by Mary Balogh
She was a handsome woman in a straight-backed, tight-lipped sort of way.
Sydnam bowed to her while she stood looking at him, her hands clasped at her waist. To do her justice, she controlled her reactions well at the sight of him. Or perhaps Anne had warned her what to expect.
“Miss Martin?” he said. “Sydnam Butler, ma’am. I have come to speak with Miss Jewell.”
“She will be here in a moment,” she said. “I have sent Keeble to inform her that you are here. Miss Walton will conduct the rest of her mathematics lesson.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Sydnam inclined his head again.
“If your tardiness in coming here is indicative of your eagerness to do your duty, Mr. Butler,” she surprised him by saying, her posture unchanged, her face stern, “I beg to inform you that Miss Jewell has friends who are willing and able to offer her shelter and support for as long as she needs them. Women do have some modicum of power when they stick together, you know.”
He could begin to understand why the woman had not crumbled before Bewcastle.
“I thank you, ma’am,” he said. “But I also am willing and able-and eager-to secure Miss Jewell’s comfort and security and happiness.”
They gazed at each other, taking each other’s measure.
He could not dislike the woman. It pleased him to know that Anne had such a friend. Obviously Miss Martin knew the truth, but far from tossing Anne out of the school in moral outrage, she was prepared to offer her a home and support if need be.
“I suppose,” she said, “you must be worth something if you have been able to perform the function of steward to the satisfaction of the Duke of Bewcastle despite your obvious disabilities.”
Sydnam almost smiled as she looked him over frankly and critically from head to foot, particularly down his right side. He did not smile, though. He felt that somehow they were engaged in a battle of wills, though over what he was not sure. The only thing he was sure of was that he was not going to lose.
The door opened behind Miss Martin before either of them could speak again.
Anne Jewell.
She looked pale and rather unwell, Sydnam thought. She seemed to have lost weight. She was also even more beautiful than he remembered.
There had been a time, for a week or two after she left, when he had tried and tried and failed to recall her face. And then there had come the time when he would have been happy to forget both it and her. Remembering had been painful and deeply depressing. And his solitude, which he had so resented giving up when she came to Glandwr with the Bedwyns, had turned to undeniable, gnawing loneliness after they had all left.
And deep unhappiness.
Her eyes met his across the room, and he bowed formally to her as if she were not standing there with his child in her womb.
The truth of it smote him and made him slightly dizzy.
“Ah, here is Miss Jewell now,” Miss Martin said briskly and unnecessarily.
“Thank you, Claudia,” Anne said without taking her eyes off him.
A suitable name for the headmistress of the school, Sydnam thought-Claudia. A strong, uncompromising name. She bent one more severe look upon him, a softer look upon her fellow teacher, and left the room without further ado.
He and Anne Jewell were alone together.
And so good-bye had not been good-bye after all, he thought.
He was painfully glad to see her.
And painfully aware of the reason.
She was pregnant with his child.
“You must have thought,” he said, “that I was not coming.”
“Yes,” she said. “I did.”
She was standing to one side of the door, half a room away from him. Three weeks must have seemed an endless time to her, he supposed. She was unmarried and with child-for the second time.
He hated to think that that fact somehow put him on a level with Albert Moore.
“The rain delayed both your letter and my journey to London,” he explained. “I am so sorry, Anne. But you must have known that you could trust me.”
“I thought I could,” she said. “But you did not come.”
“I would never let you down,” he said. “And I would never abandon my own child.”
The thought had hammered in his brain all the way to London and back to Bath. He had fathered a child.
He was going to be a father.
She sighed and her posture relaxed. He could see that his explanation had convinced her and that she had forgiven him.
“Sydnam,” she said, “I am really sorry-”
“No!” He held up his hand and walked closer to her. “You must never say that, Anne. Nor must I. If you are sorry you had to call on me like this, and if I am sorry that I made it necessary for you to do so, then we must also be sorry for what we did that afternoon at Ty Gwyn. Yet we both agreed at the time that it was what we wanted. And if we are sorry, then we are also sorry that there is to be a child. We say that it is unwanted and that there is something wrong about it. There can only be everything in the world right about any child. And this one is yours and mine and must be welcomed gladly by both of us. Please do not say you are sorry.”
She stared mutely at him for a few moments, and he was reminded of the blueness of her eyes and the smoky quality her long lashes gave them.
“London?” she said then. “You have been to London?”
“To procure a special license,” he explained. “We must marry without delay, Anne. You must have the protection of my name.”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip.
“If you really wish to have the banns called,” he said, “so that our families will have time to gather for our wedding, then I will respect your wishes. But even this three-week delay has made me very uneasy. Only my life stands between you and something unspeakable-despite Miss Martin’s determination to care for you if I will not.”
“I have no family,” she said.
“We will wed tomorrow morning, then,” he told her. “I will make the arrangements.”
