by Mary Balogh
“Oh,” she said, turning to him, her eyes shining, “do you think so, James? Do you really think so? You don’t think I am being foolish? I thought perhaps you would laugh, and I would realize that it is not the thing at all.”
“Well,” he said, looking gravely down at her, “you do not see me laughing, do you, Jean?”
She threw her arms about his neck, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him smackingly on the cheek. “Oh, I do love you,” she said. “I wish you were my real brother, and not just Duncan’s friend.”
“Brothers can be adopted,” he said, hugging her. “I would be honored.”
She kept her hands clasped behind his neck as she leaned back and grinned impishly up at him. “Do you know what Anna thought?” she said, and giggled. “She thought you were my beau, James. Isn’t that silly? And not at all flattering to you, for you are very handsome and very distinguished, and any of the loveliest ladies of the ton would fall all over themselves if you but looked on them with favor. Besides, you will be a baron someday.”
“Very silly,” he said, patting the sides of her waist and matching her grin. “No one in his right mind would expect someone as fresh and pretty as you to ally herself to an old man like me.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “You are not so very old,” she said. “I daresay you are not above thirty at the most. James, promise me faithfully that you will not laugh at me if Mr. Courtney says nothing. I shall feel very foolish indeed.”
“I have a dreadful memory,” he said. “What have we been talking about this morning, anyway? We are far from the house already, I see, and must have been talking about something or there would have been an embarrassing silence between us. It must have been the weather. We have been talking about the weather, have we? Shall we begin the walk back? I see the hem of your dress is heavy with damp. Was there anything left to say about the weather? I really can’t remember what we have already said. This is what happens when one is once past his thirtieth birthday, you know. A dreadful fate!”
She took his arm again and tripped along beside him. “Silly!” she said. “You are silly, James.”
He was feeling stunned—all his plans blown to the winds. When she had found him in the gallery, he had been working up his will and his courage to go and find her. He was going to do it that very day, he had decided. He was going to end this indecision and betroth himself to her. He was going to announce it, even though he would not have a chance to talk with Douglas until their return to London. He was going to announce it so that he could feel safe for the remaining days of his stay at Amberley.
But she had spoken first. And he was stunned at his own total blindness. An attachment had been forming under his very eyes, and he had seen none of it. All of Jean’s attention to him and affection for him were those of a very young girl to an older man, a brother figure.
He truly did not know what they talked about on the return walk to the house. He was stunned—and a little embarrassed and humiliated.
And a great deal relieved.
ON THE SAME MORNING, the dowager Lady Amberley rode up onto the cliffs with Sir Cedric Harvey. They tethered their horses when they were a safe distance from the edge, and walked along, the wind whipping against them.
“And blowing my words right back down my throat,” Lady Amberley said.
“But I can hear them,” he said, drawing her arm firmly through his and lowering his head against the wind.
“We are quite mad,” she said. “But if I had had to sit quietly indoors another hour with that woman, Cedric, I would have started to commit murder, or worse. And how dreadful I am being.”
“You are always so very courteous and gracious, Louisa,” he said. “Everyone needs some chance to let out real feelings.”
“I could shake her,” she said. “All she does is complain of damp and drafts, even though Edmund has ordered fires blazing half up the chimney in the drawing room every day for the past two weeks.”
“She is upset,” he said. “Beckworth shuts himself up in the library most of the time, and she is very much aware that she will be losing her son again next week.”
“I know,” she said, contrition in her face as she looked up at him. “You are being my conscience, Cedric. I feel for her. I know what it was like to see Dominic go on his way more than once and not know if I would ever see him again. I am dreadfully heartless, aren’t I?”
“No,” he said, patting her hand. “Just very human. For however much one may sympathize with Lady Beckworth, one cannot but deplore the fact that she seems to have no inner resources with which to cheer herself up.”
“I am glad Alexandra is very different from her mama,” she said, “though I found her shedding a tear in the nursery yesterday when Edmund was away at the village on business and she was not expecting my arrival. She was very flustered and tried to tell me she had something in her eye before she laughed and told me she was indulging in a fit of the dismals because her brother will soon be on his way.”
“They are very close,” he said, “and always have been, as I remember.” He looked at her consideringly for a moment. “You should get right away for a time, Louisa. Have you never dreamed of traveling? To the north and Scotland, perhaps, or to the Continent?”
She laughed. “Edward and I used to talk about it constantly before we married and for two months afterward,” she said. “But Edmund began to put in an appearance, and he put an end to all our dreams. To those dreams, anyway. New ones came instantly to take their place, of course. And we were very well blessed.”
“But now,” he said, “two of your children are well settled and have family dreams of their own. And Madeline will not be far behind. She and Captain Hands seem very taken with each other. She appears to take him more seriously than I have seen her with anyone else. It’s time for new dreams, Louisa.”
