by Mary Balogh
André nodded genially. The others stood like statues as Viola inclined her head and bade them all a good afternoon.
“I have known Miss Kingsley and admired her for many years,” he said, turning his attention to them. “When we met again by chance a few weeks ago, we no longer needed to hide our regard for each other and she agreed to marry me. We ought to have proceeded immediately to inform both her family and mine, of course. We ought to have made a public announcement of our betrothal and begun to plan our wedding. That is what we ought to have done. What we actually decided upon instead was a couple of weeks alone together.”
Jane’s nostrils had flared, though she remained silent.
He had taken Viola’s hand in his and raised it now to his lips. It was icy cold.
“It was thoughtless and self-indulgent of us,” she said. “One of my daughters arrived here a short while ago with my son-in-law and other members of my family, and you were not far behind them. We owe you all apologies.”
Estelle’s dark eyes had widened as she looked from one to the other of them, and for one moment Marcel thought she was more infuriated than ever. But then, in a total reversal of mood, she smiled—radiantly.
“Papa?” she said. “You are going to be married? Then you will be coming home to live. All the time.” At first Marcel thought she was going to launch herself at him, but she merely swayed where she stood and clasped her ungloved hands to her bosom. They were white knuckled.
He could not remember a time when either of his children had touched him voluntarily. He could not remember a time when he had hugged them or kissed them—except during that first enchanted year before Adeline died. He could not remember either of them calling him Papa.
Bertrand was bowing stiffly. “Congratulations, sir,” he said. “Congratulations, ma’am.”
“Oh, I say,” André said.
Jane still said nothing.
“It is a chilly day,” Viola said. “Do come inside. We are all about to have tea in the parlor. There is a fire in there. Mrs. Morrow, let me show you the way.”
“Miss Kingsley?” Jane said without moving. “You have a daughter?”
“Two of them and a son,” Viola said. “And three grandchildren. There is a story behind it all that I will gladly share with you after I have set a cup of hot tea in your hands. Do come. Marcel, bring your children and Mr. Lamarr.”
“Miss Kingsley was once a Westcott, Jane,” André explained, “and the Countess of Riverdale.”
Jane allowed herself to be taken into the house. Estelle followed with Bertrand, her hand drawn through his arm. André lingered and grinned at his brother.
“I say, Marc,” he said, “has the arrival of two avenging families caught you in parson’s mousetrap at last?”
“I trust,” Marcel said softly, “you have a good reason for bringing my children here, André.” But how the devil had he known where to come?
“You were devilish difficult to find,” his brother told him. “It might have taken us another day or two to get here if Miss Kingsley’s family had not left a blazing trail for us to follow. Which of them have come in addition to one of her daughters and her son-in-law?”
Marcel ignored the question. “Why did you bring them?” he asked. “They are seventeen, André, and have had the strictest and narrowest of upbringings.”
“Whose fault is that?” André said. “I did not bring anyone, Marc. They brought me. I think your little Estelle is growing up. I have never seen her upset before or anything but a placid, quiet mouse of a girl. After a week or so of fretting and watching for your arrival every hour of every day, she would have come in search of you alone if she could not have persuaded anyone else to accompany her. Bertrand would have come with her, of course, and Jane had no choice short of locking the girl in her room and feeding her bread and water. They dragged me along because I could lead them to where you had last been seen, though that village was dashed difficult to find. They all look alike. How was I to know that you did not merely enjoy Miss Kingsley for a night or two before wandering off somewhere else alone in search of further diversion? You are not known for liaisons that last more than a few days, after all.”
“We had better go inside,” Marcel said curtly. He would rather do anything else on earth. For two pins he would saddle one of the horses in the stables and ride off in the direction of the farthest horizon. But Estelle was here. And Bertrand.
“You have acquired a leg shackle.” André grinned again. “This will be the joke of the ton, Marc.”
“If I should hear of Miss Kingsley being the subject of any off-color humor,” Marcel said as they followed the others into the cottage, “someone is going to be answerable to me, André.”
But his brother only chuckled.
* * *
• • •
The truly bizarre thing about the following hour, Viola thought later as she looked back upon it, was that it quickly became a perfectly civil social occasion, a group of persons representing two families seated together in the parlor of a country house partaking of tea and cakes together and conversing about the Devonshire countryside, the state of the roads, the secluded beauty of the valley, the sturdy coziness of the cottage, and the upcoming wedding. She wondered if anyone had noticed that she and Marcel did not participate a great deal in that particular strand of the conversation—or in any other, for that matter.
She at least was able to busy herself with the pouring of tea and the distribution of cakes, having assured Mrs. Prewitt that her presence was not needed. Marcel merely stood, first before the fire and then at the window, though he did not give in to any temptation he might have felt to turn his back and look outward.
He was looking austere, anything he might be feeling well hidden inside himself. But the same was true of her. She fell back upon a demeanor that had been second nature to her during the more than twenty years of her marriage. She played the part of the gracious hostess.
