by Mary Balogh
Peregrine smiled and absently reached out to put a fallen lock of hair back from her face. “I know how Paul would answer your question,” he said. “And on this occasion I think I agree with him, though we never could agree on very many ideas. Even if heaven is not a place that exists for eternity, it can be a moment in time. I know how Paul must have felt when he knew he was about to be gored by that bull. He had saved the life of a child. He had with his own hands robbed death of one victory. I suppose he had no time for clear thought. I suppose he might have known a moment of terror seeing what was facing him. But I believe too that he felt exultant, happy. He was in heaven.”
Grace reached up and pushed the stray lock of hair more firmly into the rest. “Thank you,” she said. “Yes, that is just what Paul would have said. I was often angry in those first years, often rebellious. But Paul could always calm me. His logic was always irrefutable. His sermons were dull, Sir Peregrine—yes, I know they were—because he worked so hard on them. But when he spoke from the heart—and it took him only a few moments, not a whole hour—he could convince me that perhaps there is a God after all and perhaps He is even good. Who knows?”
“Are you better now?” Peregrine asked. “Do you wish to sit down?”
“I need a cup of tea,” she said. “And I owe you an explanation. I have not explained what happened to sever Paul and me from the rest of our family. Will you excuse me for a few minutes while I boil the kettle?”
“If I may,” Peregrine said, “I shall come with you and watch you make the tea.”
He perched on the corner of the kitchen table, his arms folded across his chest as she busied herself filling the kettle and setting it on the fire to boil, measuring tea into the teapot, taking two cups and saucers from a cupboard, and setting out milk and sugar. She talked as she worked, her eyes on what she was doing, not on him at all.
“I had a child,” she said abruptly. “A son. He died. He drowned.”
Peregrine had to swallow before he could find his voice. “I did not know you had been married,” he said.
“I have never been married,” she said quietly and deliberately. “My son was the child of my lover.”
“I see.” Why did the room suddenly seem very small and very quiet? Peregrine wondered.
“I am sure you do not,” she said. “I will explain.” She sat down on a wooden chair close to where he sat on the table, and watched the kettle as it began to hiss and hum.
“I did not mean to pry into your life,” Peregrine said. “You need say no more if you would rather not.”
“Paul and I never talked about it,” she said. “Never once, even though he gave up our father and our brother for me. I must talk about it now, if you please. I grew up with Gareth. He was not even a year older than I. We were playmates, friends. We were going to be married. And then he decided quite suddenly that he must buy a pair of colors and go off to the wars. His country became more important to him than any of the plans for his life and ours. We would resume those plans when he came home, he said. We would marry, have children, live happily ever after. We became lovers for a few days before he left. And he left me with Jeremy. My son.”
Peregrine could feel her pain, though she sat quietly at the table, her hands folded together. There was something in her voice, a certain throbbing that he had not heard there before. “He died?” he asked gently. “Your l—Gareth?”
She stared into the fire for a long time. He thought she would not answer. “Yes,” she said, one corner of her mouth twisting into a parody of a smile. “Yes, he died. And I was left to face the fury of my father, the contempt of my brother and sister-in-law. After Jeremy was born, I had to accustom myself to hearing him called bastard more often than Jeremy. And always he had to take a distant third place behind his two cousins. A very distant third place.”
She rose to lift the boiling kettle off the fire and pour the water into the teapot. She fitted the cosy very carefully over the pot. “So distant,” she said, “that the governess who was entrusted with their care when they went swimming at the lake did not even notice when Jeremy’s clothes became entangled in some undergrowth and dragged him down. She did not even distinguish his cries from the shrieks of the other children playing. He was four years old. And then I had to endure hearing people tell one another that that was the best fate for a bastard: death before he could realize fully the awkwardness of his situation.”
Peregrine got to his feet and poured the tea.
“Paul came home from university,” she said. “He was the only one to show me sympathy, the only one to stand up against all those who thought of Jeremy as of little worth because he was born out of wedlock. He had a dreadful row with Pap—with my father and my older brother. And then he told me he would take me away, that I need not live any longer with the insults and the daily reminders of my son. I could be at peace, he said. And I was so broken with the pain of it all that I let him take me away. I hope I did not spoil his life. But I do not believe he ever wished to marry and have his own family. I think I was able to provide his life with some comfort.”
Peregrine leaned forward from the chair he had taken and covered her hand with his own. “I am sure of it,” he said. “There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind.”
She looked up at him suddenly out of her large eyes and down at the cup that was set before her. “Oh,” she said. “Did you pour? So you see, Sir Peregrine, the skeleton in my closet is a very large and a very sordid one indeed. I am not by any means the person you must have thought me all these years. Not quiet, demure Miss Howard, the rector’s housekeeper, but a fallen woman, mother of a bastard son, mercifully dead.”
His hand was still over hers. “Will you marry me?” he asked.
She looked at him incredulously.
“I have always admired you as a woman of character,” he said, “someone very much in command of her own emotions and her own life. Now I am sure that my impression was correct. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“You ask me at the wrong time,” she said, frowning. “At entirely the wrong time, sir. I am raw with the pain of my memories and the loss of my brother. I am very vulnerable.”
