by Mary Balogh
“I had a child with my first wife, who died a few months after Waterloo,” he said. “She was the daughter of General and Lady Pascoe. My daughter was taken, without my knowledge or consent, to live with her grandmother while I was in Belgium. By the time I came home after the battle, my wife was . . . gone and Katy’s grandparents were unwilling to allow me to take my daughter home. Lady Pascoe would not even allow me to see her. I—”
“But whyever not?” Cousin Althea asked.
“My marriage was not a happy one, ma’am,” he explained. “My wife told her mother that I had mistreated her, that I had been violent. And when I went to fetch my daughter from her grandmother’s home, I am afraid I did nothing to help my case. I behaved badly. I raged and threatened and—”
“And did you use violence upon your wife?” Marcel asked while Abigail’s mother, standing close to him, raised a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes.
“No, sir,” Gil said.
“If you raged and threatened,” Marcel asked, “why did you not end up with your child? I assume the general was still from home?”
“He was,” Gil said. “I had got myself inside the house despite the effort of several servants to keep me out, but then Lady Pascoe came downstairs and stood blocking the staircase. And I could hear Katy crying upstairs. She was less than a year old. But she sounded frightened.”
“So you went away,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes,” Gil said. “Very soon after that, out of the blue, I was posted to St. Helena. General Pascoe’s doing, without a doubt. My wife died while I was there. By now they have dug in their heels. They have threatened through their lawyer to have me charged with assault if I do not go away quietly. Through my lawyer I have threatened to charge them with kidnapping. However, negotiations are ongoing and seem to be leading to a hearing before a judge, who will decide my daughter’s fate. I believe I have right and the law on my side, but General and Lady Pascoe have rank and power and influence on theirs.”
“And so,” Colin said, “it occurred to you and your lawyer that your chances would improve considerably if you married again and had a mother to offer the child as well as a father.”
“Yes,” Gil said.
He was, Abigail thought as she sat stiffly on the edge of the love seat, making a mess of this.
“But that is outrageous,” her mother cried while Marcel set a hand on her shoulder. “You have used Abby. You have—”
“It is not so, Mama,” Abigail said. “When I agreed to marry Gil, I was in full possession of all the facts. We did not marry just to improve his chances of regaining custody of his daughter. We married each other also because we wanted to.” She was not at all sure that was true of Gil, but she did not believe it was not true either. “I am happy with what I have done. I hope you can be happy for me. I hope you all can.”
There was the briefest of silences.
“I am happy,” Estelle cried, and rushed from her own chair to sit beside Abigail and squeeze her hand. “Though I may never forgive you for not inviting me to your wedding. And just wait until Jessica hears the news.”
“I am happy for the two of you as well,” Cousin Althea said. “And I wish you every success with your court case, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He inclined his head to her.
“Small, private weddings can be the loveliest things,” Elizabeth said. “I am sure yours was, Abigail and Lieutenant Colonel Bennington. I hope we will hear details. If not, I shall have to write and pester Harry.” Her eyes were twinkling again.
Bertrand came to offer his hand to Abigail. He was grinning. “I would say you have done well for yourself considering the fact that you were an aging spinster, stepsister,” he said. “You have married a high-ranking officer and gentleman.” He took her hand in his and leaned over her to kiss her cheek.
“I am not a gentleman,” Gil said from behind her. Abigail did not have to look to know that he was wearing his granite expression.
Everyone looked inquiringly at him. Elizabeth was smiling as though awaiting the other half of the joke. Abigail felt her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she turned her head to look back at him. He was standing in a familiar pose—military bearing, booted feet slightly apart, hands at his back.
“I was recruited by a sergeant when he passed through the village where I lived with my mother,” he said. “I lied about my age—I was fourteen at the time. I was a sergeant in India several years later when . . . someone who appeared to feel he owed me something purchased an ensign’s commission for me and later a lieutenant’s. I progressed from there on my own. It is not an impossibly difficult thing to do during wartime. But my military rank notwithstanding, I am not a gentleman. My mother was unmarried. She scraped together a living by taking in other people’s washing.”
The tension that was in the brief silence that followed his words could surely be cut with a knife, Abigail thought.
“One might call me a guttersnipe,” Gil added, “though my wife does not like the word.”
Two servants chose that precise moment to bring in a tray of glasses and two bottles of champagne. They set everything down on the sideboard and left with downcast eyes, no doubt unnerved by the silence.
Her mother meanwhile had crossed quietly to the window. Marcel had followed her there, but while she stood looking out, he faced into the room, his hand on her forearm.
“And, in case anyone has forgotten,” Abigail said, “I am not a lady.”
She heard her mother moan softly.
“If any of you are thinking that I married beneath myself,” Abigail continued, “you are mistaken. I married the man I wished to marry. No one has ever understood, but I will tell you now. What happened six years ago set me free. I did not realize it at the time, of course. It took me a long while. But I have never wanted to be restored to my former social position, all patched up and almost as good as new. I have wanted to be who I am. That too I did not understand for some time. But when I did, then I knew also that I was free, that what happened on that terrible day that sent Harry into the military and Mama and Camille and me fleeing to Bath was actually the greatest blessing of my life. I did not marry Gil because he is no more a gentleman than I am a lady. Nor did I marry him despite the fact that we had vastly different upbringings. I was free to marry him because I wanted to.”
