Simply Love

by Mary Balogh

  There were bows and curtsies and murmured greetings-and a great deal of awkwardness as Anne inclined her head to them all as if they were strangers.

  But Mrs. Jewell had returned her attention to David.

  “David.” She ate him up with her eyes again, though she did not move from where she stood.

  “Are you my grandmama?” David asked, his voice and eyes still eager. He seemed unaware of the awkward, tense atmosphere that was affecting all the adults. His eyes moved to Mr. Jewell, a tall, lean gentleman with gray hair and stern demeanor. “Are you my grandpapa?”

  Mr. Jewell clasped his hands behind him.

  “I am,” he said.

  “My real grandmama and grandpapa,” David said, stepping away from Anne and looking from one to the other of them. “I have new grandparents at Alvesley, and I like them very well indeed. But they are my stepfather’s mama and papa and so they are really my step-grandmama and my step-grandpapa. But you are real.”

  “David.” Mrs. Jewell had set one hand over her mouth and seemed to be half laughing and half crying. “Oh, yes, we are real. Indeed we are. And these are your uncles and aunts, and those children, who were told that on no condition were they to step outside, are your cousins. Come inside and meet them. And you must be hungry.”

  “Cousins?” David looked eagerly to the doorway.

  Mrs. Jewell reached out her hand to him and he took it.

  “What a big boy you are already,” she said. “And nine years old.”

  “Going on ten,” David said.

  Anne stood where she was as if she were made of marble. Her hand was stiff and motionless in Sydnam’s.

  “Well, Anne, Butler,” Mr. Jewell said abruptly, “you must come inside and warm yourselves by the fire.”

  “It is teatime, Anne,” her brother, Matthew, said. “We have been waiting, hoping you would arrive soon.”

  “I am very pleased to meet you at last, Anne,” his wife said.

  “And your husband.”

  “Anne,” her sister, Sarah, said quietly before taking her husband’s arm to return to the house, but it was doubtful Anne even heard, as she was not looking their way.

  It was not a joyful homecoming, Sydnam thought as he led Anne in the direction of the open door. But neither was it an unwelcoming one. All her family members had taken on the challenge of meeting her again too-presumably they did not all live here. They had come, however unwillingly, because Anne was expected.

  Surely there was hope in that fact.

  He held Anne’s hand in a firm grip.

  The house was disorientingly familiar-it was where Anne had grown up and been happy. And yet she sat with rigidly straight back on her chair in the front parlor, like a stranger.

  Her father looked older. His hair was now entirely gray, and the lines running from his nose to the outer corners of his mouth were more pronounced and made him look more austere than ever.

  He looked achingly familiar, yet he was a stranger.

  Her mother had put on weight. Her hair had grayed too. She looked anxious and bright-eyed. She was the woman who had been a rock of security through Anne’s growing years. Now she was a stranger.

  Matthew had lost his boyish look, though he was still lean and still had all his hair. Five years ago he had been appointed vicar of a church five miles away-he had just said so. His wife, Susan, was pretty and fair-haired and was doing her very best to converse as if this were any ordinary social occasion. They had two children-Amanda, aged seven, and Michael, aged five.

  Strangers.

  Sarah had grown plump, and Henry had grown bald. They had four children-Charles, aged nine, Jeremy, aged seven, Louisa, aged four, and Penelope, aged two.

  Charles, aged nine.

  David was with the children, his cousins, somewhere else in the house. He was probably reveling in their company and in their relationship to him. He never seemed to be able to get enough of other children, particularly cousins. Yet his life until a very short while ago had been quite devoid of the latter.

  Anne sipped her tea without tasting it and was content to leave all the talking to her mother, Sydnam, Matthew, and Susan.

  She had not expected this sort of reception. She had expected her mother and father to be alone. She had imagined that Matthew, as a clergyman, might disdain to receive her. She had expected Sarah and Henry to stay well out of her sight until she was long gone. She had not decided if she would try to force them to confront her.

  But they had come here, knowing she was expected.

  Neither of them had spoken a word.

  But then neither had she since coming inside the house except to murmur thanks every time someone offered her food or tea.

  The last time she had been in this house was when she had come from Cornwall to spend a short vacation. They had celebrated Henry’s twentieth birthday and planned that the next year they would celebrate his coming of age by announcing their betrothal. But by his twenty-first birthday she was with child and Henry was married to Sarah.

  Sydnam was telling them all about Alvesley and his family. He was telling them about Glandwr, where he was the Duke of Bewcastle’s steward, and about Ty Gwyn, which he had recently purchased and to which he was eager to take his bride and stepson. He told them that he had been a military officer in the Peninsula, where he had sustained his injuries.

  “But I survived.” He smiled at all of them. “Many thousands did not.”

  It struck Anne suddenly that at Glandwr Sydnam had always been quiet, that he had always taken up a position in a quiet corner of the drawing room, that while he was never morose or unsociable, he never put himself forward either. Yet here he was, taking upon himself the brunt of the conversation, knowing himself to be the very center of attention.

  She felt a wave of gratitude and love.

