by Mary Balogh
By the time she paused for breath they were outside the doors of what was presumably the drawing room, and a footman who had been waiting there opened them.
The Earl of Sheringford was coming behind them.
It was indeed the drawing room, and the tea had already been brought up. A smartly dressed maid poured three cups as soon as she saw them enter and then left the room.
“Indeed, ma’am,” Margaret said, “I have not yet said that I will marry Lord Sheringford, and perhaps never will.”
“It is always wise,” Lady Carling said, “not to appear too eager. I refused Duncan’s father twice before I finally accepted him even though I was head-over-ears in love with him. And I refused Graham once, though that did not really count, as he told me the first time that we would marry instead of asking me. Can you imagine such a thing, Margaret? There are those who consider him a cold man, and no wonder when he talks and behaves in such a way. But of course he is not, as I know very well. Oh, do sit down on that love seat, and do sit beside her, Duncan. I have loved you dearly and steadfastly throughout your life, but I did not realize quite how sensible you can be until now. Tell me why you chose Margaret.”
They did as they were bidden, and Margaret found her shoulder only inches from his. She could feel his body heat.
“Because, Mama,” he said, “I went to the Tindell ball to look for a bride and collided with Miss Huxtable in the doorway and decided to look no farther.”
His mother’s cup paused halfway to her lips, and she looked suspiciously at her son.
“Oh, very well,” she said, “don’t tell me. It is sometimes very difficult, Margaret, to get sense out of Duncan. Why have you delayed the announcement of your betrothal? Is it because of his reputation, which is admittedly quite shocking? But it cannot be entirely that. Certainly you have a great deal of courage, appearing with him in Hilda Tindell’s ballroom and then at the theater. Not many ladies would risk their reputations in such a way.”
“I have been told, ma’am, by members of my own family,” Margaret said, “that I am more than usually stubborn. I suppose that when I hear that other people would not do a certain thing, I feel an irresistible urge to do it myself.”
“I like you,” Lady Carling announced. “Duncan, have you finished your tea? It would be a wonder if you have not, since you always drink it in great gulps instead of taking delicate sips as any civilized being does.”
“I have finished it, Mama,” he said.
“Then go and amuse yourself elsewhere,” she said, waving one hand in the direction of the door, “and come back in half an hour to escort Margaret home. We have matters to discuss that would doubtless bore you.”
He got to his feet and bowed, the usual dark, inscrutable look on his face.
“You will excuse me … Maggie?” he asked.
“Of course.” She inclined her head, though she did frown slightly too. Was he trying to influence her by implying to his mother that there was a greater intimacy between them than there was?
But she had just allowed him to kiss her in Hyde Park, had she not? And it had not been just an innocent peck on the cheek or lips. Oh, goodness, his tongue had been inside her mouth.
Margaret lifted her cup to her lips and realized too late that her hand was shaking ever so slightly.
“Margaret,” Lady Carling said when they were alone. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap. She looked instantly different—more serious, less frivolous. “Tell me why you are spending time with my son. Tell me why you hesitate to marry him.”
Margaret drew a slow breath and set down her cup and saucer on the small table at her elbow.
“I suppose that like most people,” she said, “I rush to judgment when I meet a stranger. And there are many judgments to rush to in Lord Sheringford’s case. He does not even deny that he did dreadful things five years ago. But I am also aware that no one is defined by one set of actions—especially when those actions are well in the past. I suppose I am curious. I want to know more about him. I want to know if I would be misjudging him by spurning his acquaintance. And we really did collide with each other at the ball, you know. And I really did—very rashly—introduce him to another gentleman as my betrothed simply because that gentleman was a suitor of mine many years ago and was being patronizing when he discovered me this year still unmarried at thirty years old. Because Lord Sheringford was in active search of a bride, he encouraged the lie and offered to make it the truth. Neither of us expected that Major Dew would mention what I had told him to a few of his friends, and that they would tell it to a few of theirs. I had told him that no one knew of the betrothal yet, including my own family.”
Lady Carling had listened to her without even trying to interrupt.
“I daresay,” she said, “Duncan hopes that if he marries well his grandfather will relent and restore Woodbine Park to him.”
Margaret looked sharply at her. She did not know?
“The Marquess of Claverbrook has promised to do just that,” she said, “provided Lord Sheringford is married to a lady of whom he approves before the Marquess’s eightieth birthday. Otherwise he will grant possession of Woodbine Park to the next heir.”
“To Norman?” Lady Carling said. “Oh, dear. He is a very worthy young man. I was always fond of him. But he is the sort of man who has never put a foot wrong his whole life—just the sort of man who is despised and even hated by his less virtuous brothers and cousins. Duncan could never abide him. And yet he was good enough to marry Caroline Turner.”
“Yes,” Margaret said.
“But how like that cantankerous old man to play such games,” Lady Carling said, bridling. “And when is his eightieth birthday, pray? I take it it must be soon.”
