by Liz Carlyle
“But Mamma did love me,” said Esmée, blinking back a sudden tear. “I know she did. She was just frightened, I think, of being alone.”
Her aunt’s eyes had darkened. “Rosamund wasted her life grasping at straws,” she countered. “She was always searching for someone to cling to; always certain that abandonment was just round the next corner. I vow, sometimes I think she willed widowhood upon herself. And the irony of it is, if she’d just married the first man she fell in love with, none of this would have happened, and you would not be in this mess.”
Esmée forbore to point out that had her mother married someone other than her father, she would not exist at all. “What first man?” she asked instead. “Who was he?”
But Lady Tatton was biting her lip now and looking very much as if she wished she had not spoken. “I don’t think Rosamund ever said,” she answered. “Indeed, she mentioned it but once or twice. Still, it weighed on her, I collect.”
Esmée was surprised. “This man, did he not love her? Did he not wish to marry her?”
“Why, I gather he did,” answered her aunt. “But he was the adventurous type—a seaman or an explorer or some such thing—and he would not give it up. Rosamund couldn’t have that. She needed security. She needed someone to dance attendance upon her. So I collect she decided that her adventurer was a bad bargain, and like to die of a tropical fever, or in a typhoon, or some such thing. So that was the end of it.”
Esmée let the irony of it sink in. “Aunt Rowena,” she finally asked, “why are you telling me this?”
“Oh, child, I have no notion!” Rowena reached over Esmée’s shoulder and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Well, I think that what I am trying to say is that the heart does not always steer us wrongly.”
Esmée’s eyes widened. “Does it not?” she asked sharply. “I always thought Mamma’s heart got her into trouble.”
“Oh, no! That was her brain!” said Lady Tatton. “Rosamund thought too much.”
“Did she?” Esmée considered it. “Aye, I wonder if you mightn’t be right.”
Lady Tatton hesitated a moment. “Oh, God, I do hope I don’t regret this,” she muttered, almost to herself. “I pray I have not steered you wrongly. But the truth is, Esmée, that sometimes we can let logic—or worse, our fears—guide us too far off course. Sometimes the heart knows best. You have not seemed yourself these past two weeks. Wynwood is a good catch, but I suppose it is possible that he is not the right one.”
Esmée shrugged. “Most women would think me mad not to want him.”
Lady Tatton smiled indulgently. “Well, just give it time, my dear,” she advised. “And promise me that you won’t do anything…well, rash.”
Esmée felt the dreadful weight of guilt settle on her shoulders. Her aunt had worked so hard, and behaved so generously, in order to ensure a good future for Esmée. “Yes, I do promise,” she answered. “I shan’t embarrass you, Aunt, by doing anything impulsive.”
“No, you are too sensible for that,” said her aunt. “I oughtn’t even have mentioned it. And in time, you’ll be convinced of the rightness of this match, I hope.”
Esmée was very quiet for a moment. “I hope so, too,” she answered. “But…but what if I am not?”
Lady Tatton patted her soothingly on the shoulder. “Well, if you have really given it time, dear, yet in the end, he does not suit, why, we shall just throw our fish back into the sea,” she declared. “There will be talk, of course, but frankly, his reputation is not the best. I think we’ll weather the storm.”
“I cannot imagine doing such a thing to Wynwood.”
Lady Tatton smiled tightly. “It would not be ideal,” she agreed. “But better that than a marriage which will make you miserable. Now, Gwendolyn—well, she is quite another kettle of fish. I should be in her black book for a month or two. I might even have to grovel a bit.”
“Oh, Aunt, I should hate to embarrass you!”
“I should hate it, too,” said Lady Tatton briskly. “But I shall survive, and so shall you. If it comes to that, which I pray it doesn’t. Now, child, where are the pearls which your mother gave you? I vow, I’ve not seen them in an age.”
“My pearls?” Esmée’s gaze fell to the portmanteau beside the dressing table. She was still mulling over what her aunt had said about the head and the heart. “Why, my pearls are in a green velvet case,” she finally answered. “Just there, in the pocket of my portmanteau.”
