The Bridal Season

by Connie Brockway

  “Wouldn’t know she’d hit her head and been laid up in bed less than a week gone by now, would you?” Grace commented softly, watching as a small disembodied hand emerged from beneath the tablecloth and began an exploratory journey toward the candied grapes. Tommy Jepson, if she guessed right.

  “Looks happier than I’ve seen her in a good while, too,” Merry agreed. She’d spied the creeping hand, too, and rapped its knuckles sharply, but only after it had nabbed a cluster of grapes. “Knocked the jimjams clean out of her, I expect.”

  “Too bad things between Lady Agatha and Sir Elliot aren’t going so well,” Grace murmured, sliding more hot turnovers onto a silver chafing dish beside the punch bowl.

  Merry pursed her lips. “I’m sure you’re wrong. Why, you can see clear as day that he’s head over heels for her. It gives me the flutters the way he watches her when he thinks no one’s looking.” She blushed at the memory of Sir Elliot’s face as he’d watched Lady Agatha at church last Sunday. It had definitely not been a proper “church” sort of look.

  “Well, that much is true,” Grace agreed. “Not that there’s been much chance for him to look at her. She’s kept to her room all week long, busy at her work. And when she does come out of her room, her eyes is all red-rimmed and her face is pale. She’ll work herself ill at this rate.”

  She selected a petit four from a tray, lifted the tablecloth, and waved it enticingly beneath the table A little hand emerged, snagged it, and disappeared Stifled giggles emerged from beneath the table—Tommy Jepson and his sister Sarah, too.

  “Well,” Merry said tartly, her voice low, “I think Lady Agatha is a trace, well, scared of Sir Elliot.”

  “Scared?” Grace chuckled. “Merry, you innocent goose. He fascinates her. And she’s miserable about it. Though why a handsome woman being courted by a man like Sir Elliot should be miserable is beyond me.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t feel she can marry so far beneath her station?” Merry suggested.

  “What station?” Grace hissed in exasperation. “When all is said and done, Merry, Lady Agatha is a woman who hires out her services to whoever can afford them.”

  “When all is said and done,” Merry whispered back heatedly, “she is a duke’s daughter.”

  “Yes, yes,” Grace said impatiently. “But she don’t seem full of herself, in spite of it. Besides, clear as clear, she’s in love with him.”

  “How can you tell?” whispered Eglantyne, who’d come up unnoticed beside them. Lambikins lounged in her arms, eyeing the turnovers hopefully.

  “She’s miserable,” Merry said.

  Eglantyne turned her head and studied Lady Agatha standing across the room. There was no arguing there. The strain of the last days was clearly written on her remarkable face. Dark shadows bruised the flesh beneath her eyes and her complexion looked waxen. A tendril of hair had escaped her heavy chignon and she looked thinner, as though she’d lost a bit of weight.

  “She’s been working too hard,” Eglantyne murmured.

  “Fingers to the bone,” agreed Grace Poole.

  “Burning the midnight oil,” Merry nodded.

  “Maybe that is why she’s been unable to find a single moment to give my son,” Atticus said quietly from behind them. All three women jumped. “I hadn’t realized you were such a slave-driver, Eglantyne.”

  Merry and Grace didn’t bother refuting such nonsense. Everyone in Little Bidewell knew Eglantyne Bigglesworth was the kindest soul alive.

  “Oh!” said Eglantyne in mortification. “How awful you must think us, Professor March, gossiping like this. You must believe that we are interested in Elliot and Lady Agatha only because of the affection we bear them.”

  Atticus waved aside her agitation. “No need for you to apologize or abandon your current fascinating topic of conversation,” he reassured her. “You might say I have a vested interest. And I hope you will not think me too terrible if I admit that we share a mutual ambition. The three women regarded him in surprise.

  He nodded. “It’s true. I’ve spent the last few days singing Lady Agatha’s praises to Elliot until I’ve half convinced myself to marry her.”

  Eglantyne giggled, but Merry shook her head. “She won’t have you. She wants Sir Elliot.”

