by Mary Balogh
“I can see why Middlebury Park is considered one of the showpieces of England,” he said as she approached. “Your mother-in-law showed me the state apartments a short while ago.”
“And the park is just as magnificent,” she told him, preceding him through the front doors and down the steps. “I shall take you to the lake, and if you are feeling energetic, we will walk about it to the cedar alley and the summerhouse. At a casual glance one might assume that the park ends with the trees beyond the lake, but it does not.”
He offered his arm and she took it. He looked less like her father now that she had seen him a few times. He did not have her papa’s charm of manner or endearing smile. On the other hand, he had elegance and perfect manners.
“We had better keep to the path while we can,” she said.
The morning had been marred by a drizzle that had left the grass wet, but the clouds had moved off soon after noon and it was a pleasant afternoon with only a slight nip of autumn in the air.
“And the path is new?” he asked her. “It blends very well with the scenery. It was your idea, Sophia?”
“Vincent was confined to the parterre gardens unless there was someone to take his arm,” she said. “It must not be a good feeling to be so dependent upon other people, must it? Or to be confined to one small plot of ground.”
“Yet that is a child’s lot in life,” he said quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself. “Which is all well and good if the child is cherished and nurtured to an independent adulthood. One of the enduring pains of my life was losing three children in early infancy, Sophia. I used to envy my brother. No, jealousy is the more accurate word. We broke off with each other when we were still very young men. It was not his wild ways—they were his business. It happened when he stole—or so I described it to myself at the time—when he married the lady I had thought was mine. Did you know that of your mother? And they had you and you lived. I resented that. I resented him and I resented you. If you have hated me, Sophia, it is no less than I have deserved.”
Her mind was numb with the shock of what he had said. Her father had never told her what happened between him and his brother. Her assumptions had not been the right ones. Had her mother ever regretted not marrying her uncle?
“I offered to take you when your mother left, you know,” he said. “Or perhaps you do not know. Already by that time my wife and I had lost two of our own children.”
“You offered to take me?” She looked up at him in some amazement.
“My brother’s way of life seemed hardly fitting for a young child,” he said, “especially when your mother was no longer with you. But of course he said no. I do not blame him. I would have said the same thing in his place. But no bridges were mended between us. My offer and his refusal only seemed to make things worse.”
They were silent while Sophia digested these matters. How little children knew about the adult dramas being played out around them.
“Whoever designed the lake,” he said, “with the island just so and the temple, certainly had an eye to the picturesque. Are there boats?”
“Yes,” she said, but she hoped he would not suggest going over there. She had not been since that afternoon when Vincent had taught her to float and when they had made love in a new way and she had fallen all the way in love with him.
They turned to walk past the boathouse and about the perimeter of the lake.
“We were a ramshackle family, Sophia,” he said. “I do not know quite why it was, but none of us had a great deal of affection for any of the others, though your father and I were the best of friends while we were growing up. I suppose it was all as much my fault as my brother’s and my sisters’. I have a tendency to be aloof. My wife once accused me of being cold, and I was wounded because I did not feel cold. But when I considered her accusation after the quarrel, I had to admit that my actions lent themselves to that interpretation. I would always rather hover at the fringe of any action than delve right in and become a part of it. Perhaps that is why I became a diplomat rather than a politician or a military officer.”
Sophia said nothing. There did not seem anything to say.
“Ah,” he said as they walked beyond the lake and past the trees on its far bank. “I see what you mean. And I see why the designer of the park put the alley here, out of sight of the house. A person can be private back here. It is a good place to stroll and think, or a good place to bring a book. And you see how my mind works? Those are the first things of which I thought. It is also a private place for lovers to stroll.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you stroll here with Darleigh?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes.”
A few times they had walked to the summerhouse and she had brought a book to read aloud while they sat there. Once it had rained a bit while they were there, and Vincent had remarked that the sound of rain on a glass roof must surely be one of the coziest sounds in the world. And he had drawn her onto his lap, and she had set her head on his shoulder, and they had sat in silence until the rain passed.
The memory could bring a lump to her throat, as so many memories did.
But he wanted to be free. She was just one more woman who wanted to look after him. And he had overheard the conversation she had had with his sisters about her drawing of the cottage that had once been her dream.
Yet she was with child. They would remain together. She would not leave him now, and she was as sure as she could be that he would not leave her.
They had a good life together. They were friends. They talked and laughed together. They were lovers. They were to have a child, whom they both wanted. They had family and good neighbors and a few close friends. They had … everything.
Why was everything such a heavy word?
“It is a good marriage, Sophia?” her uncle asked.
“Yes.”
It was. She was not lying.
“I have sensed that it is,” he told her. “It is quite clear that you are fond of each other. Did you choose him deliberately and go boldly after him?”
“Is that what Aunt Martha told you?” she asked.