He remembered something suddenly as she gazed back at him, even her lips pale. He remembered a very inadequate offer of marriage he had made just after bedding her-just after impregnating her, as it had turned out.
If you wish, Anne, we will marry.
Was she never to hear anything better from him? Was she now to be rushed into marriage because it was necessary and forever feel cheated of some of the trappings of courtship?
“Anne.” He took her left hand in his and lowered himself onto his right knee-so that he would be able to use the stronger left leg to help him rise again. “Anne, my dear, will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”
He brought her hand to his lips, but not before seeing her eyes grow huge with unshed tears. She bent over him, and he felt her free hand light against the top of his head.
“I will,” she said. “I will always do my best to bring you comfort and companionship, Sydnam, and I will be the best mother I can possibly be to your child-to our child.”
He got to his feet and drew her against him. She turned her head and rested it against his left shoulder, her hands nestled between them, spread over his chest.
He wished then that he had two arms to wrap about her, to hold her close, to enclose her in the safety of his protection. And he wished he had two eyes to see her with. And he wished…
But he was alive. He had learned to cope with the changed conditions of his life. And now he was to have a wife and companion. There would be a child for the nursery at Ty Gwyn soon after they moved in there. He could begin to think of his life in terms of the plural-my wife and daughter, or son, and me. He had somehow been thinking of the child as female. He was going to have a daughter. Or a son.
He must not dwell upon the fact that he had no right arm and no right eye-that he could never offer Anne a whole man. He must not think of how she had cringed from him when he entered her body. He must not fear the loss of his deepest privacy.
He
must give what he could-the protection of his name, his friendship, loyalty, kindness, and affection. And perhaps in time…
She lifted her head and gazed into his face.
“It will be all right,” he told her. “Everything will be all right.”
“Yes.”
Her lips curved into a smile, and he knew she was having similar thoughts to his-that this ought not to be happening but was, and all they could do was make the best of it.
Their prospects were not utterly bleak. They liked each other-he knew she liked him. He was in love with her. Perhaps he even loved her.
They had the rest of their lifetimes to work on the sort of warm marital relationship he had always dreamed of.
“Anne,” he said, “what about your son? Does he know?”
She shook her head.
“Until you came,” she said, “I did not know what I would tell him.”
“I will support him and care for him and educate him and love him as if he were my own,” he assured her. “I will give him my name if you wish, Anne, and if he wishes it. But will he accept me?”
“I do not know what he will feel,” she said. “He longs for a father figure in his life. But…” She bit her lip again.
But his longing was for a whole and perfect man, like Hallmere or Rosthorn or any of the Bedwyn men.
“Shall we summon him now,” he asked her, “and tell him together? Or would you rather talk to him alone first?”
She drew a deep breath and released it slowly.
“I’ll go and fetch him,” she said. “Tomorrow his life will change drastically. He needs to know as soon as possible, and he needs to meet you face-to-face.”
His heart plummeted as soon as she left the room. Tomorrow his life will change. All three of their lives would change tomorrow. And they would be changed irrevocably and forever. It was not just he and Anne who were involved in all this. There would be a new child, whom he already loved with a fierce, almost painful tenderness. And there would be the boy, David Jewell, whom he had pledged to love though he did not know how easy it would be or if the boy would willingly reciprocate that love.
And who could blame him if he did not? What child would choose a one-eyed, one-armed father whom most children and even some adults feared as a monster?
Choices.
He and Anne Jewell had chosen to make love together during that afternoon at Ty Gwyn, and their lives-and David’s-had been forever changed.
Only time would tell if they had been changed for the better or the worse. Not that it would matter. They could only continue to walk the path of their lives to the very end, and for now at least their paths had converged.
It was Saturday again, the sun was shining, and it was a relatively warm day for October. But though the boarders at Miss Martin’s school and a few of the day pupils too were out in the meadow playing games as usual, it was Lila Walton who was supervising them rather than Susanna Osbourne.
Susanna was in Anne Jewell’s room, laughing as she attempted to thread a string of seed pearls through her friend’s hair, which she had just succeeded in pinning up into a more elegant style than usual.
“There,” she said, standing back at last to view the results of her handiwork. “Now you look fit to be a bride.”
Anne was wearing her best green silk.
Claudia was standing silently just inside the door, her hands clasped at her waist.
“Anne,” she said, meeting her friend’s eyes in the mirror, “are you quite, quite sure?”
It was a foolish question, of course. When one was with child and the father was due to arrive in five minutes’ time to marry one, it really did not matter if one was sure or not.
“I am,” she said.
“He was so very, very handsome,” Claudia said with a sigh.
“He still is.” Anne smiled into the mirror.
“You told me,” Susanna said, “that he was tall, dark, and handsome, Anne. You did not say anything about his war wounds.”