He clasped her hand more firmly in his own. “Will you marry me?” he asked.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “For your own sake, don’t.”
“Marry me,” he said. “Please. Give me the chance to put some joy into your life.”
She shook her head. “I will take the joy from yours,” she said.
Peregrine smiled. “Give me a chance to prove you wrong,” he said. “Say you will marry me. Say it. One little word. Please?”
Grace drew a breath that shuddered out of her again. “Yes, then,” she said. “Yes. Oh, God forgive me. Yes.”
2
THE MISSES STANHOPE CALLED ON GRACE immediately after luncheon, laden with fruit and vegetables, freshly baked currant cakes, and a chicken, for the purpose of inviting her to stay with them until she got settled elsewhere. It was better not to invite her to live with them, Miss Stanhope had explained to Miss Letitia, as she might feel beholden to them; better to make it seem that she was to be their guest and to let the term of her stay drift on indefinitely until she forgot about leaving them. But when they called upon Grace, it was only to have their invitation denied with gracious thanks. Miss Howard had that morning accepted Sir Peregrine Lampman’s offer of marriage.
Well, Miss Stanhope declared later that afternoon to Mrs. Cartwright and later still to both Mrs. Courtney and Mrs. Morton while Miss Letitia nodded her agreement, she might easily have been knocked down with a feather if anyone had cared to try. And she was very much afraid that her mouth had dropped open and she had gaped. No, Miss Letitia assured her sister, nothing so ungenteel had happened, but she could vouch for the fact that her sister had turned several shades paler, as had she.
Miss Howard was to marry Sir Perry, that handsome, sunny-natured young man they had known from childhood. And such a mischievous
young boy he had been, for sure. Did anyone remember the time when old Mr. Watson—God rest his soul—had been sleeping peacefully through the old rector’s sermon and young Perry in the pew behind had begun to snore gently? A good thrashing he had probably got for that prank, if his father’s frown had been any indication of what was awaiting the boy when they arrived home.
And did anyone remember, Miss Letitia added, the time when young Perry and the young earl—not that he was earl at the time, of course—had climbed the steepest part of the cliff from the beach and Perry had got stuck almost at the top? Young Edmund had had to run back to Amberley for help. Both lads had probably been thrashed for that one too.
All the ladies appealed to remembered well and laughed and nodded and added their own reminiscences.
And now Sir Perry was going to marry Miss Howard when they had scarcely realized that he was old enough to marry anyone at all. And Miss Howard must be … Surely she must be … Well, she was older than he by at least ten years, surely. And so quiet and prim and correct. Had anyone ever seen her smile? No, no one had. A kind and gracious lady, of course. They had all grown to love her, though no one had really got to know her. Did anyone feel they knew Miss Howard? No, no one did. But surely she was not suitable as a bride for Sir Perry, who was so young and so handsome and so full of fun.
“But it is just like him to do something so noble,” Mrs. Courtney suggested. “How very kind of him, for sure. Miss Howard must be very gratified indeed.”
“But she is so old for a young man’s bride,” Mrs. Morton said. And forgetting her audience, “She is rather old to be only just starting to present him with children, you know.”
Both the Misses Stanhope blushed scarlet and avoided each other’s eyes. They did not know, or at least they had been too refined to think about such a delicate matter.
Everyone paid a call at the rectory to congratulate Grace and wish her well. And there was no spite or hypocrisy in their wishes. They genuinely respected her, though they admitted that they did not know her, and they were happy that her future had been settled in such a fortunate way. They genuinely wished her well.
If most of them believed that the marriage could not possibly be successful and that it must bring unhappiness to Sir Peregrine at least, then they also wished they might be proved wrong. Peregrine was a definite favorite in the neighborhood, and Grace had been accepted as one of them both for her own sake and for the sake of her brother, who had died so that one of their children might live.
The men doubtless had their own opinions on the betrothal too and doubtless expressed them to one another over their port when they had a chance. Some of them probably shared those opinions with their wives. Mr. William Carrington, brother of the Countess of Amberley and uncle of the earl, certainly did.
“It’s as likely to succeed as any other marriage,” he said when quizzed on the matter by his wife.
“Oh, William,” she said scornfully, “she is ten years or more older than he. How can it possibly work?”
“Well, my dear,” he said, pinching her ample bottom so that she shrieked and slapped at his hand, “I am almost ten years older than you, but it seems to me that we get along tolerably well together. Except when you are slapping out at me, of course.”
“William! Do behave yourself,” she said. “What if any of the children should see?”
“They are not allowed into our bedchamber unannounced, my love,” he said reasonably. “And if they saw, they would only discover that their papa still fancies their mama after eighteen years of marriage.”
“William,” she said. “But this betrothal is a different matter. She is older than he. That is unheard-of. And Perry such a happy-go-lucky young man.”
“Who is to know what couples will suit?” he said. “Who would believe that a careless, teasing sort of fellow like me would still be pinching a scold of a wife like you after almost twenty years, Viola, and getting away with only a slapped hand? They will work things out between them, never fear. Leave it to them, my love. You come on over here. That pinch has whetted my appetite.”