  “Then why doesn’t she have him?” Atticus asked in an exasperated stage whisper. “Elliot became so tired of hearing my paeans of praise that he finally told me—and please forgive the use of hard language, but I quote my son in order to illustrate the extent to which he has been pressed—‘If I knew what the hell to do, don’t you imagine I would have done it by now. The lady will not see me!’”

  “He’s right,” Eglantyne agreed forlornly. “She won’t see him. If he arrives by the front door, she scurries out the back. If we have him for lunch, she’s too busy to come down. She only came here today because I told her Elliot had been called away on his magisterial duties.”

  “But he hasn’t. He isn’t,” Atticus said. “He’s in the front hall talking to Anton.”

  “I know,” Eglantyne replied placidly.

  It took a full minute for the import of her statement to sink in.

  “Why, Miss Eglantyne, I never!” breathed Grace Poole. Atticus chuckled and Merry beamed approvingly.

  “Here he comes,” Merry suddenly whispered.

  Elliot had entered the room, his head bent as he listened attentively to Anton, his dark brows drawn together. As Eglantyne watched, he raised his head and saw Lady Agatha. His eyes narrowed, became focused, more intense.

  Eglantyne’s gaze swung to Lady Agatha. She, too, had seen Elliot enter. For a heartbeat, she froze where she stood. Her dark eyes grew darker and more lustrous, her lips parted, and then her gaze abruptly snapped around, as if gauging her distance from the various doors. She moved back. As if on cue, he paced her, moving forward, his gaze never wavering from her.

  There was nowhere for her to escape. She moved quickly toward the open door leading to the garden, but Colonel Vance, who’d dropped his cane at her feet, barred her path. She had no choice but to retrieve it, and by the time she’d returned it to his gnarled hand, Elliot was beside her.

  The guests had quieted, as if aware of a drama unfolding in their midst. Even at this distance, Eglantyne could see what little color remained ebb from Lady Agatha’s cheeks, the defensive adjustment of her posture, and the anxious tension at the corners of her eyes. By contrast, Elliot was a study in composure. He took possession of the hand she reflexively offered. He bent his dark head over her hand and raised it to his lips and slowly, deliberately, pressed upon her trembling fingers the most ardent kiss Little Bidewell Society had ever witnessed.

  The watching ladies reacted variously and tellingly. Most looked a trifle wistful, some were amused, some shocked, but only one looked like she was on the verge of fainting: Lady Agatha.

  “Dinner!” Grace loudly prompted Atticus.

  “What?” Atticus asked.

  “Announce that it’s time for dinner!” Grace said urgently. “He’ll offer her his arm. She’ll have no choice but to accept, and then…”

  “Ah!” Atticus nodded. He stepped forward, clearing his throat. “My dear friends,” he announced, “may I invite you in to dinner?”

  Elliot was smiling wolfishly down at Lady Agatha. Her chin tilted upright, acknowledging the challenge. Though Eglantyne could not hear him, clearly he was asking Lady Agatha to dine. She saw Lady Agatha hesitate. Then she touched her fingertips to her temples, shaking her head. Elliot stiffened.

  Lady Agatha fled. Elliot took one betraying, uncontrollable step after her, and stopped. His face smoothed of expression, only his stiffness betrayed his heightened emotions. Eglantyne’s heart twisted with pity.

  “Something has upset you, Miss Eglantyne?” Catherine Bunting, moving with a group entering the dining room, paused beside Eglantyne.

  Before she considered her words, Eglantyne replied. “I fear Elliot is much affected by Lady Agatha’s avoidance of him.”

>   “Affected? Elliot? I doubt it.” Catherine smiled sanguinely. “Perhaps his pride has been pricked. Elliot is a most proud man. With every reason to be, of course,” she added.

  “Catherine, my dear, you’d best have a care lest people think you unfeeling,” Atticus said in a low, cool voice. He had overheard her dismiss his son’s pain and it made him impatient with her.

  She swung on him, color like flags in her pretty cheeks. “I assure you, I am not the unfeeling one.”