“Excellent!” said her aunt, reaching for it. “Tonight I am going to ask Pickens put your hair up very high, in a style suitable to a young woman about to be married. And for that, you shall definitely want pearls.”
Esmée smiled. “Thank you, Aunt Rowena. Perhaps it will make me look older and taller?”
“Oh, to be sure!” Lady Tatton snapped open the green velvet case and gave a sharp exhalation. “Merciful heavens, child! Why did you not take these out sooner?”
Esmée thought of her mother’s first love, and of opportunities lost. “You know, I am not perfectly sure why I haven’t worn them,” she answered. “Perhaps it was foolish of me. Perhaps I ought to have been wearing them every day.”
“I should say so!” said her aunt. “Why, they are perfectly breathtaking. I had quite forgotten what Rosamund’s old pearls looked like.”
The following day’s journey was not an especially pleasant one for the MacLachlan brothers, neither of whom wished to travel into the wilds of Buckinghamshire, yet for entirely different reasons. Indeed, they had waited until the last possible moment to leave London, as if hoping divine intervention might strike. It did not. Worse, the November day was cold and overcast, and by the time they reached the border, the winter’s sun had all but vanished, and a chill had settled over the carriage—a chill which was matched by Alasdair’s mood.
“You aren’t making this miserable journey any more agreeable, you know,” said his brother from the shadows opposite. “Recall, if you will, that I am the moody, sullen one. You are supposed to be blithe and charming.”
Alasdair glowered into the shadows, unable to make out his brother’s face. “Bugger off, Merrick,” he grumbled. “There! Charmed, damn you?”
Merrick just laughed.
“Besides, you abhor these sorts of things.” Alasdair regarded him with suspicion. “Why are you even going?”
Merrick lifted one shoulder. “It is rather like watching a rioting mob or a hanging,” he remarked. “The horror of it all is perversely compelling.” Then, deftly, he changed the subject. “What is the time, anyway?” He tugged out his pocket watch, flicked it open, and tilted it toward what was left of the light.
“A quarter to four,” muttered Alasdair. “Am I right?”
“To the very minute.”
“Aye, and I’m counting every bloody one,” he complained.
“Alasdair,” said his brother sharply. “Why are you going to this dinner?”
Alasdair could not hold his gaze. “I’m damned if I know.”
The carriage turned, and the hedgerow fell away, allowing the feeble daylight to make its way through the window. Alasdair toyed with the thought of lighting one of the carriage lanterns, but he found the darkness oddly comforting.
Merrick had begun to absently polish his watch with his handkerchief. “Lord Devellyn reminded me of something the other day,” he remarked. “It was one of Granny MacGregor’s wiser adages. The worth of a thing is best known by the want of it.”
“Utter drivel,” said Alasdair. “Or in this case, it is. And I know, Merrick, what you are getting at. Devellyn does not trouble to keep his opinions to himself.”
Merrick cocked one of his harsh black brows. “Does he not?”
Alasdair stared at his brother for a moment. “It did not require Esmée’s leaving me, Merrick, for me to comprehend her true value. She is well worth a man’s fortune. But I do not need you to lecture me about decorum or restraint, as I suspect you are considering.”
“I, lecture?” Merri
ck laughed again. “In this case, I might rather suggest that perhaps you’ve exhibited a tad too much restraint. I confess, I cannot fathom the attraction, but if you wanted the chit, why didn’t you just go after her?”
Alasdair considered denying he’d considered it. But what was the use? To Merrick, he had always been an open book. “I am too old and too jaded,” he remarked. “And she has seen too little of the world.”
“Oh, come now!” said his brother. “You haven’t yet seen forty. And Miss Hamilton is not exactly a naïve little miss.”
“Merrick, I had an affaire with the girl’s mother!” Alasdair felt his temper slip. “An affaire I don’t even remember, and I left her with child. A child which I’m now left to raise. Esmée’s sister, for God’s sake.”
“Did that bother Miss Hamilton?” Merrick pressed.
“Good Lord, Merrick,” he answered. “She is twenty-two years old. What does she know?”