  Her mother got to her feet.

  “Matthew and Susan live five miles away,” she said, “and Sarah and Henry scarcely less. It is quite a distance with young children. They are all to stay here tonight since no one wanted to rush away before dinner. You must be tired after your journey, Anne. And Mr. Butler too. Come upstairs to your room and have a rest. We can all talk again later.”

  Yes, she had come here to talk, Anne thought. She had come here to face them, to confront them, to make some sort of peace with them if it was possible. But perhaps it was best left until later. Her mother was right-she was tired.

  But she did not get up. She stared at her hands spread in her lap instead.

  “Why?” she asked. “It is what I want to know from all of you, what I came to ask. Why?”

  She was appalled at her own words. It was why she had come. But there was surely a better time. When, though? When would be a better time? She had already waited ten years.

  Everyone else was appalled too. She could tell that by the quality of the silence that filled the room. But they must have known she would ask the question. Or hadn’t they? Had they thought she would come now that she was married and respectable again to be taken back to the bosom of the family, content that nothing be said about the past?

  Her mother sat down again. Anne looked up at her.

  “What did you mean,” she asked, “when you said that you forgave me. We was the word you used. Who was we? And what had I done to need forgiveness?”

  Matthew cleared his throat, but it was their father who replied.

  “He was a wealthy man, Anne,” he said, “and heir to a marquess’s title. I daresay you thought he would marry you, and so he ought to have done. But you should have known that such as he would not marry such as you-especially after you had already given him what he wanted.”

  Anne’s mother made an inarticulate sound of distress, Sydnam got to his feet and crossed to the window, where he stood looking out, and Anne clasped her hands very tightly in her lap.

  “You thought I was trying to snare Albert Moore as a husband?” she asked.

  “Maybe not quite in the way it turned out,” her f
ather said. “But I daresay you teased him and he lost control. It is what happens. And the man always gets blamed.”

  Blamed.

  The man always gets blamed.

  “I was to marry Henry,” Anne said, ignoring the almost palpable discomfort of Henry himself-and of Sarah. “You knew that. I had known him and loved him all my life. I did not look higher. It never even occurred to me to be ambitious. I lived for the day when I could come back home to marry.”

  “Anne,” Sarah said, but she did not continue, and everyone ignored her anyway.

  “But you must have been able to stop him if you had really wanted to do so, Anne,” her father said. “Surely you could have.”

  “He was stronger than I,” she said. “Much stronger.”

  He winced almost noticeably and then frowned. Her mother’s face was hidden in her handkerchief.

  “Your mother wanted to go to you,” her father said. “I was going to write to the marquess to ask what his son’s intentions to you were. But what would have been the point? You were a governess there. I would merely have made myself look foolish. And then Sarah told us that she was going to marry Arnold, and he came on the heels of her announcement to offer for her and when I refused my consent they both threatened to elope. Matthew was about to take up his first curacy where he is now and there was all the question of what the scandals would do to his career. I refused to allow your mother to go to you-there was a wedding to arrange, anyway. But I did instruct her to write to you and tell you we forgave you. I did not believe you had been deliberately depraved.”

  It was, Anne supposed, little different from what she had imagined. She gazed at her father, at the pillar of strength she had loved and admired and obeyed as a girl. But there came a time in everyone’s life, she supposed, when one’s parent became a person in one’s eyes. And persons, unlike parents, were never perfect. Sometimes they were far from perfection.

  Her mother lowered her hands.

  “And your father-and we,” she said, “thought it best that you not come back here, Anne-at least for a while. It would have been upsetting, and there would have been scandal in the neighborhood. It would have been dreadful for you.”

  And for her and Papa and Sarah and Henry and Matthew, Anne thought with a half-smile.

  “But I have missed you dreadfully,” her mother cried. “I have pined for you, Anne. And for David.”

  But not enough ever to come and visit her? Anne thought. But then her mother had always been a dutiful wife. She had never done anything without Papa’s full approval and consent. It had always seemed to be a virtue…

  “He is such a handsome child, Anne,” her mother said. “And he looks just like you.”

  “David looks,” Anne said, “like Albert Moore, his father. He was a handsome man. David also has some of my characteristics. But more than anything else, he is himself. He has most in common with his new father. Sydnam is a painter and so is David. They paint together.”

  It astounded her that she could admit aloud that David looked like his father without cringing from the very fact that Albert Moore was his father. She glanced at Sydnam, who still stood with his back to the room, and felt a knee-weakening love for him.

  “Anne,” Sarah said, “please forgive me. Please do. It was a terrible thing I did, but I was so in love. That was no excuse, though. I have not known a day’s happiness since. I am so very sorry. But I cannot expect you to forgive me.”

  Anne looked at her fully for the first time. She had grown plumper. She looked very much like their mother. But she was still the sister who had been Anne’s closest friend and confidante throughout their growing years.

  “Anne,” Henry said, “I would have married you if you had come home as planned without-Well…You must know I would have. But you were there and Sarah was here.”