“I would not blame you if it were true,” he said. “It is how most of us get our spouses. But it was not so in your case, I would guess. I suppose Henrietta wanted him, or Martha and Clarence wanted him for her, and somehow you got caught in the middle and he married you. At least, that is my interpretation of the story they told.”
“There was an assembly,” she told him, “and Henrietta persuaded Vincent to take her outside for some air. She drew him along a little-used alley. I went after them with a shawl I pretended to think was hers.”
He laughed softly.
“And there was a horrid fuss, I suppose,” he said, “and Darleigh offered for you to save you from the wrath of Martha.”
“I did say no,” she told him. “But he persisted and persuaded me that our marriage would benefit him as much as it would me. It was not true, of course, but I married him anyway.”
“No, it was not true,” he said. “I believe he has benefitted more than you, Sophia.”
“What nonsense.” She laughed. “I might very well be in the gutters of London if it were not for Vincent.”
He stopped walking in the middle of the alley and looked down at her.
“Tell me you are not serious,” he said. “Martha did not threaten to turn you out, did she?”
“It was already done,” she told him, “in the middle of the night following the assembly. I went to the church and the vicar found me there next morning. Vincent came to the vicarage when he heard.”
Her uncle closed his eyes, and his free hand came to rest on hers on his arm.
“Ah, Sophia,” he said, “I have been much to blame. Sebastian told me that Mary was neglecting you shamefully when you lived with her. I was busy in Vienna and dragged my feet about coming back to England to find out for myself. And then she died and Martha took you in. She had Henrietta, who
was much the same age as you, and I chose to believe that you would have companionship and would be far happier than you had been. I ought to have known better. I really ought. I have asked discreet questions of a few acquaintances in London, but whereas they can all confirm Henrietta’s presence at numerous ton events during the past few Seasons, not a single one of them has ever even heard of you. You were not given a come-out? You were not taken to any balls or other parties?”
“No,” she said. “Aunt Martha was afraid people would remember Papa and how he came to his end.”
“Ah,” he said. “The fault is mine. But it is too easy to beg your pardon.”
They had resumed walking and were drawing near the summerhouse.
“If people cannot beg pardon of one another,” she said, “then nothing can be forgiven and wounds fester.”
“Have you been deeply wounded, Sophia?” he asked her. “Have I wounded you?”
“Yes.”
She heard him draw a slow breath and release it.
She was glad he did not choose to enter the summerhouse. He turned, and they strolled slowly back along the alley.
“And now,” he said, “it is too late for me to do anything to really help you. You do not need my help. You have Darleigh.”
“And his mother and grandmother and three sisters and their families,” she said. “I have no one of my own, Uncle Terrence. Only Aunt Martha and Sir Clarence and Henrietta, with whom I hope for a cordial relationship though it will never be a warm one. And perhaps you.”
“Your family has let you down abominably,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better for you to turn your back on the lot of us, Sophia.”
“As you and Papa did with each other?” she said. “As both of you seem to have done with your sisters? Families ought not to be like that. All I want is a family to love and a family to love me. My own family. Is it too much to ask?”
“I do not have much experience at warmth,” he said.
“Can you try?” she asked him. “You said your greatest pain was the loss of your children. You have a niece. I can be no substitute for your own sons and daughters, but I crave your love. And I long to love you.”
She swallowed and heard an embarrassing gurgle in her throat.
He stopped walking again and turned to her.
“Sophia,” he said. “I do not believe I have ever known anyone as lovable as you. Perhaps my own children … But they are not here and never will be. I am not good at hugs.”
“I am,” she told him, and she put herself into his arms and wrapped her own about his waist and rested one side of her face against his shoulder.
His arms came tight about her, and they stood motionless for a long time before releasing each other.
“Forgive me?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And let me be a part of your present and your future?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love him, Sophia?” he asked. “Can you console me by telling me that it is a really good marriage?”
“Both,” she said.
It was really good. They would remain together because of their child, perhaps in time because of their children. But it would not be just their children holding them together. Oh, she would not believe that. They would be a family. They would love one another as families ought. And she and Vincent would show their children the example of love and companionship and tolerance.
“Darleigh is a very fortunate man,” he said.
She smiled and took his arm.
“We will miss tea if we do not return soon,” she told him.
21
Vincent edged out of bed very carefully. Sophia had only just fallen back to sleep. She had been awake since half past three, she had told him when he awoke just before six—she had looked at the clock to see what time it was. She had apologized if it was her restlessness that had disturbed him.
“Terrified?” he had asked her.
“At least that,” she had said with something of a groan. “And excited. And … terrified.”
The reception and ball were to take place in two days’ time. As far as Vincent could tell, everything had been planned to death and organized down to the finest little detail. His sisters and their families were to arrive sometime later today, as was Flavian. Neighbors from ten miles about had been invited, some few to stay overnight on account of the distance. Of all the invitations that had been sent out, just one had been declined, and that only because the recipient had had the misfortune to fall off the roof of his barn when his wife had hullooed and waved the card from down below and distracted him. He had broken his leg in two places, poor man.