They would marry in London—at St. George’s on Hanover Square, of course, where all society weddings were solemnized during the months of the Season. Alexander had suggested it. It was where he and Wren had married earlier this year despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that Wren had lived almost the whole of her life as a recluse, her face hidden behind a heavy veil to mask the birthmark that covered virtually the whole of one side of her face. Perhaps Alexander thought the only way to silence any scandal that might erupt in response to this sudden marriage announcement was to brazen it out and take the wedding there.
No one else liked the idea. Viola would have vetoed it anyway had her wishes been consulted.
They would marry here by special license, either in the village church or in the nearest town, as soon as it could be arranged, with eight members of their families in attendance—to add an air of respectability, of course, though Mrs. Morrow, whose suggestion it was, did not say so.
Joel did not like that idea. No one else seemed thrilled with it either.
“Camille will want to attend her mother’s wedding,” Joel said. “And Mrs. Kingsley will want to attend her daughter’s wedding.”
They would marry in Bath, then, where everyone could come and find good hotels to stay at. Perhaps in Bath Abbey, where Camille and Joel had married last year. Bath, after all, was Viola’s original home. The suggestion was made by Abigail, who had been quiet and listless until she spoke up. Joel and Alexander and Elizabeth looked upon the suggestion with some favor, but the others did not. It would be too impersonal with all the guests spread over Bath in various hotels and neither the bride nor the groom having a home of their own there.
They would marry at Redcliffe Court, Lady Estelle Lamarr decided. She appeared to be the only one who was contemplating the wedding with any enthusiasm. It was because she hoped marriage would settle her father down and keep him at home, Viola realized with a sinking heart. The girl was
somehow or other going to end up terribly hurt. She was probably already carrying around a lifetime of hurt inside her. The wedding would be solemnized within the next few weeks and would replace the birthday party she had planned. She would adapt the plans and expand upon them. It would be a wonderful challenge—and Bertrand would help. She was quite sure her aunt would too, though she was going to take the lead herself.
“I am going to organize a grand wedding breakfast,” she said, smiling at all the solemn faces about her, “in the ballroom.”
“A wedding on the scale you imagine would be impossible to plan so quickly, Estelle,” her aunt said. “You have no idea of all the work it would involve, my love. And your father’s aunt and cousin are already deep into the planning of a wedding for Margaret. Very elaborate and costly plans, I might add.”
“The wedding must be celebrated at Brambledean Court,” Alexander said. “At Christmastime. It is the appropriate place for it, as Viola was once Countess of Riverdale and Brambledean was her official residence. And my wife and I are the appropriate people to host the event, since I am head of the Westcott family. Wren will be delighted. She and Viola became particular friends earlier this year. And there will be plenty of time between now and Christmas to make all the necessary plans and send out all the invitations.”
Viola did not bother to point out that she was not a Westcott.
“That does seem like an excellent idea, Alex,” Elizabeth said. “And since you are now starting to restore Brambledean to its former splendor, you can make a sort of housewarming of Christmas and Viola’s and Lord Dorchester’s wedding.”
“I do think the Earl of Riverdale’s suggestion the wiser one, Estelle,” Mrs. Morrow said.
“Yes, Aunt,” the girl said, but she looked suddenly crestfallen. Elizabeth must have noticed it too.
“What I would suggest,” she said, “is that you convert the birthday party you have so carefully planned into a betrothal party, Lady Estelle. It could still be a birthday party too, though somewhat belated perhaps.”
The girl’s face lit up in response. “Oh,” she said, “that is a splendid idea, Lady Overfield. Is it not, Bert? Is it not, Papa?”
He entered the conversation for the first time. “I am fast learning,” he said, his voice soft and languid, “that a wedding belongs to everyone except the bride and groom. Arrange your party, Estelle. Arrange your Christmas wedding, Riverdale. I will do my part by attending both. My betrothed, I do not doubt, will do likewise.”
“Of course,” Viola said.
And so it was all settled—a betrothal party at Redcliffe in the next few weeks, a wedding at Brambledean at Christmas.
There was going to be horrible turmoil, Viola thought, and some hurt feelings when neither event took place. She looked from Abigail to Estelle to Bertrand.
For of course there was no betrothal.
And there would be no marriage.
* * *
• • •
It was evident to everyone that despite the fact that the cottage boasted eight bedchambers and they could all conceivably have squeezed into them, it was really not a practical idea for everyone to spend the night there. At first it was suggested that Marcel and his family remove to an inn in the town across the river, while Viola and her family remained at the cottage. It was ultimately decided, however, that the men would move to town and the ladies remain where they were. Either way, Marcel was to leave his own home, presumably because it was deemed improper for him to sleep under the same roof as his betrothed.
Riverdale made the final decision, explaining that he needed to have a few private words with Dorchester. Marcel assumed he was to be interrogated on his eligibility by a man ten years his junior and a rank below his on the social scale—but with all the damned dignity of head of the family, no doubt.