  Her eyes were bright. Gads, she was on the point of tears. Hurriedly, Atticus offered her his arm. “Catherine,” he said loudly, “before dinner, might I ask you to take a peek at my heliotrope? It looks a bit leggy.”

  She hesitated a second, but then allowed him to draw her out the door to the garden where they could be alone. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said. “I did not realize until just now.”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand. It was past that “Please, don’t be sorry,” she said. “It’s really not necessary. I am quite content with my life and Paul.”

  She took a deep breath, hoping that in voicing these things she could finally purge them from her mind. “For years, Elliot has nurtured the idea that he stood bravely by while I married his best friend. I suppose I should be grateful. I would rather people think I broke his heart than have them pity me.” She gave a brief laugh when she saw Atticus’s expression. “Apparently he did not even allow you into his confidence. How like him.”

  Atticus regarded her soberly.

  “I broke things off between us, yes. And have since comforted myself with the conviction that war changed him into a man I could not love. The truth is somewhat less palatable. You see, I am a woman he could not love.”

  “My dear,” Atticus said sympathetically, “I know without question that Elliot loved you once.”

  “Yes,” she said, “he did. But even then, even when he was young—you remember how passionate he seemed when he spoke of certain things, the delight he seemed to draw from the simplest acts? It was just his manner. There was no basis for it.”

  “My dear,” Atticus said, reaching out to pat her hand. She snatched it away.

  “I know. Because he never… He was never carried away by his love for me.”

  Before he had left for the Sudan she’d gone to him, knowing she would find in his arms the thing that had always eluded her, the passion that he hoarded, that she’d never tasted and wanted so much. He’d told her he respected her too much, that there were consequences he could not allow her to risk.

  “When he returned so changed, I was glad. Do you understand, Atticus?” She’d never called him Atticus before; they’d never been close despite their proximity and having shared such important places in Elliot’s life.

  “I think so.”

  “The man I had loved never existed except in my imagination. I will not accept that I was unable to make him…” She broke off. “And that she can succeed where I failed.” How she hated Lady Agatha, with her laughter and her brilliant eyes and her casual manner.

  “But of course, I never really tried.” She lifted her chin. “By the time Elliot had returned, Paul and I had grown close. He loved me with all the ardency I had wanted from Elliot.”

  She gazed at him proudly. “There were tears in Paul’s eyes when he confessed he loved me. Tears.” Her expression was challenging. “Can you imagine Elliot crying? For anything? For anyone?”

  Atticus stared at her mutely and she had her answer. She’d made a mistake; she should not have confessed these things after all.

  “He has been so very alone, Catherine. He has spent his lifetime searching for a woman he can love as ardently and wholly as Paul loves you,” Atticus said gently.

  Paul. She had never doubted his love. He was there for her. Always. Supportive and admiring and adoring.

  “Perhaps, it is time to let old admirers go,” Atticus said and she saw in his careful wording the same respectful consideration his son had always shown her when she had wanted his fire.

  Let Elliot go? She’d never had him. But she did have her pride. And she had Paul.

  What the devil was Lady Agatha thinking? And what was she doing? Before she realized her own intent, Eglantyne found herself at Elliot’s side. For a moment she thought he might excuse himself, but his manners were far too deeply ingrained.

  She did not bother with subtlety. She had watched him take his first fence and had rapped his knuckles for stealing apples from her larder. She loved him.

  “Lady Agatha has been working so very hard to complete the preparations for the wedding party,” she explained. “Every day she receives dozens of telegrams, orders and arrangements. She personally has overseen the sewing of a hundred little silk fans as wedding favors.”

  “She has reason to be exhausted,” Elliot concurred politely.

  “Oh, yes!” Eglantyne exclaimed hurriedly. “And there are the floral designs she’s made, and she’s drawn up plans for the seating arrangements. Very modern, I admit, but most practical, when she explains how the best seats in the house, the ones with a full frontal view of the wedding ceremony, ought to be reserved for the marquis’s family. And ours, of course.”

