by Mary Balogh
“Indeed,” Kenneth said. He gestured the footman who had appeared bearing the tea tray to set it down before Moira. “Miss Hayes, will you pour?”
Sir Edwin Baillie apparently believed that the new amity between families that had been estranged for generations was ample excuse for extending his visit beyond the half-hour limit that good manners dictated. It was Moira who finally got to her feet after forty minutes, doing so hastily but quite decisively when her lover paused to draw breath during a lengthy description of the superior education he had secured for his sisters at great expense to himself.
Kenneth saw them to the door and watched as Baillie handed his betrothed inside his carriage and insisted on wrapping a blanket carefully about her legs before following her inside and wrapping another about his own. He was convinced, he explained to his host, that most winter chills were taken from careless travel habits. One could not be too careful.
He would, Kenneth supposed as he watched the carriage drive out of the courtyard, be obliged to return the call. He had never been inside Penwith Manor. He had sneaked into the park numerous times as a boy, just as Sean Hayes had sneaked into the park at Dunbarton, but neither of them had entered the other’s house. And now Moira Hayes had been to Dunbarton. Times were changing indeed.
He was not sure he wanted to be on visiting terms with her. He was very sure that he wanted no intimacy of social relations with her future husband. But it seemed that he had little choice except to leave Dunbarton. And he did not believe he would do that. He had discovered something during the past nine days. He had discovered a direction for his life. He had lived by his wits and by the skin of his teeth for eight years. He had thought himself restless and eager for further adventures after he had sold his commission. But he had merely been restless for home.
It was just a pity that home was so close to Penwith and that she was to marry the owner of Penwith. And it was a pity that, after all, the past was not completely dead, not completely forgiven or forgotten, no matter what words had been exchanged here within the past hour.
His mother had indeed invited some friends to Dunbarton, friends who significantly had a young daughter, the Honorable Miss Juliana Wishart. His mother had even mentioned the girl by name in a letter she had written to him. Paving the way. Playing matchmaker with little attempt at subtlety. What had surprised him about the realization was his lack of alarm. He was, he realized, willing to look the girl over. He had come home to Dunbarton, all his wild oats sown. He wanted to stay here. But if he stayed, perhaps it would be as well to go the whole distance into settling. Perhaps it really was time to take a wife.
Moira Hayes, he thought as he returned to the relative warmth of the indoors, had listened to an offer from that oaf today and had accepted. She was to be a married woman and perhaps soon he would be a married man. They would be neighbors and on visiting terms, though not to any familiar degree, it was to be hoped. Well, he thought grimly, it was a reality he must and would grow accustomed to. One thing he had learned during his eight years with the Peninsular army was that one could grow accustomed to almost anything.
And familiarity, it was said, bred—perhaps not contempt, but indifference. They would grow indifferent to each other and would perhaps forget about the dislike, the hostility.
4
THE Countess of Haverford arrived at Dunbarton Hall a few days after Sir Edwin Baillie had called there with his betrothed. With her came her daughter and her daughter’s husband, Viscount Ainsleigh, and their two young children. The whole of Tawmouth and its surrounding area knew of the fact before the next day had passed. And of course there were still the other houseguests expected daily.
There seemed no end to the excitement the month of December was bringing to this quiet corner of Cornwall. For even before the countess’s arrival, word had spread that Sir Edwin Baillie of Penwith had called upon the Earl of Haverford—and had been received. He and Miss Hayes had even been invited to take tea. And his lordship had been the first to be told of the betrothal of Sir Edwin and Miss Hayes.
“It is all too, too gratifying,” Miss Pitt said, wiping a tear from the corner of one eye with a serviceable cotton handkerchief.
And it was, too. For not only was their Miss Hayes to be settled comfortably, and not only was the long-standing feud between Dunbarton and Penwith at an end, but also everyone was free to talk about the topics dearest to their heart when in company with the ladies from Penwith.
