever necessary.
“I do not believe you would enjoy such an acquaintance,” she said.
“You may rely upon my discretion not to tell anyone you just said that, ma’am,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. But he continued to look at her, and the smile faded from all but his eyes. “When I spent those years at Penderris Hall with my fellow Survivors, I had six confidants. They understood my thoughts and feelings because they were experiencing similar ones. They knew when to advise, when to laugh at me or cajole, when merely to listen. They knew when to draw close and when to keep their distance. I believe it was only after I had left there that I fully understood how blessed I had been—and still am. I can say anything in the world to those friends, and they can say anything in the world to me without fearing censure and with the sure knowledge that what is said will remain confidential. We all need people to whom we can speak freely. I have my sister too. We have always been close even though she is five years my senior. The older we get, however, the less wide that gap appears.”
Was he telling her that he knew and understood all the things she had not put into words? That he understood her loneliness and sense of isolation? She only partly understood them herself. She had always been lonely and had always denied it, even to herself. To admit it would be to allow self-pity a toehold in her consciousness. And there was something almost shameful about loneliness, as if one must be unlovable as well as unloved.
“I envy you,” she said. “It must be lovely to have close friends.”
Too late she realized what she had admitted. For surely Matthew ought to have been such a friend.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that I must already have committed that dreadful social faux pas of outstaying my welcome. We must have been sitting here for close to an hour. Matilda will be having forty fits. Perhaps forty-four if she ever discovers that Lady Gramley was not here.”
She got to her feet and waited for him to rise too.
“Do you ride?” he asked as they began the slow walk up to the terrace.
“I learned as a girl,” she told him, “though I did not have the chance to ride often. My father owned only the ancient beloved mare that pulled our gig at a speed roughly equivalent to a brisk stroll. Matthew insisted I ride more often after we were married, and I became quite proficient in the saddle, though it was not something that was encouraged when I was at Leyland. I have not ridden since I came to Bramble Hall.”
“There are several horses in the stables here,” he said. “Bea was commenting just yesterday that they are not exercised as often as they ought to be. She was indisposed over much of the winter and has only now been cleared for regular activity. Will you ride with me one day? Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”
“Oh,” she said. “I—”
She was about to decline—for all the usual and obvious reasons. But she remembered the fright and exhilaration of those rare rides in her childhood, and the wonder and joy of riding what she had called a real horse after her marriage.
She was overwhelmed by temptation.
What would Matil—No! She did not care what Matilda would say.
“I shall ask Bea to ride with us, of course,” he added.
“I would like to.”
They spoke simultaneously.
“I shall choose a horse for you, then,” he said, “and have a groom lead it over to Bramble Hall when we come.”
“Thank you.” She turned her head to look at his face in profile. She could tell from the set of his mouth that walking was not easy for him. It was very probably painful too, but he moved at a steady, though slow, pace, and he uttered no complaint.
She wondered what other injuries he had suffered.
She was so glad she had made this visit, she thought a few minutes later as she drove away in the gig, a groom having brought it up to the terrace for her. She was even glad Lady Gramley had not been here, for it was unlikely they would have sat out in the garden in the brightness of the sunshine, feeling the heat of it on their faces and bodies.
And she was glad she had had the courage to agree to ride with Sir Benedict—and Lady Gramley.
She felt really quite restored in spirit.
Perhaps she was coming alive again.
But whatever would Matilda say?
6
“It is quite fascinating to observe how differently various people are affected by their infirmities,” Beatrice said over a late tea. “Some people are an inspiration. They remain smiling and cheerful while suffering the most dreadful afflictions. Others make one feel as though one were being sucked into a black hole with them, poor things.”
“You look exhausted,” Ben said.
“But glad to be back to my parish and community duties at last,” she assured him. “How did you enjoy your ride?”
“Very well indeed,” he said, “for the five m
inutes it lasted. I was just riding out when I spotted a gig coming along the road in the direction of the house. It looked to me as though the lone occupant was dressed in unrelieved black. So I turned around and came back.”
“Mrs. McKay?” she said. “Without Lady Matilda?”
“The lady has a head cold.”
“And so Mrs. McKay was able to escape alone.” She smiled at him. “You were not so lost to all conduct as to entertain her in here alone, I hope, Ben?”
“We sat outside in the garden for all of an hour,” he told her.
It was a bit surprising, actually, that he had even turned back from his ride, since he might easily have escaped without her seeing him. And he certainly could have stopped her from staying. It had not been her suggestion. But then he was the one who had suggested that she call at Robland. He had felt sorry for her, cooped up in that gloomy manor with the battle-ax.
“Poor lady,” Beatrice said. “I do not suppose her sister-in-law is good company even when she is in the best of health. Mrs. McKay must be very lonely. I wish I had been here.”
“If ever the topic should arise, Bea,” he said, “you have been complaining just recently that the horses in the stables are in need of more exercise than they are getting.”
“Oh?” she said in some surprise. “Have I been so slandering my grooms? I am obliged to you for reminding me, Benedict, as I have no recollection of saying any such thing. And why should the topic arise?”
“I said as much to Mrs. McKay before she left here,” he explained.
“Oh?” Her cup paused between the saucer and her lips.
“I asked her to ride with me the afternoon after tomorrow,” he said, “but I suspect there is no suitable mount in the stables at Bramble Hall.”
“I do not doubt you are right.” She placed her cup back in its saucer and set both aside. “And she agreed?”
“Yes.”
She rested her elbows on the arms of her chair and regarded him with a slight frown. “I doubt her sister-in-law will allow it,” she said. “If she has power over Mrs. McKay, that is. But is it wise anyway, Ben? I can see no reason why a recently bereaved widow ought not to take the air on horseback if she so desires, but in the lone company of a single gentleman?”