“I hope you are right about Miss Howard and dear Perry,” his wife said, wandering toward him almost absentmindedly. “Oh, William, what are you about now? And in broad daylight too. Anyone would think I was still a spring chicken. Oh, dear, I really think I am old enough now that this should be done only in darkness. Oh, very well, then. Are you sure the door is locked?”
THE EARL OF Amberley paid a call on his friend when he heard the news.
“It is really true, then, Perry?” he said when they had walked out behind the stables and stood looking out over the fields of Reardon Park.
“I assume you refer to my betrothal,” Peregrine said. “I have heard that tone of voice from several others in the last day. I did not look for it from you, Edmund. Yes, it is true. Miss Grace Howard has consented to honor me with her hand. She is going to be my wife.”
Lord Amberley was silent for a while. “She needs help,” he said. “She is quite destitute, as far as anyone seems to know. But she is older than you, Perry, and although I will admit that she is a handsome woman, she seems to be quite lacking in openness and charm. Is your gesture not just too noble? Are you prepared to ruin the whole of your life for the sake of doing a kindness?”
Peregrine allowed his friend to reach the end of his speech before throwing the whole of his weight behind the fist that connected painfully with the earl’s nose.
“Damn you, Edmund,” he said between his teeth, glaring as the other staggered on his feet and lifted a hand to the blood that was spurting from his nose. “Damn you to hell. You will apologize if you expect me ever to speak to you again.”
The earl took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his bleeding nose with a slightly shaking hand before looking at his friend again. “I am sorry,” he said from among the folds of the linen. “I do apologize, Perry. What I said was unforgivable. The lady is your betrothed, and of course you must defend her honor.” He withdrew the handkerchief, glanced down at it with a grimace, and raised a tentative hand to his reddening nose.
“I shouldn’t have hit you,” Peregrine said, turning sharply away to look out over the fields again.
“Yes, indeed you should,” Lord Amberley said, checking the bridge of his nose to see if it were broken. “I could be happier without this pain, of course, but I am glad you did hit me, Perry. It proves something to me. Forgive me, please.” He held out his right hand.
Peregrine took it and the friends smiled ruefully at each other. “It’s not quite what you think, Edmund,” Peregrine said. “It’s not just because she is destitute, and it’s not just because Paul was my friend. I care for her. I know that most people will never believe that. And I suppose it does not matter to me a great deal as long as she believes me. But I would like you to believe it. You are my oldest friend, Edmund, and probably the nicest person I know.”
Lord Amberley squeezed his friend’s hand. “It seems strange to think of you married, Perry,” he said. “Somehow I have never thought of you settling down. I thought I would race you to the altar, though I have no thought of marrying before I am thirty. Three years to go yet! I wish you well. I really do. All the young ladies around here will be wearing the willow for you, you know.”
Peregrine grinned. “Why would they miss me when they have you to angle after?” he said. “And Dominic twenty already and as tall and handsome as they come. And the Eden title and an estate in Wiltshire to boot. That nose of yours is shining like a beacon, Edmund. And still bleeding a little. We had better go back to the house and get some cold water for it.”
THE BISHOP HAD told Grace before he left late on the day of the funeral that he would send a new rector in one month’s time and that she might stay at the rectory until then. Peregrine arranged it that the new man should marry them on the day after his arrival. Grace spent the night before her wedding with the Misses Stanhope, who preened themselves indeed on the distinction of h
aving a bride married from their house. Even dear Bertie had not been wed at home.
Grace spent the month cleaning the rectory from top to bottom and sorting through Paul’s effects. His books, his most valued possessions, she gave to her betrothed. His other few belongings, including his vestments, his sermons, his watch, and pitifully few other items, she put together into a box inside her own trunk, which was by no means overflowing when it was finally packed.
Sir Peregrine Lampman and Grace Howard were married on a gray and chilly morning in spring with all their friends and neighbors in attendance. It was a quiet celebration. Both bride and groom wore deep mourning. The Earl of Amberley and his mother, as well as his sister and brother, Lady Madeline Raine and Dominic, Lord Eden, had postponed their removal to London for the Season in order to provide a wedding breakfast in the state apartments at Amberley Court.
The gathering was a large and a quietly cheerful one. If the warm affection and hearty good wishes of a community could ensure the happiness of a marriage, then this one must prove to be one of the happiest. If any of those present still felt dismay at the age difference between bride and groom and at the disparity of their personalities, then they hid those feelings well and in all probability pretended even to themselves that they felt no such misgivings.
Peregrine took his bride home late in the afternoon and showed her the house and the garden and the stables. She had been to Reardon Park only once, several years ago when Peregrine’s father had still been alive and his mother still at home.
Grace looked quietly at the long lawns and few trees behind the house and felt her husband smiling at her.
“I have an unimaginative gardener and am no better myself,” he said. “If you wish to work your magic here, Grace, please feel free to do so. I have always been an admirer of your garden at the rectory.”