And when in Sir Edwin’s company too, of course. He made himself very agreeable. Indeed, it was he who was first to mention—and even to expand at considerable length upon—the call he had made on his lordship, the handsome apology he had made for past embarrassments, and the gracious manner in which his lordship had granted pardon to both himself as the new baronet of Penwith and Miss Hayes as a direct descendant of the original—he paused for a delicate cough—offender. Humility, Sir Edwin explained, was not at odds with pride but rather complemented it. His mother, in her wisdom—she had been a Grafton of Hugglesbury, of course—had taught him that when he was a mere lad.
Mrs. Finley-Evans commended Sir Edwin on his wisdom and on his courage. Miss Pitt congratulated Miss Hayes on the happy end to an unfortunate past. Mrs. Harriet Lincoln, Moira’s closest friend, tapped her on the arm and spoke softly beneath the level of the conversation proceeding around them.
“Poor Moira,” she said. “You are going to need a great deal of patience, my dear.”
Moira did not believe Harriet was referring to the reconciliation that had been effected at Dunbarton a few days before.
Speculation about a Christmas ball at Dunbarton increased. But on the whole, though they discussed it endlessly, everyone agreed that it was a virtual certainty. How else would his lordship keep his houseguests entertained? And there was such a splendid ballroom at Dunbarton. Mrs. Trevellas wondered if there would be any waltzes at a Dunbarton ball, but her hearers dismissed the notion out of hand. Two waltzes had been included among the dances at one of the Tawmouth assemblies earlier in the year and had scandalized the Reverend Finley-Evans, among others. The intimacy of a man dancing exclusively with one woman, his one hand at her waist, the other holding his partner’s while her free hand rested on his shoulder had so shocked Miss Pitt that her niece had found it necessary to revive her with the aid of Mrs. Finley-Evans’s vinaigrette. Sir Edwin Baillie had only heard of the dance, but what he had heard was quite enough to convince him that he would devote all his energies to having his mother and his sisters and—with a bow to Moira—his betrothed protected from its pernicious influence.
No, one could not imagine her ladyship allowing the scandalous dance even if his lordship, being a young man, might have brought home some newfangled ideas from Spain and France. Everyone knew that the Spanish and the French were in possession of looser morals than the English.
Moira had no opinion to offer on the matter. She did not care if there were waltzes or not at the Dunbarton ball—if there were a Dunbarton ball. She hoped not. And she fervently hoped that if there were, no invitation would be sent to Penwith. She hoped that the Earl of Haverford would not continue the association that Sir Edwin had tried to begin. She hoped he would ignore them, even if doing so would be thoroughly bad mannered.
* * *
BUT any hope Moira might have had that the earl would dismiss Sir Edwin’s visit as a mere impertinence was dashed when he returned the call one afternoon soon after three ladies, who had shared a carriage from Tawmouth, had taken their leave. He came alone and sent up his card to the drawing room, where Sir Edwin was in the middle of congratulating the ladies on the superior conversation of their acquaintances.
“Ah,” he said to the butler, “bring his lordship up, and do not keep him waiting. And have another tea tray sent. You will be gratified, ma’am”—he bowed to Lady Hayes—“to be able to take your true place in society at last. You will find that his lordship has quite di
stinguished manners.”
Since his lordship was already in the doorway and heard this high praise of himself, Moira winced inwardly. One haughty eyebrow rose above the level of the other, she saw, but he bowed courteously enough to her mother, after whose health he inquired, and to her. Her mother, she noticed, was quite flustered. He took the chair offered after the ladies had first seated themselves and proceeded to answer the detailed and impertinently personal questions Sir Edwin asked about his mother and his sister and his nephew and niece.
“Yes indeed,” he agreed to Sir Edwin’s suggestion, “my sister made a very eligible match. My parents approved the wisdom of her choice.”