“Oh, Abigail,” Elizabeth said, while Estelle squeezed her hand so tightly it hurt. “Yes, do take her, Mama.” She handed the baby to Cousin Althea, while George on Colin’s lap played with his watch fob. Elizabeth came to sit on the arm of the love seat before patting Abigail’s hand. “Camille married the man of her heart. So did Viola—your mother. Now it is your turn to do the same thing. Bertrand, at the risk of sounding ill-mannered because I am a mere guest here, are you never going to pour that champagne and make the first toast to your stepsister and your new stepbrother-in-law?”
Bertrand hurried over to the sideboard. But what a travesty of a celebration, Abigail thought.
“I hope Harry had a proper talk with you, Bennington,” Marcel said, sounding more austere than Abigail had ever heard him before. “I hope he did not consent purely out of friendship. I hope—”
“I did not need his consent,” Abigail said sharply, “or anyone else’s. I am twenty-four years of age.”
“We did have a talk,” Gil said. “I was able to satisfy Major Westcott that I am capable of keeping his sister in the manner of life to which she is accustomed. I was also able to satisfy him that I will hold her in respect and affection for the rest of my life.”
“Then we have something to celebrate and you may distribute the glasses, Bertrand,” Marcel said. “Are you satisfied, Viola?”
“If my son gave his approval,” Abigail’s mother said without turning, “and if Abby is happy with her choice, then I must be satisfied.”
The weight upon
her shoulder, Abigail realized as Bertrand handed her a glass bubbling with champagne, was Gil’s hand.
Seventeen
They had their first quarrel after returning to their hotel in an uneasy silence.
“It was extremely kind of Elizabeth and Colin to have the sudden idea of hosting a wedding celebration for us, was it not?” Abigail said, her face flushed, her voice determinedly cheerful, or so it seemed to Gil as he closed the door of their suite behind them. “They have not spent much time in their own home here since their marriage, partly because of their children being born and their preference for the country, and partly because they have been having it completely refurbished. Colin’s mother lived there for years, and her tastes are as different from theirs as it is possible to be. It was, apparently, a monstrosity. Did you like them? And Cousin Althea? Elizabeth is everyone’s favorite within the family. She is always calm and cheerful. Her eyes are always smiling.”
“They seem like pleasant people,” he said.
“The event is to be a family celebration,” she continued, “though it was thoughtful of Colin, was it not, to ask if there was anyone you would like them to invite too. It will not be a large event, and it will not be at all intimidating. You know everyone. Camille and Joel will not be there, of course, more is the pity, or Grandmama Kingsley, or my uncle and aunt from Dorsetshire. He is Mama’s brother, a clergyman. And Harry will not be there.”
“Neither will I, Abby,” he said.
She whirled about to look at him, dismay on her face for a moment. He had not moved away from the door. Then she laughed.
“What?” she said. “A wedding celebration without the bridegroom? It is unheard of. It cannot be done.”
“I will not go,” he said. “I did not say I would. Perhaps you did not notice.”
He had rarely been more uncomfortable in his life than he had been during that visit to Dorchester’s house—in a grand, even opulent drawing room inside which his mother’s hovel would have fit four or five times. After the great reveal and the shock and the hearty congratulations of the first fifteen minutes or so, all had become brittle gaiety as champagne had been passed around and impromptu toasts had been made with the grand pretense that everyone was perfectly happy to discover that Abby, one of their own, had married a guttersnipe. And yes, he would continue to use that word in his own mind. It was the reality.
He ought not to have married her.
It was too late for that thought now, though.
One thing about the aristocracy and the upper classes in general was that they were almost invariably polite. They had good manners instilled in them from birth. He had been both the beneficiary and the victim of that fact as a military officer. He had been both again this afternoon. For there was no doubt in his mind that they had all been horrified by the news and had remained horrified to the end. Yet they had all covered over their true sentiments, perhaps for Abby’s sake since she was already married to him and could not be persuaded to change her mind, perhaps because he was Harry’s friend and they all adored Harry. Or perhaps simply because they all had manners.
It had been a particular struggle for the Marchioness of Dorchester. Understandably so. She was Abby’s mother. She had been gracious but almost silent. Gil would wager her mouth had not even touched her champagne.
And then, before he and Abby could escape to return here, Elizabeth, Lady Hodges, had had her bright idea, immediately seconded by her husband and backed up by her mother. Since the whole Westcott family except for Harry had missed the wedding, they must now celebrate it belatedly with a party at the Hodgeses’ town house. Soon. The day after tomorrow. How exciting it was going to be!
Public executions could be exciting too. Gil did not doubt that every last one of the Westcotts would prefer to give him one of those except that good manners—and perhaps the law—stood in their way.