  Anne bent her gaze on him. She would have liked to see him as ugly and unappealing. She would like to wonder what she had ever seen in him. He certainly had weaknesses of character that were unattractive. But he was Henry, and they had been close friends for years before planning a closer relationship.

  “All things happen for a purpose,” she said, “though sometimes they take their time. If I had married you, Henry, there would not be David, and he has been the most precious person in my life for many years. And if I had married you, I would not have been able to marry Sydnam. And so I would have lost my chance for a lifetime of happiness.”

  Matthew cleared his throat again.

  “You have done well for yourself, Anne,” he said. “First you had a home and some pupils in that village in Cornwall, and then you got that teaching post in Bath. And now you have married a son of the Earl of Redfield.”

  “It is strange,” Anne said, “that you know all these things about me. I have known nothing about your lives. I did not even know of the existence of any of my nephews and nieces.”

  “I thought it best, Anne,” her mother said. “I thought you would pine.”

  “I need to ask you all,” Anne said, “if the fact that I have come through these years rather well makes you feel better about turning your backs on me.”

  “Oh, Anne.” Sarah’s voice was high with distress.

  But it was her father who gave a lengthier reply.

  “No,” he said abruptly. “No better at all. It was easier to believe that you had brought your suffering on yourself and then to feel relieved that you were coping on your own. It was easier to believe that you were better off where you were, away from the gossiping tongues of our neighbors. You did suffer and you did cope, and perhaps it really was good that you avoided the gossip. But no, I for one do not feel better about my treatment of you. I never have felt good about it. And now today, now that I have to look you in the eye, I feel worse-as I deserve to do. Don’t blame your mother. She would have come to you at the start, but I would not countenance it.”

  “I ought at least to have written to you, Anne,” Matthew said.

  “If it had not been for my extravagances at Oxford, you would not even have had to take a position as governess.”

  “Sarah has always been miserable about the whole thing,” Henry said quietly. “So have I.”

  “Well,” Anne said, getting to her feet, “if I was not tired before I am exhausted now. I will avail myself of the suggestion that I withdraw until dinnertime. I am sure Sydnam is weary too. Ancient history is a dreadful thing when it is one’s own, is it not? It cannot be changed. None of us can go back and do things differently. We can only go forward and hope that the past has at least taught us some wisdom to take with us. I have stayed away in more recent years because I bore a grudge, because I hoped you were all suffering, because I could feed my bitterness, which somehow seemed my right. But here I am. And though I will doubtless weep when I get upstairs, I am glad I came. For what it is worth, I forgive you all-and hope you will forgive me for what I have contributed to your unhappiness.”

  They were all on their feet and all hovering. The scene could degenerate into high sentimental drama at any moment, Anne thought. But no one moved to hug her, and she did not move to hug anyone.

  It was too soon yet.

  But the time would come, she believed. They were all very much in need of pardon and peace. And, when all was said and done, they were family. And they had come today.

  Sydnam was at her side and offering her his arm. She linked her own arm through it, half smiled about at the room’s occupants, and followed her mother from the parlor and up the broad wooden stairs, past her old room, and on to the room that had always been kept for such special guests that in effect it had almost never been used.

  They had been deemed very special guests, then, had they?

  After she had stepped inside the room, Anne turned to look at her mother, who was hovering in the doorway, looking anxious.

  “I am glad you have come home, Anne,” she said. “I am glad you have brought David. And I am glad you have married Mr. Butler.”

  “Sydnam, i
f you please, ma’am,” he said.

  “Sydnam.” She smiled nervously at him.

  Anne stepped forward without a word and wrapped her arms about her mother’s stout form. Her mother hugged her back tightly and wordlessly.

  “Rest now,” she said when Anne stepped back.

  “Yes.” Anne nodded. “Mama.”

  And then the door closed and she was alone with Sydnam.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “but I think I am going to weep.”

  “Anne,” he said, and he was laughing softly as his arm came about her and his hand drew her head down to rest on his shoulder. “Of course you are.”

  “Was painting again this difficult for you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said with conviction, kissing the top of her head. “And there is much anguish to come. I have only just begun, and the first effort really was quite abysmal. But I am not going to stop. I have begun and I will continue-to failure or to success. But failure does not matter because it will only spur me on to try harder as it always used to do. And even if I never succeed, at least I will know that I tried, that I did not hide from life.”

  “At last,” she said, “I have stopped hiding too.”

  “Yes,” he said, laughing softly again. “You surely have.”

  The tears came at last.

  Both the younger Jewells and the Arnolds remained at the manor for longer than the one night they had planned.

  David was in heaven. Though he dragged Sydnam off one morning to paint, taking Amanda with them, he was content to spend almost all the rest of his time with his cousins, particularly Charles Arnold, who was only a few months younger than he.

  Sydnam went out riding a few times with the men after they discovered-through David-that he could ride. He found them all very willing to make his acquaintance. He had been prepared to dislike them-the elder Mr. Jewell no less than Henry Arnold, but though he had seethed with rage while listening to what they had to say to Anne on the first day, he discovered on closer acquaintance that they were just ordinary, basically amiable gentlemen with whose views on life and justice he could occasionally disagree.