by Mary Balogh
Yes, Rex was the wise one, Kenneth thought. It was time to go home. Home to bed and home to Dunbarton.
* * *
IT was a beautiful day for early December: crisply chill, it was true, but bright and sunny, nevertheless. The sun sparkled off the surface of the sea like thousands of diamonds, and the wind that so often whipped across the water to buffet the land and knife through its inhabitants was a mere gentle breeze today.
The lady who sat at the top of the steep cliff, almost at its edge, in a slight grassy hollow of land that hid her from the road behind, clasped her arms about her knees and drew in deep breaths of the salt air. She felt soothed and invigorated both at the same time.
Everything was about to change, but surely for the better. How could it be otherwise when she had thought herself beyond the age of marriage just two days ago—she was six-and-twenty years old—and was now awaiting the arrival of her future husband? She had told herself for the past several years that she had no wish to marry, that she was happy to live at Penwith Manor with her widowed mother, enjoying a freedom that most women never knew. But the freedom was illusory, and she had always known it. For longer than a year she had lived with insecurity and ignored it because there had been nothing she could do about it. She was a mere woman after all.
Penwith Manor had belonged to her father and to his father before him and so on back through six generations. But on her father’s death, it—and his baronet’s title—had passed to a distant cousin. In the fourteen months since her father’s death, she had continued to live there with her mother, but they had both been fully aware that Sir Edwin Baillie might at any moment wish to take up residence there himself or else sell it or lease it. What would become of them then? Where would they go? What would they do? Sir Edwin would probably not turn them out destitute, but they might have to move to a very small home with a correspondingly small income. It had not been a pleasant prospect.
But now Sir Edwin had made his decision and had written a lengthy letter to Lady Hayes to announce his intention of taking a bride so that he might produce sons to secure his inheritance and to care for his own mother and three sisters in the event of his untimely passing. His intention was to solve two problems at once by marrying his third cousin once removed, Miss Moira Hayes. He would come to Penwith Manor within the week to make his offer and to arrange for their wedding in the spring.
Miss Moira Hayes, he had seemed to assume, would be only too happy to accept his offer. And after the initial shock, the initial indignation over his taking her meek compliance for granted, Moira had had to admit that she was happy. Or if not exactly happy, then at least content. Accepting would be the sensible thing to do. She was six-and-twenty and living in precarious circumstances. She had met Sir Edwin Baillie once, soon after Papa’s death when he had come with his mother to inspect his new property. She had found him dull and somewhat pompous, but he was young—not much older than five-and-thirty at a guess—and respectable and passably good-looking even if not handsome. Besides, Moira told herself, looks were in no way important, especially to an aging spinster who had long outlived any dreams of romance or romantic love.
She rested her chin on her knees and smiled rather ruefully down at the sea below the cliffs. Oh, yes, she had long outlived dreams. But then, so much had changed since her childhood, since her girlhood. So much had changed outside herself, within herself. She was now very ordinary, very dull, very respectable. She laughed softly. Yet she had never outlived the habit of going off by herself, though a respectable female had no business being alone outside her own home. This had always been a favorite spot. But it was a long time since she had last been here. She was not sure what had drawn her here today. Had she come to say good-bye to dreams? It was a somber thought.
But it need not be a depressing one. Marriage with Sir Edwin would doubtless bring no real happiness with it, but then, it probably would bring no great unhappiness either. Marriage would be what she made of it. Sir Edwin wanted children—sons. Well, so did she. Just two days ago, she had thought even that dream impossible.
She tensed suddenly as a dog barked somewhere behind her. She tightened her hold on her knees, and her toes clenched inside her half boots. But it was not a stray. Someone gave it a sharp command and it fell silent. She listened attentively for a few moments, but she could hear nothing except the sea and the breeze and the gulls overhead. They had gone, the man and the dog. She relaxed again.
But just as she did so, something caught at the edge of her vision, and she knew that she had been discovered, that someone else had found this spot, that her peace had been shattered. She felt mortified at being caught sitting on the grass like a girl, hugging her knees. She turned her head sharply.
The sun was behind him. She had the impression of a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed fashionably in a many-caped greatcoat with a tall beaver hat and black top boots. He had arrived earlier than expected, she thought. He would certainly not approve of finding his future bride thus, alone and unchaperoned. How had he known she was here? She was more than three miles from home. Perhaps his dog had alerted him. Where was the dog?
Those thoughts flashed through her mind in the mere fraction of a second and were gone. Almost instantly she knew that he was not Sir Edwin Baillie. And in the same instant she knew who he was, even though she could not see his face clearly and had not set eyes on him for longer than eight years.
She was not sure afterward how long they stayed thus, staring at each other, she sitting on the grass with her arms about her knees, he standing above the hollow, against the skyline. It might have been minutes, but was probably only seconds.
“Hello, Moira,” he said at last.