His rather light gray eyes—Moira had never quite understood how they could be both pale and penetrating, but they always had been both, and frequently cold too—met Moira’s and held them for a few moments. There had been a definite message in his words, she realized, quite beyond their stated meaning. She stiffened with anger. A match between Lady Helen Woodfall and Sean Hayes would have been quite ineligible, he had said in all but words, and certainly not approved by his parents.
Moira lifted her chin and told him just as clearly and just as silently that on that point at least they were in thorough agreement. There was a gleam of understanding in his eyes before he looked away to deal with Sir Edwin’s next question. How dared he, she thought, her pulse thundering with fury. For the message must be as clear to Mama as it was to her. Mama had remarked only this morning that perhaps Sir Edwin should have been told that the enmity between the two families rested not solely upon what had happened several generations ago. Yet Mama did not know the half of it.
He continued to converse with Sir Edwin just as if he found the occasion and the conversation quite to his liking. He behaved with perfect good breeding and was dressed with perfect good taste. And of course he was even more handsome than he had been eight years ago, if that were possible. Tall, powerfully muscled in all the right places, blond, handsome featured, he also exuded an air of confident command that gave him an almost irresistible aura of masculinity—and of arrogance. How pleased he must be to come here to lord it over all of them, to demonstrate his own superiority in every conceivable way to Sir Edwin Baillie.
It took Moira a full fifteen minutes to realize how much she was seething with resentment and hatred. By then it was too late to compose herself, to convince herself that the past was dead. It was Sean who was dead, not the past. This would not do, she told herself. This would not do at all.
The earl rose to take his leave well within the accepted limit of time; even in that, his manners were impeccable. He bowed to the ladies and inclined his head to Sir Edwin. “A card will be delivered within the next few days,” he said, “inviting you all to the ball to be held at Dunbarton Hall on the evening following Christmas. It is my hope that you will attend.”
Sir Edwin was effusive in his thanks and in his assurances that his lordship’s guest list would indeed be enhanced by the presence of the baronet of Penwith. Lady Hayes merely curtsied and Moira could guess at the determination her mother must feel never to cross the threshold of Dunbarton Hall. Moira did not feel that any reply was necessary. She did not have her mother’s freedom. Indeed, she despised herself for the little flutter of excitement caused by the idea of attending a grand ball. The Tawmouth assemblies, she was sure, could not compare in splendor to what was planned at Dunbarton.
“Miss Hayes,” the Earl of Haverford said, “perhaps you would be good enough to reserve a waltz for me—with the permission of your betrothed, of course.”
Moira’s betrothed was quite overwhelmed by the honor to be paid his future bride and gave the requested permission with a gracious bow. Though it was only fitting, he supposed aloud, since they were to be neighbors and Dunbarton and Penwith were without any doubt the largest and most influential properties in this particular part of Cornwall.
“Thank you, my lord,” Moira said quietly and turned her anger inward on her thumping heart and weakened knees. She had watched those waltzes at the assembly, though she had never participated. And she had not shared in the censure heaped on the dance by the more staid, elderly elements in the neighborhood. She had thought it the most heavenly, most romantic dance ever invented. She had dreamed of dancing it and had laughed at herself for still being capable of such girlish dreams at her age.
Well, now it seemed that she was to dance the waltz. At the Dunbarton ball. With the Earl of Haverford. His cold eyes held hers as he inclined his head again. She half smiled at him. But she knew he understood that the smile was not one of pleasure or gratitude but was one of self-mockery. He had asked and she had accepted—because they disliked each other but could not seem to resist challenging each other.
“My mother has always declared,” Sir Edwin said when he was again alone with the ladies, “that one should judge nothing on reputation alone, but should first observe for oneself. I see now that I have unfairly judged the waltz. If his lordship is willing to include it in the musical program for the ball at Dunbarton, then it must be unexceptionable. His own mama is to be present, after all. My dear Miss Hayes—if you will pardon the familiarity of such an address—I hope you understand fully the honor his lordship is according me in soliciting your hand for a waltz at his ball. We will be not only neighbors and acquaintances, you will see—we will be friends. And all because I was willing to humble myself. My dear ma’am”—he bowed to Lady Hayes—“I congratulate you.”