“Oh, a vast deal, from what I have seen.” At last, Merrick seemed satisfied with the sheen on his timepiece. “Moreover, men often father children out of wedlock,” he went on, tucking the watch away. “I could name you a half dozen well-placed men of my acquaintance who are—if you’ll pardon the term—bastards. And yet all have done well in life. They have position and money. They have married well.”
“Men, yes,” Alasdair reluctantly admitted.
“Women, too,” his brother insisted. “Acknowledge the child, Alasdair. Spoil her. Pamper her. Trust me, the world will treat her as you treat her.”
“At present, Sorcha is too young to understand,” said Alasdair. “But when the time comes, I shall certainly acknowledge her. As to how she is dealt with, if the world treated her as she is treated in my house, the child would be Queen of England.”
The carriage slowed to take another turn, requiring Merrick to steady himself against the side. When he spoke again, his voice held an air of boredom. “I thought Miss Hamilton’s betrothal came rather suddenly,” he remarked. “Was she pressured into it, do you think?”
Alasdair fisted his hand, and wished for something to smash. “Quin swears not,” he answered. “I daresay that’s true. She does not bow to pressure especially well.”
“I wonder she settled so quickly, then,” Merrick returned. “It seems uncharacteristic, and Quin does not have an exemplary reputation.”
“No, damn it, he doesn’t,” gritted Alasdair. “I cannot imagine what Esmée was thinking. I am half of a mind to ask her. I thought she would find someone worthy. Someone steady and dependable.”
“Ah, I see,” said Merrick. “You had a plan, then. Did you convey that plan to Miss Hamilton?”
“I gave her advice, yes,” Alasdair responded. “What else was I to do?”
“What else indeed?” said Merrick mordantly. “I hope, dear brother, that you do not mean to cause a scandal tonight. You and Quin are old friends.”
“I don’t need you to remind me of that, either,” snapped Alasdair. “There will be no scandal.”
Merrick fell silent for a time, but it did not last. “Tell me, Alasdair, did Miss Hamilton return your—ah, what shall we call it? Your esteem?”
Alasdair lifted one shoulder lamely. “For a time, I believe she felt something of a sentimental attachment to me,” he admitted. “But as I said, she is young. And now she has her aunt to turn to.”
“Alasdair, she is not young,” Merrick countered. “Most females her age are married, and many have children. Quin thinks her clever and sensible. Has he been courting an altogether different Miss Hamilton?”
Alasdair merely glowered at him across the carriage.
“Alasdair, if you wanted the chit, why—”
“For God’s sake, Merrick, shut up!” Alasdair interjected. “Whatever I should have done, it is too late now.”
Merrick shook his head slowly. “Alasdair, I suppose nothing is certain,” he said again. “Not until the vows are spoken. Just be careful. I know the temper you possess under all that well-polished charm.”
Suddenly, the carriage went rumbling over what sounded like a bridge. Alasdair looked out to see the pretty village of Arlington Green flying past, then the carriage slowed to turn in at a familiar-looking gatehouse.
“We are almost there,” he said quietly. “We must all endeavor to remember that this is to be a joyous occasion for Quin.”
His brother made no answer.
Ten minutes later, their footmen were putting down the steps and unloading the bags. Alasdair looked up to see Quin hastening down the curving staircase, his expression as dark as the dusky sky. Apparently, the joyous occasion had already suffered some sort of setback. Against his will, Alasdair’s hope sprang forth. Could Esmée have come to her senses?
As he alit from the carriage, Quin caught Alasdair’s gaze with eyes which were hard and cold. He seemed incapable of speech.
“Quin?” said Alasdair, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Quin, old chap, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he snapped. “At least—well, I hope it is nothing.”
“You looks as if you’ve just seen a ghost,” said Merrick.
“Not a ghost,” he murmured. “Not yet, anyway.” But Quin had cut a dark, suspicious look in the direction of the wood; the wood which separated his estate from that of his uncle, Lord Chesley.
“Your uncle is at home?” asked Alasdair lightly.
“Indeed, the prodigal returns.” Then, as if to force a brighter mood, Quin slapped Alasdair convivially between the shoulder blades. “Look, old chaps, pay my blue devils no heed. I’m imagining things—bridegroom’s nerves, and all that rot, eh? Come in, and help me wash it all down with a glass of good brandy.”
