by Mary Balogh
“Bravo, Vince,” Hugo growled.
George felt absurdly close to tears and desperately hoped no one realized it.
He had not spoken much at all about his past—to anyone. His friends knew, of course, about the death of Brendan in Portugal and about Miriam’s suicide soon after. They knew about his most persistently recurring nightmare, the one in which he ran toward the cliff upon which she stood, feeling as though he were moving through something thick and resistant rather than through air, trying to reach her in time to pull her back from the edge, trying to call out something that would persuade her to step back, and failing—and then thinking of just the right words a moment too late as his hand almost touched hers as she jumped.
“Eastham was Miriam’s half brother,” he said, “though he acquired the title after her death. They were very fond of each other. She used to go home quite frequently and stay for long periods—her father’s health was poor for years before he died. Eastham—Meikle, as he was then—used to come to Penderris too until I . . . discouraged him. He came after Brendan’s death to offer Miriam some comfort, though not to Penderris itself. After she . . . died, he accused me of killing her. He was beside himself, of course—as I was. But he did not retract the accusation in the days before the funeral, and he accused me to anyone who would listen. Many people did listen, of course, as you might expect, and a few who were predisposed to believe him did so. The gossip blew over in time, however, from lack of any evidence, and Meikle left Cornwall directly after the funeral, vowing revenge if it took him the rest of his life. I suppose yesterday was his revenge. I do not suppose he found it perfectly satisfactory, though he did ruin the day for Dora. Perhaps there will be more to come.”
Deuce take it, perhaps there would be more. But what more could there be?
A lengthy silence followed his words. That was characteristic of their sessions. They never spoke merely for the sake of making sound or with any empty words of comfort or reassurance.
“You . . . discouraged him?” Ben asked at last.
“There was never any love lost between us,” George said. “I was very young when I married—a mere seventeen. He was ten years older, a huge gap during the years when one is maturing. We had . . . reasons to dislike and resent each other. But finally he became too offensive to be borne, and he had caused great damage within my family. I informed him that he was no longer welcome at Penderris.”
“Offensive?” Flavian said.
George looked at him and slowly shook his head. He would trust this group with his life. He loved them totally. But he could say no more.
“Offensive, yes,” he said.
“I hope,” Imogen said, “Percy did not do more harm than good yesterday, George. I hope he did not stir up more trouble for you by arranging to have that man put out of action for the rest of the day.”
“Percy did his best to ensure that Dora’s wedding day was not an utter disaster,” George told her. “I will be forever grateful to him. If there is more trouble brewing, it is not because Percy embroiled him in a tavern brawl.”
“What now?” Ralph asked. “What can we do for you, George?”
They all sat forward in their seats. They would go out and move mountains for him if he asked it of them, George knew. He forced himself to smile.
“Nothing at all,” he said. “The worst of the trouble came years ago after Miriam died. It stirred to life again yesterday, and I do not doubt that it will be the main topic of conversation in clubs and drawing rooms for the next few days. I do not expect to find myself being shunned as a possible murderer, however, any more than I was then. Besides, I will be taking Dora home to Cornwall within the next few days and that will be an end of the matter.”
Except that he could not quite believe that.
“You do not expect him to follow you there?” Hugo asked.
“If he does,” George assured him, his stomach lurching uncomfortably, “I cannot stop him, but he will stay somewhere other than Penderris Hall, and I shall ignore his presence. But I do not expect it. What would be the point?”
There was no point, was there, apart from dragging up old and stale resentments and embarrassing Dora.
“That old nightmare is not plaguing you?” Vincent asked.
“Not lately,” George assured him. “I am confident that in time it will stop altogether. I have a new wife and a new marriage to give me hope and happiness.”
There was silence again.
“It is just a pity,” he added, “that some things can never be entirely forgotten just by trying. But we have all learned that lesson.”
“Indeed,” Imogen said.
Vincent would never forget that it was a foolish, naive move of his on the battlefield that had blinded him for life. Imogen would never forget that she had shot the bullet that killed her beloved first husband in the Peninsula when they were both in captivity. Hugo would never forget that he was one of the very few men to survive the forlorn hope attack he had led, or that he was the only one who had survived without even a scratch. Ralph would never forget that he had persuaded his three closest school friends to purchase commissions and join him in the Peninsula—and that soon after he had watched them blown to smithereens in a cavalry charge. They all had burdens they would carry for the rest of their lives even though they had learned to live with them and even to find happiness again.
He would be happy again, George thought, despite all the burdens of the past. He was happy. His heart lifted with gladness when he thought about Dora. He would see to it that she was happy too.
Flavian got to his feet and patted George’s shoulder as he passed behind him to return his glass to the sideboard. “I had better take you b-back home, George,” he said, “or my sister-in-law will stop speaking to me and then Agnes may stop too.”