She smiled and turned her head away from a particularly strong gust of wind. “One thinks there will be nothing else,” she said. “One has children, and one’s life is so taken up with theirs that one thinks that that will be the whole of life. For Edward it was, of course, poor dear. But then one comes out at the other end of it, and discovers that life still has something to offer. A future. Some excitement, perhaps.”
“I would like to travel the Continent with you,” he said.
“I would like it too.” She smiled up at him. “But it would not be very proper. Perhaps we can organize a party. There must be several of our friends who have not fully comprehended the fact that the wars are over and Europe is safe for travel again.”
“It would not be improper if we were married,” he said.
“Cedric!” She stopped walking and looked up at him in pure amazement. “Was that a proposal? Was it? We cannot marry. We are friends.”
He looked a little sheepish. “And friends cannot marry?” he asked.
“But you love Anne,” she said. “And I love Edward. We can never duplicate those loves with each other, my dear.”
“Anne and Edward are very far in our past,” he said. “In the meantime, Louisa, we are alive. And I have grown very fond of you. I did not realize just how fond until I was away from you last year.”
“But married, Cedric,” she said. “I have never thought of you in terms of marriage. Of intimacy. Did you have in mind a marriage in all its meanings?”
He grinned at her suddenly. “I had hoped that I would have enough youthful energy left to make love to you, yes,” he said.
Lady Amberley blushed. “Oh, gracious,” she said. “I am speechless, Cedric. I am as flustered as a girl.”
“Perhaps you would like to think about it,” he said, “instead of slapping my face and giving an instant rejection. Will you think about it?”
“It will be very hard to think of anything else,” she said. She searched his eyes and blushed again. “Gracious, Cedric, I have never once thought of such a thing. You were Edward’s dear friend, and have been mine for years. I have never thought of our being lovers. Yes, I
will think of it, my friend. And I think—yes, I am sure—that my head is quite, quite free of cobwebs again. Oh, goodness, how very foolish. Edmund and Dominic have two children apiece and their mama is up here on the cliffs listening to a marriage proposal and finding it quite impossible to stop blushing.”
Sir Cedric took her arm through his again. “We will change the subject,” he said, “and you will tell me as you usually do up here how you would love to paint the sea and how you always find it impossible to do so to your satisfaction. But before you do, you must assure me that whatever you decide, our friendship will not end. It won’t, Louisa?”
“What a ridiculous notion,” she said. “How could we not be friends? The greatest frustration on a day like this, you know, is that the water and sky would be so very exciting to paint and yet it would not be within the bounds of possibility to stand an easel up here in this wind or keep paper on it or paint on the brush. And I cannot paint from memory. I have to be right there, feeling and hearing and smelling the scene as well as seeing it.”
THE DAY BEFORE THE BALL was the first lovely summer’s day for weeks. A hastily organized party of young people rode up the hill west of Amberley and past the Carringtons’ house, where Anna and Walter joined the group, and along the top of the valley to the old ruined abbey where the picnic was to have been two weeks before.
“It was almost totally destroyed at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries,” Madeline explained to Captain Hands. “It must have been large and very beautiful.”
“But it made a marvelous playground when we were all children,” Walter said. “We could hide for hours and not be found.”
“Susan and I were sent to hide once, I remember,” Madeline said, “and we stayed concealed forever, giggling and proud of ourselves until we discovered that every last one of you boys had crept down into the valley looking for fish in the river. Susan cried oceans and I was so furious that I punched out at all of you. I think that was the time I gave Dom his black eye.”
“Susan was still crying when we arrived home,” Howard said. “And then she cried all evening too because Papa gave me a thrashing.”
They all laughed.
Madeline was feeling relaxed. James Purnell was not with them, having decided to spend an afternoon with his mother and sister. It was only when she thought of the reason for his doing so that her stomach threatened to turn the old somersaults. He would be leaving in two days’ time. He and Jean Cameron would be starting their return journey to London, with a maid, the afternoon after the ball.
But she would not think of it. She would only will the two days to pass as uneventfully as the previous two weeks had done. She had not seen him alone in all that time, and had exchanged no private conversation with him. He had been as intent as she on preserving a distant civility.
And apart from that one lapse at the Mortons’ party and afterward when Edmund had found her in the conservatory, she had everything to be proud of in her new life. She had not thought it would be so easy. Captain Hands was a serious young man on whom flirtation would not have worked at all. In the past few weeks they had talked their way into an easy friendship. He had not kissed her again, but there was Edmund’s ball the next day.
It would be good to have a betrothal to announce at the ball. The euphoria of it would carry her safely through the ordeal of the next few days. And would carry her contentedly through the remainder of a lifetime.
The two of them rode on at a leisurely pace while the others dismounted in order to explore the ruins of the old abbey.
“I was fortunate to be stationed here,” Captain Hands said. “It is a lovely part of the country.”
“I think so,” she said. “But of course, I am partial.”
They talked easily on, without having to give conscious thought to the topic.
“You will be at my brother’s ball tomorrow?” she asked as they turned their horses’ heads to walk back again. “In the country even one absentee is sorely missed, you know.” She smiled at him.