* * *
KENNETH had come to Cornwall alone, apart from his valet and his coachman and his dog. He had been unable to persuade Eden and Nat to come with him. They had been unable to persuade him to change his mind, even though his decision to come had been made when he was deeply inebriated. But then, he often acted on impulse. There was a restlessness in him that had never quite been put to rest since his sudden decision to leave home and buy himself a commission in the cavalry.
He was coming home for Christmas. His mother, Ainsleigh and Helen, numerous other family members, and some friends of his mother’s were coming after him. Eden and Nat might come in the spring, they had said, if he was still here in the spring. Perhaps Rex would come too.
It had been a mad decision. Winter was not the best time to travel into such a remote part of the country. But the weather was kind to him as he journeyed west, and despite himself, he felt his spirits rise as the landscape became more familiar. For the last two days he rode, with only Nelson for company, leaving his carriage and his servants and baggage to follow him at a slower pace. He wondered by how many days his letter to Mrs. Whiteman, the housekeeper at Dunbarton, had preceded him. Not by many, at a guess. He could imagine the sort of consternation he had caused belowstairs. However, they need not worry. He was used to rough living and no one else would arrive for another two weeks.
He rode frequently in sight of the sea along a road that never took him any great distance from the edge of high cliffs except when it dipped down into river valleys and up the other side after passing through fishing villages and allowing him glimpses of golden beaches and stone quays and bobbing fishing boats.
How could he ever have thought that he would never come back?
The next dip in the road, he knew at last, would give him a view down into the village of Tawmouth. Not that he would go down there on this particular occasion. Dunbarton was on this side of the valley, no more than three or four miles inland. There was sudden elation at the thought. And memories crowded in on him—memories of his boyhood, of people he had known, places he had frequented. One of the latter must be close by.
Nostalgia caught at his stomach and knotted it. He unconsciously slowed his horse’s pace. It had been one
of his favorite places, that hollow. It had been a quiet, secluded place, where one could sit unobserved on the grass, alone with the elements and with one’s dreams. Alone with her. Yes, they had met there sometimes. But he would no longer allow memories of her to color all his memories of home. He had had a happy boyhood.
He would have ridden on by if Nelson had not barked, his head toward the hollow. Was someone there? Quite unreasonably, Kenneth felt offended at the thought.
“Sit, Nelson,” he commanded before his dog could dash away to investigate.
Nelson sat and gazed upward with intelligent eyes, waiting for further orders. Without realizing it, Kenneth saw, he had drawn to a complete stop. His horse lowered its head to crop at the grass. How familiar it all looked. As if the eight years and longer had never been.
He dismounted, left his horse to graze unfettered and Nelson to wait for the command to be revoked, and walked silently toward the lip of the hollow. He hoped there was no one there. He did not feel like being sociable—yet.
His first instinct was to duck hastily out of sight. There was someone there—a stranger dressed neatly but rather drably in gray cloak and bonnet. She was sitting with knees drawn up, her arms clasped about them. But he did not move, and his gaze sharpened on her. Although she was clearly a woman and he could not see her face around the brim of her bonnet, it was perhaps the girlish posture that alerted him. Suddenly he could hear his heart beating in his ears. She turned her head sharply toward him and the sun shone full on her face.
Her plain clothing and the passage of years made her look noticeably older, as did the way her very dark hair was dressed beneath the bonnet. It was parted in the center and combed smoothly down over her ears. But she still had her long, oval face, like that of a Renaissance Madonna, and her large dark eyes. She was not pretty—she never had been. But hers was the sort of face that one might see in a crowd and look back at for a lengthier gaze.
If for a moment he imagined he was seeing a mirage, it was for a mere moment. If his imagination had conjured up her image here in this place, it would have been the image of a barefoot girl with a flimsy light-colored dress and hair released from its pins and falling wild and tangled down her back. It would not have been this image of neat, almost drab respectability. No, she was real. And eight years older.
They had been staring at each other, he realized finally. He did not know for how long.
“Hello, Moira,” he said.
2
HE should not have called her by her given name, he thought too late, but he did not know her other name.
“Kenneth,” she said so quietly that he saw her lips move more than he heard the sound of his name. He also saw her swallow. “I did not know you were coming home.”
“I sold out a few months ago,” he said.
“Did you?” she said. “Yes, I knew. It was spoken of in the village. Such things are talked about, you know.”
She had stood up, though she had not moved toward him. She was still very slender. He had forgotten how tall she was. He had always admired the way she held her shoulders back and her head high, disdaining to stoop or try to diminish her height even after she’d grown taller than most men. He had liked the way she had grown to within a few inches of his own height. Although there was a pleasantly protective feeling about being close to women who did not reach even to his shoulder—and that was most women—he did not really enjoy having to look so far down to them.
“I trust you are well,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
Why was she here? he wondered. Had she made it so thoroughly her own private haven during the past eight years that memory of his being here with her had been eradicated from her mind? Not that they had been here often together. Or anywhere else for that matter. But there had been such stealth and such guilt involved in their meetings that they had seemed many. Why was she alone? It was not at all proper for her to be without any companion, even a maid.