Chapter Ten
In which Sir Alasdair proves there’s nothing like a
Good Book
“Are you ready, my dear?”
Esmée flicked a quick glance up at the mirror. Behind her, Lady Tatton stood in the connecting doorway, resplendent in her dark green silk gown and matching plumes.
Pickens laid aside the leftover hairpins, and Esmée stood. “What do you think?” she asked, smoothing her hands down the front of her dinner gown.
Lady Tatton hastened forward. “Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, motioning for Esmée to twirl about. “My dear Pickens! You have quite outdone yourself!”
Indeed, Esmée had hardly recognized the young woman who looked back at her from the mirror. That woman looked—well, like a woman. Tall, and somehow more sophisticated. The dark gray silk she wore was simple, but cut low on her shoulders, with the barest hint of sleeves. About her neck, she again wore Alasdair’s pearls, and in her hair, a second strand, loaned by her aunt, which Pickens had cleverly twisted into Esmée’s upswept arrangement.
“I have a gift for you,” said Lady Tatton, holding out her hand.
Esmée looked at the tiny velvet bag. “Aunt, you mustn’t.”
“This is a special occasion,” her aunt insisted. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Esmée unthreaded it, and dumped the contents into her hand. A pair of pearl drop earbobs tumbled out, swinging from large, white diamonds. “Oh!” she said breathlessly. “Oh, how elegant they are!”
“And now they are yours,” said Lady Tatton, plucking one from her palm. “I wore them when I married Tatton, and they are very precious to me. Here, let me put them on for you. Wynwood will wish his future bride to look elegant and sophisticated.”
Esmée felt her eyes tear up. She wished the occasion felt as special to her as it clearly did to her aunt. “Aunt Rowena, I ought not take anything else from you,” she said when the last was on. “You have been so very generous.”
“And I shall endeavor to always be so,” said Lady Tatton, stepping back to survey her work. “Now, my dear, let us go downstairs and face the future boldly on.”
From the corridor, Esmée could hear the soft sound of violins resonating up from the drawing room. Lady Wynwood had insisted on a string quartet. “For ambianc
e!” she had said. “And dear Chesley does so love his music.”
“I saw the Lord Chesley’s barouche draw up a few moments ago,” whispered Lady Tatton, as they went down the wide, curving staircase. “Now remember, he is Gwendolyn’s younger brother, and she quite dotes on him.”
Esmée had often heard Wynwood speak of his uncle. “Surely he is not that young?”
“Oh, heavens no!” said Lady Tatton. “Fifty now, perhaps? He is a world traveler, and a great patron of the arts both here and on the Continent.”
“Och, I shall have nothing to say to such a man!”
“Nonsense!” said her aunt. “You’ll charm him.”
In honor of the occasion, Lady Wynwood had thrown open the withdrawing room and the two elegant parlors adjoining it. Black-clad footmen seemed everywhere, floating through the crowd with trays of champagne that glistened gold beneath the light of what seemed to be a thousand candles. Silver had been polished until it gleamed, and the fine oriental carpets had been beaten half to death, Esmée was sure. The wealth and grandeur of the Hewitt family was indisputably on display tonight.
The drawing room was already filled with people, most of whom Esmée had already met. There were, however, a few neighbors whom she did not know. She was being taken round the room on Wynwood’s arm to meet them when she felt him stiffen abruptly.
Esmée’s gaze followed his in the general direction of the string quartet. An opulently dressed middle-aged gentleman stood nearby, accompanied by three other people, none of whom looked like neighbors or relations.
“Is that your uncle, Lord Chesley?” Esmée asked. “I am very eager to meet him.”
“I shan’t interrupt him just now,” said Wynwood coolly. “Let me return you to your aunt, my dear. Mother is looking daggers at me. I must have forgotten to do something.”
Esmée did not see Lady Wynwood anywhere in the room, but she rejoined her aunt, who was holding court on the opposite side of the windows. Esmée sat quietly by her aunt’s side as a gaggle of garden-minded ladies debated the merits of various manures. Sheep seemed to be coming out on top, so to speak.