Lady Hayes merely looked at her daughter and lifted her eyebrows.
* * *
“WHAT was that, dear?” The Countess of Haverford, seated at the small escritoire in the library at Dunbarton, held her quill pen poised above one of the elegant cards in which she had been writing when her son had entered the room a few moments before. Viscountess Ainsleigh was seated beside her, holding a list of names, most of which had been crossed through.
His mother’s expression told Kenneth that she had not so much failed to hear as disbelieved what she had heard. He repeated what he had just told her.
“You will include an invitation to Lady and Miss Hayes and to Sir Edwin Baillie at Penwith Manor, if you would be so good, Mama,” he said.
“That is what I thought you said,” the countess admitted. “Is it wise, dear? Perhaps you have forgotten—”
“No, of course I have not, Mama,” he said. “I have forgotten nothing. But Sir Basil Hayes is dead, as is Papa, and the new owner of Penwith Manor is but a distant relative. He has, moreover, called upon me here. He is betrothed to Miss Hayes.”
“He called on you?” the countess said with a frown. “And you received him, Kenneth? It is to be hoped that at least he came alone.”
“Miss Hayes came with him,” he said. “And I received them. It is time that old quarrel was put to rest, Mama.” His sister, he had not failed to notice, had turned rigid as well as pale.
“It is not entirely an old quarrel, Kenneth,” she said, her voice quite brittle. “There were fairly recent victims of it, if you will remember.”
“It is best forgotten,” he said.
“Forgotten.” She laughed and then looked back at her list. “Did you know he was dead? Did you know he had been killed?”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“One might say, if one wished to be unkind,” their mother said sharply, “that he deserved his fate and that he might have have come to a worse end than a hero’s death. But what can one expect of a Hayes?”
“Pray do not distress yourself, Mama,” Helen said. She looked up at her brother again. “I would rather not see Moira Hayes here, Kenneth. Or Lady Hayes either. For Mama’s sake.”
“I have already invited them,” he said. “I called upon them this afternoon. It would have been uncivil not to return Sir Edwin Baillie’s call, and unacceptable bad manners to omit them from the guest list for the ball after I had called.”
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��I wonder,” his sister said rather sharply, “if civility was your only motive, Kenneth. You fancied her once upon a time. Do not imagine that I did not know.”
“Helen,” the countess said curtly, “we have work to do. Add Sir Edwin Baillie to the list and the ladies at Penwith.”
“If they know anything of good taste,” Helen said, “they will decline the invitation. But I daresay they know nothing of good taste.”
Helen was not by nature spiteful, Kenneth thought. There was an unmistakable affection between her and Ainsleigh and she openly loved their children. But clearly she carried about her own demons from the past. He had never known quite what her feelings for Sean Hayes had been—love or infatuation or neither. Sean had been a charmer and for reasons of his own had turned that charm briefly on Helen. She had denied afterward that she had willingly agreed to elope with him and had seemed quite resigned to being sent away to an aunt. She had married Ainsleigh within the year. Her true feelings for Sean had remained her secret. Yet she had asked a few minutes ago if he knew that Sean was dead. How much had that death meant to her? And how had she learned of it?
“We cannot count upon their refusing,” he said. “Sir Edwin Baillie seems determined upon being civil and neighborly, and Miss Hayes is to be his wife. We will all be civil to them when they attend the ball. This is a new era, and I choose to begin it in a wholly new manner. I do not wish to have neighbors living a scant three miles away whose very existence must be ignored. I will not have my children and theirs forced to make the difficult decision of whether to obey their parents or to strike up clandestine friendships. There has been enough of that.”
The countess raised her eyebrows.