According to Andy Harrison and a few of the other men with whom Vincent had become friendly lately, there was going to be an eerie silence in the neighborhood after the Middlebury ball. There would be nothing, absolutely nothing, left to talk about. They had all enjoyed a merry guffaw at the prospect.
Vincent had hugged and kissed his wife and assured her that all would be well, that nothing would go wrong. Of course the orchestra would arrive from Gloucester. And of course all the food would be cooked on time and to perfection. Of course everyone would come. And of course it was appropriate and desirable that she lead off the opening set with her uncle. And she would not forget the steps or trip over her own feet or anyone else’s. Miss Debbins had gone over the steps with her, and she had practiced in the music room with her uncle, an experienced and expert dancer, had she not? Of course he was not sorry she had put him through all this.
“What do you mean, anyway, Sophie,” he had asked, “by saying you have put me through it all? Was it not we who decided it was time the tradition of grand entertainments in the state apartments was revived? Was it not we who decided upon the ball?”
“It is very kind of you to say so,” she had said, her voice muffled against his chest. “But I fear it was me. I wanted to prove myself capable of being mistress of Middlebury. I wanted to show everyone that I could compete with all the viscountesses back through history.”
“And you have done it admirably well,” he assured her, kissing the lengthening curls on her head. “Or you are about to do it.”
“That is the whole problem, though,” she had said. “That about to do it part. Do go back to sleep, Vincent. I did not mean to wake you. I shall lie very still, though I doubt I will sleep a wink until after the next few days.”
No more than three minutes later she was sleeping, and Vincent slipped out of bed and made his way to his dressing room. He heard Shep scramble to his feet and come to nudge his hand with a cold nose. He rubbed the dog’s head and pulled gently on his ears.
“Good morning, old boy,” he whispered, bending his head for the customary lick on the cheek. “Just a quick walk outside for you, and then I have an appointment to keep.”
Actually he had lain awake quite a bit of last night too, but earlier than Sophia. Was he going to make a complete ass of himself? He had practiced with Martin for the last few mornings, and Martin had sworn the air blue, if only figuratively speaking.
“I don’t know quite how you do it, sir,” he had grumbled, “but you do, and I don’t like it one little bit on my own account. I like it a whole lot on that smiling bastard’s account, though. Spars with Gentleman Jackson himself, does he? I hope he was not merely boasting when he told you that. It would mean he has farther to fall.”
It would also mean, if he had not been boasting, he would be a formidable opponent. And it was that fact that had kept Vincent awake, his stomach churning uncomfortably. Not that he feared getting hurt. He had grown up half wild. He had been knocked down in fistfights almost as often as he had done the knocking. He had always jumped back up and kept on swinging. No, this time it was the fear of being left feeling inadequate, of failing to accomplish what he had set his heart upon doing.
It was the fear that his blindness had unmanned him.
Pointless thoughts! But nighttime mind wanderings were the hardest to suppress.
Martin was already in the cellar when Vincent arrived there.
“You are sure about this, sir?” he asked. “I would gladly do it for you in the traditional way. I’ll have him on his back watching stars through the cellar ceiling and all the ceilings above it in no time flat.”
“Gentleman Jackson notwithstanding?” Vincent asked.
His valet said something unrepeatable.
“You do not have faith in me, Martin?”
“All the faith in the world,” Martin told him. “But I don’t know why you should have all the fun just because you are a bleeding viscount.”
“And because the viscountess is my wife,” Vincent said.
“Ah. There is that too,” Martin conceded. “If it was Sal, no fists would do but my own.”
Vincent grinned and would have said something about the continuing courtship between his valet and the blacksmith’s daughter, who had still been holding out for a wedding the last time they spoke of her. But the cellar door opened above them, and a cheerful voice called down.
“Darleigh? Are you down there? And is your batman there?”
“Both of us,” Vincent called back. “Come on down, Maycock. There should be plenty of light. Martin has lit the lamps.”
“Ah, a wonderful cavern,” Sebastian Maycock said, his voice closer. “This is where you do your exercising, Darleigh? And this is your trainer?”
“Martin Fisk,” Vincent said. “Friend, batman, valet, trainer. He wears a number of hats.”
“You look impressively large,” Maycock said. “Those shoulder and arm muscles look as if they are kept in good condition.”
“I do my best,” Martin told him.
“So you think you can outspar me, do you?” Maycock laughed. “It takes skill as well as brawn. Did you know that?”
“I think I may have heard it mentioned a time or two,” Martin said.
“Right,” Maycock said. “You are stripped to the waist and ready, I see. I’ll get my shirt and boots off, and we will go at it. Darleigh warned you to bring smelling salts and bandages, did he?”
“He did mention it,” Martin said.