It was a signal for everyone else to leave, except Imogen, who would await Percy’s return from his walk in the park. They would all be returning to their homes in the country within the next few days, and it was doubtful they would be together again until their annual reunion next spring. By then there would be a few new children to bring to Penderris—their core group of seven was rapidly expanding. They all hugged one another and wished one another a safe journey.
He had probably not been at Hugo’s much longer than an hour, George thought as he sat beside Flavian in the curricle again. It seemed far longer than that. He smiled at the realization that he was missing his wife and could hardly wait to see her again. How old was he again? Forty-eight, soon to be nineteen?
“A penny for them, George,” Flavian said.
“For my thoughts? Not even a pound, Flave.” George grinned at his friend. “Not even twenty pounds.”
* * *
They walked back to Stanbrook House about the square rather than across it through the park, Dora’s hand drawn through George’s arm. How lovely it was today, she thought, after all the pomp and excitement of yesterday, to be going home quietly with her husband.
“Oh, I must tell you,” she said. “Someone has expressed an interest in moving to Inglebrook to teach music—a Mr. Madison. He is to call upon Viscount . . . upon Sophia and Vincent this afternoon. He is even interested in the fact that there is a cottage for sale in the village. He has been a member of a symphony orchestra for several years and has traveled all over Britain and Europe. But he has recently married and begun a family and wants a life that is quieter and more settled but still lucrative enough to provide him with a steady income.”
“He will be a poor substitute for you,” George said with a sidelong smile.
“Oh, what foolish flattery,” she said. “But I thank you. I shall now be able to feel considerably less guilt about leaving so abruptly—provided Mr. Madison likes what he hears this afternoon, of course. Will you be going out again? To your club, maybe?”
“I had rather hoped to spend the rest o
f the day with my wife,” he said. “Do you not have time for me?”
“Of course I do.” She was absurdly pleased. “I thought all men spent their days at one of the clubs or in Parliament or at some other exclusively male preserve.”
“Not this man,” he told her as they climbed the steps to their house. “Not all the time, at least, and certainly not on the first full day of my marriage after I have been separated from my wife all morning. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I did,” she assured him, but did not add what a wonderful feeling it had given her to be a wife among wives, a friend among friends—or how lovely it had been to know that she had a husband coming back to her. She would have been ashamed to say such things aloud. She was a bit ashamed even to think them. What had happened to her pride in her independence, her ability to stand alone without any man?
They did not stay in for the rest of the day. Instead they went walking in Hyde Park, though not in the area where the fashionable world strolled and rode during the afternoon.
“People may feel obliged to stop and inform us what the weather is like if we go there,” he said by way of explanation. “I do not want to be stopped and spoken to today. Do you?”
Dora laughed. “No,” she said. “I have all the company I desire for today.”
“Ah.” He chuckled. “I have had my compliment and will now hold my peace.”
She had had no idea that marriage would feel so . . . comfortable, that it would involve light banter and teasing remarks and laughter.
They walked along narrow paths that wound and climbed and descended among trees and sometimes presented stones or tree roots to trip them if they were unwary. The paths were quiet and secluded in the main, with occasional glimpses of lawns and small groups of people, both riders and pedestrians. Two children’s nurses sat on one expanse of grass talking while their young charges dashed about at play. A small dog chased after a stick its master threw for it, its tail whipping up what must be a minor hurricane. George told her about Percy’s dog, a former stray of indeterminate breed and unprepossessing looks, which had forced itself upon him until he had had no choice but to keep it and love it.
“I do like Percy,” Dora said, laughing at the story. “He seems quite perfect for Imogen.”
“He has made her glow,” he said, “and for that I will always hold him in the deepest esteem.”
She wondered if now, when they were alone together and away from home, he would talk about yesterday and about the death of his first wife.
“It was rather sad to bid farewell to your father and your brother this morning,” he said. “You must have wished there could be more time with them.”
“I was very glad they came,” she assured him. “But Oliver has a busy life and Louisa does not like to leave their children for any longer than necessary. My father does not like to leave home at all.”
“But he did so for your sake,” he said. “I am pleased about that.”
His head remained turned toward her, and she could feel unspoken questions in the silence.
“He was never an openly warmhearted man,” she told him, “though he was not unkind or neglectful either—not to us, his children, at least. Mrs. Brough was one of my mother’s friends. I liked her, and after Mama left she continued to call upon me with words of advice and encouragement. But after Mr. Brough died a number of years later, it was clear that her interest lay with my father more than with me. Their marriage came as no great surprise. But soon after their wedding she made it clear to Agnes that it was high time she considered marriage—and Agnes married William Keeping, something that ought never to have happened. Then she made sure I understood that there was no room for two mistresses in our home, though I had been trying very hard to efface myself. It was a great relief to all of us, I suppose, except perhaps Agnes, when I moved away to Inglebrook. I have never been able to think of Mrs. Brough by any other name, but since I can no longer call her that, I do not call her anything, I am afraid. It is a little awkward. As far as my father is concerned, we do not have a close relationship, but neither are we estranged. I am happy that he came here and gave me away. He was happy about that too.”