“In less than two weeks,” Margaret said.
Lady Carling raised her eyebrows.
“Poor Duncan,” she said. “It would not be only the money, you know, though he must be desperate even for that. His funds have been completely cut, and he has refused to take anything from me. Men and their silly pride! But Woodbine Park was his childhood home. All his memories are there. It is true that he did not spend much time there from the age of eighteen or nineteen until he ran off with Mrs. Turner, but one does not expect a healthy, energetic young man to incarcerate himself in the country. He was busy sowing his wild oats, though I never heard that they were so very wild—merely normal for a man his age. He planned to settle in the country after he married Caroline Turner. And then he did something very impulsive and very foolish and is like to suffer for it the rest of his life.”
“When Lord Sheringford came to make me a formal offer yesterday afternoon,” Margaret said, “I explained to him that I needed time to get to know him better, even if two weeks was all the time I could have in which to decide. I pointed out to him that it was unfair of me to ask for that time, since he would have no chance to find a different bride if my final answer is no. He has taken the risk and given me the time.”
Lady Carling looked at her silently for such a long while that Margaret began to feel uncomfortable. But she spoke at last.
“I know something of you, Margaret,” she said. “I know you lost your mother early and your father when you were still only a girl. I know that you took it upon yourself to hold your home together and raise your younger sisters and brother—even though at the time you did not know that your brother would inherit the Merton title and fortune and eventually make all your lives considerably easier. I daresay you feel for your siblings as a mother as well as a sister.”
“In some ways, yes, ma’am,” Margaret agreed.
“Most people see me as a careless, empty-headed creature,” Lady Carling said. “And it is as I wish. Other people, especially men, are more easily manipulated that way. It might appear that I am incapable of deep feeling. But I have suffered during the past five years. I tell myself that I have suffered less than if Duncan had died, but sometimes it has been hard to convince myself. If he had died, he would be at
peace even if I was not. He has lost everything, Margaret, for a foolish whim that could not be reversed even before Mrs. Turner died. He has lost his youth, his character and reputation, his home, his livelihood, his happiness, his peace. And I am his mother. I do not ask you to try to put yourself in my place. It is too painful a place to be.”
Margaret did not attempt a reply.
“He was a happy, mischievous, active, very normal boy,” Lady Carling continued. “He loved animals and championed every one he felt was being mistreated—as well as every servant and child in the village too. He suffered dreadfully when his father died so suddenly—we both did. But suffering is part of life for everyone and of course he recovered. He was carefree and wild and active and very normal as a young man. And then, as you yourself just put it, his life was defined for all time by one utterly foolish act. Why he did it I suppose I will never know, but he did it. And so in a sense his life ended. I doubt the past five years have been happy ones for him. His face is not that of a man who has been happy. He has aged at least ten years in the past five. He was a handsome boy. But perhaps, Margaret, his life can resume after all. Perhaps it can be normal again, perhaps even happy. I like you. You are better than I could possibly have hoped.”
“But I may not marry him,” Margaret protested.
Lady Carling smiled, though her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“And you will go away from here,” she said, “convinced that I have behaved unscrupulously and used emotional blackmail on you when I ought to have been entertaining you as any good hostess would do. And you would be quite right.”
Margaret smiled at the admission.
“He has not spent every day of his life abandoning innocent young ladies and running off with married ones,” Lady Carling said. “He did those things once, both on the same occasion. I make no excuse for him, Margaret—as you have observed, he makes none for himself. But he is thirty years old. Multiply those years by three hundred and sixty-five, and even if you ignore the leap years, that is a large number of days in which he has not behaved in a dastardly manner. Find out about those days, Margaret. Find my son. Marry him if you can. Love him if you will. And now, let me offer you another cup of tea and compliment you on the bonnet you were wearing when you stepped into the house. Where did you find such a pretty thing? I look and look and never see anything I really like—except on the heads of other ladies. Graham would be horrified to hear me say so as he complains loudly about all the bills for bonnets he is obliged to pay, but if I could just find one or two really pretty ones I would not have to keep buying plain or even downright ugly ones, would I?”
“I bought a plain bonnet,” Margaret explained, “and trimmed it myself.”
“Well, then, that does it,” Lady Carling said. “I absolutely must have you for a daughter-in-law, Margaret, and will hear no argument to the contrary.”
They both laughed—just at the moment when the drawing room door opened to admit Lord Sheringford.
“I have been pleading your case, Duncan,” his mother said. “I have discovered that Margaret trims her own bonnets and that I simply must therefore have her for a daughter-in-law.”
“And I suppose, Mama,” he said as Margaret got to her feet to take her leave, “that argument has weighed heavily with her. I suppose she is ready to permit me to place an announcement of our betrothal in tomorrow’s papers.”