So they drove off, the five of them squashed together in Riverdale’s carriage, to an inn that mercifully could provide them with a room each. They dined together on boiled beef, potatoes, and cabbage. And they conversed on a variety of topics, not one of which touched upon betrothals or weddings or prewedding honeymoons. It was all very amiable and very civil. But after they had finished their suet pudding with something drizzled over it that was not custard but was not anything else recognizable either, André got to his feet and clapped Bertrand on the shoulder.
“Come along, Bert,” he said. “We will go and see what the taproom has to offer. I daresay your father will not object to your quaffing a glass of ale. Join us, Cunningham.”
“Thank you,” Joel Cunningham said, “but I will remain here.”
So he was to have two interrogators, was he? Marcel leaned back in his chair and played with the handle of his coffee cup as uncle and nephew left the dining room.
He was still feeling savage.
I am going to walk down to the edge of the wet sand, and just like that, with the choice of a singular pronoun—I, when she might have said shall we?—he had felt the chill of an ending. He had let her go alone and had stood watching her for he did not know how long until she turned and came back.
I need to go home, she had said then, and he had known instantly why her words had so upset him. It was the first time—he was almost certain of it—the woman in one of his affairs had been the one to end it. Just as she had ended a budding flirtation fourteen years ago by telling him to go away. Had he not learned his lesson then?
Clearly not. He had behaved badly down there on the beach. He had been hurt, and so he had set out to hurt in return. Oh, only in words and insinuations, of course. He had not laid a finger on her. But had that really been his intention? To return hurt for hurt? He knew it had.
And now they were doomed to spend the rest of their lives together. Or at least to spend the rest of their lives married to each other, which was not necessarily the same thing. He spoke before Riverdale could launch into the speech he had no doubt prepared.
“I have title and fortune,” he said. “The lady’s lack of either does not matter more than the snap of my fingers. The daughter’s lack of fortune will be remedied. And the lady, if any reminder is needed, is of age and needs no permission from anyone to marry whom she chooses.”
“The daughter,” Cunningham said, “has a name.”
“So does the lady,” Riverdale added.
The gloves had come off, it seemed, and he had been cast in the role of villain. Marcel lifted the cup and sipped his coffee, which was too weak and too cool. Why the devil had none of them thought to have wine or port brought in?
“I will be marrying Viola at Christmastime, presumably at Brambledean,” he said. “It will be a valid marriage. I have no secret wife hidden away somewhere. I will care for all her needs for the rest of her life and make provision for her in the event that I predecease her. Miss Abigail Westcott will be welcome in my home and will be more than adequately provided for.”
“All her needs?” Riverdale said. It was a quietly, courteously posed question, but it was pure venom, Marcel decided. He was beginning heartily to dislike this oh-so-correct, oh-so-dutiful earl, who was not a blood relative of Viola’s or even a relative by marriage.
It took effort not to answer as he would have liked to answer. He did not need the goodwill of any of Viola’s relatives. He could live very well without it, in fact. But she could not. She had proved that down on the beach. She was missing them, damn it all. She had chosen them over him.
“All,” he said with quiet emphasis.
“Abigail is illegitimate,” Cunningham said, “just as my wife is. Just as I am. You are willing to taint your children by having her live in your home with them?”
Marcel looked at the man with a new respect. He wanted the answer to a question that delicacy might well have led the lot of them to ignore—until it became a possible problem later.
“And my mother-in-law was in a bigamous marriage for longer t
han twenty years,” Cunningham added. “Though it was no fault of hers, the ton has been inclined to treat her as they would a leper. You are willing to face what this may mean after your marriage?”
“If the ton should treat my wife with anything less than the full respect due the Marchioness of Dorchester,” Marcel said, “then the ton will have me to reckon with. And I can assure you those are no idle words. And I treat with contempt any idea that Abigail’s illegitimacy somehow disqualifies her from full participation in the sort of life for which she was raised.”
They all looked at one another for a few moments.
“There was no betrothal was there,” Riverdale said at last, “until you saw us outside the cottage from down in the valley this afternoon.”
“Does it matter?” Marcel asked.
“Yes,” Cunningham said. “She is my mother-in-law. My wife and my sister-in-law love her dearly. So do my daughters. I hold her in the deepest affection. If the price of her happiness is some arrangement made among the ten of us to tell a plausible story and never divulge the full truth, then I am prepared to pay it.”
Riverdale said nothing.
It was his way out, Marcel thought. And Viola’s too. A way out of a situation that was intolerable to them both. No one need know of her disgrace, though what a ridiculous way that was of looking at an affair a woman older than forty had entered into quite freely and enjoyed immensely—until she was enjoying it no longer. No one need know except the eight people who had found them at the cottage this afternoon. And—as he had said to Viola earlier—all the people to whom those eight would confide the truth, and all the people in whom they would confide. And the Prewitts and Jimmy Prewitt’s great-niece.
Besides, he was at heart a gentleman, he supposed, and at the heart of every gentleman even partway worthy of the name, there was a core of honor.