“Because they do not matter,” Anne said. “I also told you that he and I were friends, Susanna. We were. We are.”
“I am looking forward to meeting him,” Susanna said.
But Claudia turned at that moment and opened the door upon which Keeble was about to knock.
“They are downstairs,” he announced as if he had come to tell them that the devil and his chief assistant had just stepped into the school. Although a man himself, Mr. Keeble always carefully guarded his domain against the wicked male world beyond its doors. He looked across the room to Anne, who was getting to her feet. “You look good enough to eat, Miss Jewell.”
“Thank you, Mr. Keeble.” She smiled at him, though her heart felt as if it were lodged somewhere in the soles of her slippers.
Sydnam had arrived with the clergyman who was to marry them. The wedding was going to be solemnized in Claudia’s private sitting room, the visitors’ parlor having been rejected as too gloomy.
It was her wedding day-her wedding day-yet she felt nothing but a heavy heart. She was fond of him, and he was fond of her, but they had not intended to marry, and it seemed somehow worse to be marrying Sydnam than someone of whom she was not fond at all-foolish thought.
She should be able to offer him everything, but she did not believe she had anything but her fondness to give.
And he should be able to offer her everything. But he had never spoken of love. He had twice offered marriage, yesterday in a touchingly romantic way, but both times it had been from duty rather than inclination. It would have to be enough, though. He was a gentle, kindly man. He would take his responsibilities seriously.
Ah, but a bride should feel very differently on her wedding day, she thought wistfully.
“I’ll go up and fetch David,” she said.
“Let me go,” Susanna offered.
“No.” Anne shook her head. “But thank you, Susanna. And thank you, Claudia. For everything.”
Keeble had disappeared, though his squeaky boots could still be heard descending the stairs.
She hugged them both quickly and climbed the stairs to the small room next to Matron’s that had always been David’s. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing his best clothes, his hair carefully combed.
“It is time to go down,” Anne said.
He looked up at her and got to his feet.
“I wish,” he said, “my papa had not died. I wish he had not. He would have played cricket with me like Cousin Joshua and taught me to ride like Lord Aidan did with Davy and he would have climbed trees with me like Lord Alleyne and taken me boating like Lord Rannulf. He would have winked at me and called me funny names in French like Lord Rosthorn. He would have held me when I was a baby like the Duke of Bewcastle with James. He would have kept you away from…from him, and he would have loved us both.”
It was not a loud diatribe. He spoke quietly but distinctly. Anne quelled her anger and concentrated upon listening to him.
“David,” she said, as she had said half a dozen times yesterday, “I am not going to love you one iota the less after this morning than I have loved you all your life. The only difference will be that I will not have to teach here and will therefore have more time to spend with you.”
“But you are going to have a baby,” he said.
“Yes.” She smiled at him. “And that means you are going to have a brother or a sister. Someone to look up to you and see you as a great hero of an elder brother-as Hannah does with Davy. The baby will be someone else to love you and someone else for you to love. I will still love you as well as I do now. I will not have to divide my love in half between you and the baby. My love will double instead.”
“But he will love the baby,” he said.
“Because he will be the baby’s papa,” she said. “He will be yours too if you wish. He said so to me and then he said so to you. He also said that he will just be your friend if you would prefer that. He is not your enemy, David. He is a good and honorable man. Lor
d Alleyne and Lord Aidan and the others told you a great deal about him, did they not? He is their friend. They like and admire him. And he was kind about your painting, and you liked him when he praised you and suggested you try painting with oils. Will you try to like him now too?”
“I don’t know,” he was honest enough to say. “I don’t see why you need anyone else but me, Mama-especially him. Alexander thought he was a monster. And I don’t know why you want another baby. Am I not enough for you?”
She stooped down and wrapped her arms around his slender little body, feeling his pain and bewilderment, recognizing his fear of losing all that had given his days shape and anchor through his short life. He had always had her undivided attention and love. And he had always been a cheerful, good-natured child. It hurt to see him petulant-and to know that she was the cause.
“Life changes, David,” she said. “As you grow older you will learn that. It always changes, as it did when we came here from Cornwall. But one thing will always remain the same in your life. I absolutely promise you that. I will always love you with all my heart.”
“We had better go down,” he said, “or we will be late.”
“Yes.” She straightened up and smiled down at him again. “You look remarkably handsome today.”
“Mama,” he said as he walked beside her down the stairs, “I will be polite. I will not make a scene. And I will try my very best to like him-he was kind about my painting. But don’t ever try to make me call him Papa because I won’t. I have a papa of my own, but he is dead.”
“I will be very happy,” she said, “if you call him Mr. Butler.”
And that would be her name too, she thought, feeling suddenly weak in the knees. In just a short while she was going to be Mrs. Sydnam Butler.
There was no point now, though, in feeling sudden uncertainty or panic. She was carrying their child in her womb.