“Not at all, you foolish man,” she said. “She will permit it when you have convinced her that marriage to you is the only thing that can possibly bring her real happiness for the rest of her life. Why else would a woman marry and become the possession of any male—just as if she were a thing? It is the reason why I married your papa and lived happily with him for almost twenty years. And it is the reason why I married Graham even if he does appear to be Sir Gruff and Grim half the time.”
“Ah,” he said as his mother got to her feet to hug Margaret again, “so I have your blessing to continue wooing her, do I, Mama?
“Not my blessing, Duncan,” she said, “but my maternal command. Margaret, we will deal famously together. I feel it in my bones. We are both interested in bonnets.”
Margaret doubted as she stepped out of the house on Lord Sheringford’s arm that he even suspected how deeply his mother loved him or how passionately she had pleaded his case.
“That visit,” he said dryly, confirming her suspicion, “was doubtless enlightening.”
“I like your mother,” she said. “If I marry you, it will be at least partly because I wish to have her for a mother-in-law.”
He looked at her sidelong without really turning his head.
Margaret smiled.
But she was thinking of him as a boy and young man—before the great folly of his life. His mother had not given much detail, but it was easy to picture a boy who frolicked with animals and stood up for them when they were being treated badly, and a young man who was happy and carefree and a little wild. A perfectly normal young man, in fact. Like Stephen.
Would everything that was Stephen be negated if he did anything as shockingly distasteful as what Lord Sheringford had done? The answer was, of course, yes. But would he not still be Stephen? But Stephen without the light and the joy? And the honor?
Had there once been light and joy in Lord Sheringford?
And honor?
“You are looking very serious,” he said. “Are you realizing with regret that it is me you would be marrying, not my mother?”
“A shame, is it not?” she said. “Who are you, Lord Sheringford? And who were you?”
“And then,” he said, “there is the crucial in-between time.”
“Which you have refused to discuss,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Then I will have to content myself with the before and after,” she said.
But they did not talk more during the walk home. Was it because there was too much to say? she wondered. Or too little?
He stepped inside Merton House with her but would come no farther than the hall.
“Are you to attend the Johnston concert this evening?” he asked her.
“I have a dinner invitation to honor,” she said. “Sir Humphrey and Lady Dew, our former neighbors at Throckbridge, are in town for a short while and have invited my whole family.”
“Ah.” He raised his eyebrows. “And the gallant major will be in attendance too, I assume?”
“I suppose so,” she said.
“My competition?” he asked her.
“Not at all,” she told him. “I play no games, my lord. I have told you quite truthfully that I may or may not marry you in … What is it now? Twelve days’ time? I am not interested at all in Crispin. I have not been for years.”
“Except,” he said, “that the lady doth protest too much.”
“You are impertinent,” she told him.
“I am,” he agreed. “What about Mrs. Henry’s soiree tomorrow evening? You will be there?”
“I am sure that by tomorrow I will be thankful for an evening at home,” she said. “I always find the constantly busy pace of a London Season somewhat overwhelming.”
More than ever this year, though she had not been here many days yet.
“Let me escort you there,” he said. “Mrs. Henry is my mother’s sister and will not turn me away. She will certainly be delighted to meet you.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Be fair, Maggie,” he said. “You have commanded me to woo you publicly and become better acquainted with you privately. Give me an opportunity to do both. As it is, another whole day will have been lost. I will be down to eleven days.”
“Oh, very well,” she said with a sigh.
A soiree sounded like a quiet, decorous event. And surely by tomorrow evening the ton would have gawked its fill and exhausted all that could be said on the topic of her and the Earl of Sheringford.
He bowed over her hand and took his leave.
Was there such a thing as coincidence
? Margaret wondered, standing in the hall looking at the door after it had closed behind him. If he had arrived in the ballroom one minute later than he had, if she had arrived at the doorway one minute sooner than she had, if they had both arrived there exactly when they had but she had been looking where she was going—if any of those things had happened, they would not have collided. And if he had not been desperate for a wife, and if she had not been desperate for a betrothed to introduce to Crispin, or if she had heard about the Marquess of Allingham’s engagement even one day before she had, or one hour later—then they would have collided, been embarrassed, made each other a hasty apology, and gone on their way into very separate lives.
But all those ifs had converged on one moment as surely as their persons had in the ballroom doorway.
Which left the question—had it all been coincidence?
Or not?
And if it had not, what did it all mean?
She shook her head and turned away in the direction of the stairs and her room.
11
THE evening at Grillon’s Hotel was really a very enjoyable one. Sir Humphrey greeted them with his usual hearty affability, and Lady Dew hugged them all tightly—even Elliott and Jasper—and exclaimed in delight over the elegance and good looks of the ladies.
She hugged Vanessa with an extra warmth, of course, because Vanessa had been married to Hedley, her younger son, for a year until he died of consumption. She still considered Vanessa to be her daughter-in-law—so did Sir Humphrey. And they thought of her children with Elliott as their grandchildren. They were full of plans for calling upon the children the next day, acquainting them with little Maria, and taking them all to the Tower to see the animals and to Gunter’s for ices.