“Indeed, I would not miss it,” he said. He looked at her and hesitated. For once he looked uncomfortable in her presence. “I have an apology to make, Lady Madeline. One I should have made a long time ago.”
“Oh, goodness,” she said. “What can you possibly have done to offend me?”
“I kissed you,” he said.
She laughed. “And you think you owe me an apology for that?” she asked. “It was nothing, I assure you. I am no green girl.”
“You are very lovely,” he said, “and very attractive. I forgot myself.”
“And at the time I believe I was quite glad that you did,” she said. “Please think no more of it.”
“But I did you wrong,” he said. He glanced swiftly at her and ahead again. “And someone else.”
“Oh?” She smiled brightly at him.
“I am promised to someone else,” he said, “and have been almost since our infancy. Our parents are planning betrothal celebrations for Christmastime. I am fond of her and owe her better than to be dallying after someone who is lovelier than she.”
“But you must not exaggerate,” Madeline said. “You have not dallied with me. We shared one very brief kiss on the evening we first met and since then have developed a companionable friendship. That is hardly infidelity, sir.”
“I should have told you sooner,” he said. “I have been feeling guilty.”
Madeline laughed. “If every man who has ever kissed me were to feel that he had somehow compromised me and himself,” she said, “I am afraid there would be a large number of guilty hearts strewn around England. If I had known that you took that one so seriously, I would have disabused your mind a long time ago. I had quite forgot it, sir.”
“It is kind of you to say so,” he said.
“Indeed, now you have made me feel guilty,” she said. “Because obviously something that was so carelessly given might have been taken seriously if circumstances had been different. You remind me to be more careful in future, for I would not wish to hurt any man by raising hopes that I am not prepared to satisfy.”
“I am greatly relieved,” he said, “and I have learned my lesson, I assure you. Will you dance with me tomorrow night?”
“I will be mortally offended if you do not claim me for at least one set,” she said with a laugh. “We are back to the others already. What a shame! I would have liked to hear about your soon-to-be betrothed. What is her name?”
During the leisurely ride back to Amberley, Madeline did not know quite whether she more wished to laugh or cry. There was cause for laughter, certainly. She had just been given a memorable lesson in humility. She had been so very confident that any man she chose to smile at would be only too happy to marry her that she had not once considered the possibility that Captain Hands would not make her an offer. It was very amusing. And she was surprised to find that she really did find it so.
But there was also cause for tears. Her new life was threatening to come crashing down about her ears. And she would have no one and nothing with which to fortify herself over the coming two days.
She would just have to do it alone. And her sense of worth was certainly not so fragile that it would crumble at one setback. Besides, she thought, totally ignoring the conversation about her for a few moments and concentrating hard on the state of her own emotions, she was not about to suffer a broken heart over the captain. She did not love him at all. She had merely considered that he might be a sensible choice of husband. There must be any number of such sensible choices just waiting for her to make them.
On the whole, she decided, laughing at some absurdity of Walter’s that she had only half heard, it would be better far to laugh. It was not easy to laugh at oneself, but it was doubtless good for the soul.
ALEXANDRA WAS STROLLING across the lawn at Amberley, leaning on her brother’s arm. Lady Beckworth had not, after all, spent much time with them. She had retired to her room after half an hour in the drawing room with them, w
ith a headache.
“You should have gone riding with the others,” Alexandra said. “We have not had many days like this lately. It is a shame to be confined to the house and grounds.”
“I can’t think of anywhere I would rather be at the moment,” he said.
She smiled at him. “Edmund would have stayed,” she said. “But I knew he was pining for exercise, and Christopher has been pleading to go to the beach. They will doubtless have a good run, the two of them with Caroline, and come back with apple cheeks and raging appetites. Edmund knew I wanted to spend this afternoon with you.”
“I just wish there were not this parting facing us,” he said. “It is always hard to say good-bye.”
She held more tightly to his arm. “Don’t talk about it, James,” she said. “Tell me, are you looking forward to being back in Montreal? I mean, really looking forward to it?”
“Yes,” he said. “I found myself again when I was there, Alex. But I am not as strong in myself as I thought. Apart from you and the children, there is only depression here. And a sense of my own inadequacy.”
She touched her temple to his shoulder. “I am a very happy person,” she said. “But I will not be fully so until I hear that you are finally contented, James. I mean fully contented, with nothing missing from your life. Are you still planning to marry Miss Cameron?”
“No.” He smiled. “It seems that I have been adopted as elder brother. But I think I like that relationship better than husband.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Is that how she sees you?”
“Entirely,” he said. “With a smacking kiss on the cheek to prove it, and a cheerful judgment that I am silly.”
“What about Madeline?” she asked quietly.
“No,” he said. It sounded for a moment as if he were struggling for words, but he did not speak them. “No, Alex.”
“Ah,” she said, and let the matter drop. “Have you talked to Papa, James? Are you going to leave without doing so?”