He could hardly blame them. He ought, of course, to have taken more time to think through the whole business of marrying Abigail Westcott. For he had known full well deep down that it was the worst idea in the world. But it was too late to go back and do things differently. Approximately thirty hours too late.
But he was, by God, not going to a Westcott family wedding party to have the whole farce of this afternoon’s visit reenacted with a larger cast. The very thought of it . . .
“We cannot just not go,” Abby said.
“Watch me,” he said curtly. “You may go. I shall not try to persuade you out of going. I am certainly not going to command you not to attend. You are free to do as you wish.”
He was being petty.
“But I could not possibly go without you,” she said. “It would be absurd.”
“Then do not go,” he said. “Write and explain to Lady Hodges that we are too busy to attend any party. It would not be a complete lie. Or tell her the truth if you will. That I refuse to go.”
“Gil,” she said, “it would be very bad mannered.”
Very. She had emphasized the word.
“And good manners matter to you more than anything else,” he said.
She frowned. “No. But they do matter,” she told him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, still petty and unable or unwilling to do anything about it, it seemed. “I was raised to believe good manners consisted of saying please and thank you in the appropriate places. I did not understand that they also involve attending functions one has no wish to attend and ones that no one else wants to attend either.”
“My family will enjoy getting together to wish us well,” she said. “It is what we do. We celebrate together and we commiserate together.”
“And which will it be this time?” he asked. Nasty. Worse than petty now. Mean.
“Gil.” She tipped her head to one side, still frowning. She had not yet removed her bonnet. Neither of them had sat down. “It was a surprise to everyone. But they all accepted it after they had got over their shock. And they all understand that you are the same person they met and liked at Hinsford. Your background does not matter to them.”
“If you believe that, Abby,” he said, “you have windmills in your head.”
“That is not very kind,” she said.
“One can only imagine,” he said, “how the Earl of Riverdale, the head of your family, will react to learning how I duped him when I came from Paris with him and then mingled with his family for a whole week. One can only imagine how the Duke of Netherby will feel. And the dowager duchess. And the Dowager Countess of Riverdale. I could continue.”
“They will receive you kindly,” she said. “You are my husband.”
“So the respect in which I will be held by the Westcott family will depend upon that slender thread, will it?” he said.
“Am I nothing more to you than a slender thread?” she asked.
He opened his mouth to retaliate and snapped it shut again. He broke eye contact with her and looked beyond her to the clock on the mantel.
“Abby,” he said, “I have no wish to come between you and your family. None whatsoever. I know they are precious to you, and I know they love you. But I cannot be drawn into that particular fold. I will not try. Please do not ask it of me. And please do not ask it of your family. The kindest thing I can do for you is to stay away from them. Perhaps in time they will at least be reassured on your behalf when they know that I treat you well.”
“Gil—” she began, but he held up a staying hand.
“I am going to go down to the stables to assure Beauty that I have not run away,” he said. “I’ll take her for a walk. I’ll check on my horse too while I am down there. By the time I return it will be dinnertime.”
And he turned and opened the door and half stepped through the doorway before stopping. He drew breath and released it on a sigh. He stepped back inside, closed the door without latching it, and strode across the distance between them. He wrappe
d one arm about her waist, the other about her shoulders, and pulled her hard against him before kissing her. Her spine arched inward and her hands splayed over his chest while she kissed him back.
A few moments later he was making his way downstairs. Beauty had a small stall of her own in the stables, with fresh straw and her pillow and a large bowl of water. He had made arrangements for her to be fed regularly and walked by a groom. But she always hated being in places where she must be separated from him. And he, dash it all, hated it too.
Their first quarrel—his and Abby’s, that was. And a pretty serious one too. He wondered if they would recover from it.
He ought to go to that party, he supposed. It would be just a few hours out of his life. He ought to go through the motions of being welcomed into the family and feted. He ought to be polite. He had spent years, after all, learning to be a gentleman so that he could be a good officer. He should be willing to do this for Abby’s sake.
But he could not.
He would not.
* * *
• • •
Their first quarrel. Not many more than twenty-four hours after their wedding. And a nasty one. One that might continue to divide them for the rest of their lives.
After Gil left, Abigail stood where she was for a full minute before turning to go into her bedchamber to change for dinner. She felt quite trembly, perhaps because she knew he had a point. The hour of that visit had been one of the most awkward of her life, with everyone pretending to be happy about her marriage once they had recovered from the initial shock—and Gil standing in almost the exact same spot all the time they were there.
Her mother had not even made much of an effort to pretend. But why would she? How would she feel, Abigail asked herself, if her daughter did something similar? She remembered how she had felt a few years ago when Mama had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth on her way to Hinsford from Bath. Abigail, together with Joel and Alexander and Elizabeth, had tracked her all the way to a remote cottage in Devonshire and found her there, deep in an affair with Marcel—who had a reputation as a dreadful rake. Abigail had been horrified, among other things, even though Marcel had tried to cover up the impropriety by announcing that they were betrothed.