“And Sir Basil and Lady Hayes?” he asked stiffly. He was reminded that her family and his had been estranged for several generations, that they had had no social dealings with one another for all of that time. He had once hoped, with the youthful idealism that had clung to him almost until he left home, that his generation—and hers—would bring about a reconciliation. But the enmity had only been made worse.
“Papa died over a year ago,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. “I am sorry.” He had not heard. But then, he had heard very little from Dunbarton. His mother no longer lived here and he had not kept up a correspondence with any of his former neighbors. With his steward he had exchanged only business news.
“Mama is well,” she said.
“And—” He paused. The name would have changed. He spoke reluctantly. “Sir Sean Hayes?” His lips tightened at the thought of Sean Hayes.
“My brother never succeeded to the title,” she said. “He died a few months before Papa. He was killed at the Battle of Toulouse.”
He grimaced. He had not heard that either. Sean Hayes, the same age as himself, had gone away just before him. His father had purchased a commission for him in a foot regiment, presumably because he could not afford anything more glamorous. Sean Hayes, once his closest friend, at the end his bitterest enemy—dead?
“I am sorry,” he said.
“Are you?” The question was quietly, coolly asked. Her dark eyes, looking directly back into his, held no discernible expression, but he could feel her dislike, her hostility. Eight years had not changed that, then. But she had suffered the loss of both her father and her brother in that time. And she and her mother . . .
“Your husband?” he asked.
“I am not yet married,” she said. “I am about to be betrothed to Sir Edwin Baillie, a cousin who inherited the title and estate from Papa.”
She was not married? Had no one been able to tame her, then? And yet she looked tame. She looked different—and the same. More different than the same. Why was she now marrying this cousin? For convenience’s sake? Was there any affection involved in the match? But it was not his concern. She was not his concern. Eight years was a very long time. A lifetime.
“It seems,” he said, “that I have come home in time to offer my congratulations.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He realized something suddenly. He looked back toward the road to confirm what he already knew. “How did you come here?” he asked. “There is no carriage and no horse except my own.”
“I walked,” she said.
And yet Penwith Manor was several miles away, down in the valley and inland a couple of miles. Had she not changed after all, then, despite appearances?
“Allow me to escort you home,” he said. “You may ride my horse.” He wondered what manner of man Sir Edwin Baillie was, allowing her to roam alone through the countryside. But perhaps he did not know she was alone. Perhaps he did not know her, poor man.
“I will walk home—alone, thank you, my lord,” she said.
Yes. It had been foolish of him to offer. How would it have looked if he had suddenly appeared in Tawmouth for the first time in longer than eight years with Moira Hayes, betrothed of Penwith’s owner, upon his horse? And if he had taken her all the way to Penwith when no one from his family had set foot on the property for longer than any living person could remember?
He must remember that there was a feud between Penwith and Dunbarton and that it would be a foolish expenditure of energy to try to end it. He no longer wanted to end it, though if he had thought of it in the past few days he would have thought it ridiculous to keep alive a feud that had started with his great-grandfather and hers. He did not want to tangle with Moira Hayes again. And he could see that the feeling was mutual.
He nodded curtly and touched the brim of his hat. “As you wish,” he said. “Good day to you, Miss Hayes.”
&
nbsp; She said nothing and stayed where she was as he made his way back to the road and mounted his horse. Nelson scrambled to his feet with a hopeful woof and was given the nod of release. Kenneth turned inland to ride along the top of the hillside, leaving the main road before it dipped into the valley and through the village of Tawmouth. The sun was still shining, he saw, looking upward in some surprise. It was his imagination that the day had clouded over. He was feeling out of sorts, his mind and his emotions in some sort of turmoil. He resented the feeling. He had been enjoying his homecoming.
It was understandable, he supposed. There had been something between them, powerful feelings, which in his naïveté he had called love. She had been his first—and his only—love, though he had been sexually educated during his years at Oxford. Really, there had been little to it—one chance meeting, a few planned ones, all of them bringing him feelings of guilt because he should not have been meeting either a Hayes or a young lady alone. He and Sean had been meeting and playing together and fighting each other for years, of course, but that had seemed different. It was the very guilt over Moira that had excited him and convinced him that it was love he felt for her. He realized that now. It was understandable that seeing her again should discompose him somewhat, he supposed, though he would not have expected it. He was a different man now: hardened to life, cynical of romantic sentiment.
He looked down into the wooded valley below him, at the river that wound its way toward the sea. Soon now he would see Dunbarton. He was not sorry he had come. On the contrary, he was feeling a pleased anticipation that amounted almost to excitement. How Eden and Nat would tease him if they could know.
And then suddenly there it was. It could always take a person by surprise, even someone who had lived there for much of his life. One moment one was riding along a plateau that stretched into the distance with much of a sameness, and the next one was looking down into a hollow, into a wooded parkland that appeared very green in contrast to the rest of the hillside. And in the middle of it all stood Dunbarton Hall, a large and imposing granite mansion built around three sides of a quadrangle. A high wrought-iron fence and gates made up the fourth side.