  “I can see she’s been very busy.”

  “I am sure she would not leave your father’s party unless she felt an overwhelming need to do so.”

  “I am sure you are correct.”

  There now, Eglantyne thought with satisfaction. He didn’t look quite so tense anymore. His usual impeccable manners were standing him in good stead. He even smiled at her, once more the polite gentleman she’d known since his return from the Sudan, fully in command of the situation and himself.

  “Will you excuse me, Miss Eglantyne?” he asked and she nodded.

  He strolled casually but directly from the nearly empty drawing room. He did not turn into the dining room as Eglantyne expected, but instead walked into the hall and turned to close the door carefully behind him.

  A sudden loud crash made her jump. She hurried to the hall door and opened it looking outside. No one was there. But the large porcelain vase that generally stood on the hall table lay on the floor, shattered into a thousand pieces.

  As if someone had hurled it against the wall.

  An hour later, Letty sat in the library at The Hollies. She heard one of the maids speaking to someone who sounded very like Elliot. She rose swiftly, and the silk fan she’d been listlessly embroidering fell to her feet. For a moment, panic and pleasure vied for precedence until logic took hold. Elliot would never leave his guests. She stooped to retrieve the fan.

  “Letty.”

  She bolted upright, clutching the fan like a talisman to her chest. He looked so handsome and severe. He searched her face, and she wished she knew what he read there, wished she could adequately hide the ache in her heart.

  She wanted to run to him, she wanted to feel him enfold her in his arms. All she had ever desired reposed there. It made standing motionless the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  But the knowledge that whatever joy she might know in his arms could only be temporary stayed her. The world would not vanish, the past would reach out and rip her from his embrace. And the longer she stayed in Little Bidewell, the more likely the wound caused by that rending would be mortal…to both of them.

  He was a knight, soon to be a baron. He had a family name to honor and a position of trust and responsibility to uphold.

  “This can’t go on any longer.” His voice brooked no argument. “This is absurd.”

  He was right; this couldn’t go on. Every day she’d tried vainly to find a happy ending for them. There should be a way. In all the popular plays, the poor girl managed against all odds to gain the handsome aristocrat’s heart. But this was not musical farce, and the happy ending she so desperately sought refused to materialize.

  He moved cautiously closer. “Letty. You can’t tell me you have no feelings for me. I won’t believe that.”

  She wouldn’t deny it. Or him
. He held one hand out. She shook her head, fearful that if he came closer all her resolve to spare them both would vanish.

  “Don’t back away from me, Letty. I couldn’t stand that. I won’t press myself on you,” he said. “I have done this poorly. I understand. And I know that a woman like you expects a certain standard—” He broke off abruptly and raked his hand through his hair, looking away.

  “Damn it, Letty, there is no woman like you,” he said, suddenly savage. “How am I to follow some template of behavior when everything in me urges me to act from the heart? Do you know,” his gaze speared her where she stood, “that since I have loved you, I have not regretted one word, one glance, one touch? And I am so certain in loving you, so sure of it, of us, that I cannot conceive that you regret any of these things, either.”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “Loving you has made me a monster of egotism, my dear. But there it is. I am fearless of misstep, unable to conceive that I could err so gravely that you would turn from me.” His voice strained with his need to convince her. But she needed no convincing. She knew he loved her.

  “I could never turn from you,” she breathed. He did not hear her. He’d paced a few steps away from her, once more raking his hand through his hair before turning back. When he next spoke his agitation had vanished; his voice was deep and ardent and clear.

  “A heart filled with such conviction cannot exist independently. I could not be so certain without your love, Letty. All I ask is that you give me a chance to woo you. Tell me what you want and I will do it. But do not run from this. Do not deny it. Do not deny us.”

  Dear God, when he spoke like this she could almost believe that he did not care for convention or dignity or Society, and that loving her was the most important thing in his life. She trembled on the cusp of hope.

  “I don’t dare. Things are much more complicated than they appear and I am… I am ashamed.”