“You resented his marrying again?” he asked.
She hesitated as he used his free hand to hold back a low branch that would have caught her across the face if he had not noticed it. “I tried not to,” she said. “There was no reason he should not marry, and they seemed—still seem—fond enough of each other. It would have been reprehensible to resent his marriage purely for my own selfish reasons.”
“Selfish?” he said. “But had you not given up your dreams in order to keep home for your father and raise your sister?”
“But not at his request,” she protested. “It was my choice to stay. I can hardly blame anyone else for what I freely decided to do.”
“I might argue that point, Dora,” he said. “You did not blame your father for your mother’s desertion? Ah, forgive me. That question was quite out of line. Ignore it if you will and we will admire the beauty of the park.”
“Oh, I have blamed him,” she said with a sigh, “especially after hearing what my mother told Flavian last year. I assume you have heard about that. And of course I have blamed her too. Initially the fault was entirely his. I was there when he accused her very publicly in the middle of an assembly and would not be hushed though a number of people urged him not to say what he would live to regret. But . . . she did not need to go away and never come back. Or perhaps she did. How can I know how intolerable their marriage had become to her? One never can really know such things from the outside, can one?”
“No,” he agreed softly, “one cannot.”
“But there was a child,” she said. “There was Agnes. Surely—oh, I may be very wrong, but surely she ought to have put her child before any personal unhappiness with her marriage. Agnes was five years old.”
“Her children, perhaps,” he said. “There was you as well as Agnes. And your brother.”
“I was old enough to look after myself,” she said. “Goodness, you married when you were seventeen.”
“I was a child and at the mercy of forces beyond myself,” he said, “just as you were.”
“Yes.” She waited but he did not explain his words about himself. “Oh, I do try not to hate her, not to judge her, but I do not always succeed. We cannot know what another person’s life is like, can we, unless we can live their lives from the inside, and that is impossible. I can judge my mother only from the pain she caused Agnes and me—and Oliver. And that is perhaps unfair especially when it was my father who started it all—or apparently started it.”
They had left the trees behind them and were walking in sunshine. Dora lifted her chin so that she could feel the summerlike heat against her face beneath the brim of her bonnet. He stopped walking and turned them to face full into the sun.
“She had as much right to be with me yesterday as he had,” she said, and realized too late that she had spoken aloud.
“You are sorry we did not invite her?” he asked.
“No.” She closed her eyes briefly. “It would have been intolerable. You must have realized that after you made the suggestion a month ago.”
“But possible,” he said. “Most things are when one is a duke.”
She looked at him. He was smiling in that gentle, kindly way of his.
“I found myself yesterday morning, you know, wondering if she knew about my wedding, wondering if she cared,” she told him.
“You know, Dora,” he said, and the kindness that shone from his eyes seemed to wrap itself about her like a warm blanket, “we do not have to set out for Cornwall tomorrow or even the next day.”
They were planning to leave tomorrow. They were to go to Penderris, and she wanted with a passionate yearning to be on the way there with him. On the way home. She did not want to delay by even a day.<
br />
They stepped off the path to allow two young girls trailed by a maid to pass by. Dora waited until they were out of earshot.
“I cannot go to visit her,” she said.
“As you wish.” His smile warmed her even as the sun was obscured by a small cloud.
“I do not know where she lives,” she said.
“Flavian does,” he reminded her.
She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Do you think I ought to go?”
“I think,” he said, “that I ought to allow you to decide that for yourself, Dora. But if you wish to stay another day or two, then we will. And if you wish to call upon your mother, I will accompany you—or not.”
She tipped her head to one side and regarded him closely. “Now I know,” she said, “what Flavian and Agnes mean when they speak of you.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“That you are a gifted listener,” she said. “That you give comfort and strength and support without in any way trying to impose your will upon anyone or attempting to control anyone’s actions.”
“It does not take a great deal of talent to listen,” he said, “when one loves the speaker.”
Loves?
“And you love everyone,” she said.
“Ah,” he said, “not so, Dora. You will not be able to make any sort of a saint of me, I am afraid.”
“Your fellow Survivors do,” she told him.
He laughed softly. “I was able to comfort them when they were at their lowest ebb,” he said. “It was easy to be a hero when I was unhurt myself.”
“Were you?” She frowned.
Something came down behind his eyes almost like a curtain.
“Shall we walk?” He gestured to the long stretch of grass before them, and they left the path and struck off in what Dora guessed to be the direction of the Serpentine. Perhaps he thought it was time for crowds again.
“You will come with me?” she asked after a silent minute or two.
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”