It Happened One Season

by Stephanie Laurens

  Taking longer would not help her decision. She would merely think herself in circles, as she probably would even with only one day in which to do it. She really did ought to say no. And she probably would. But she was also horribly tempted. And part of her was amazed that she hesitated at all, that she did not simply jump at the chance to be deliriously happy. Happily-ever-after happy.

  Perhaps she had learned something from experience. Perhaps she was not such a pathetic, abject creature as she used to be.

  This time she was choosing whether to marry or not.

  The very sensible thought did not help at all.

  He was bowing to her.

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Pritchard.”

  And he strode from the room without looking back.

  Her biscuits were still on her plate, Cleo realized. There was a grayish film of coldness over the untouched tea in her cup.

  He had not touched either his plate or his cup either.

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte, in anticipation of Jack’s arrival in Town and of his agreeing to Matthew’s plea, had organized a dinner party for that evening. And, as might have been expected, each group of invited guests included at least one unattached, eligible young lady. Two of them were seated on either side of him at dinner, and in the drawing room afterward he found himself, at Charlotte’s suggestion, over at the pianoforte, turning pages of music for another as she entertained the company. He danced incessantly after the carpet was rolled back and all the young persons took to the floor while the mother of one of them supplied the music.

  It was all very informal, very jolly, and very obvious. It was soon perfectly clear to Jack that each young lady and each parent was well aware that he was in Town to choose a bride, who could in time expect to produce a future Earl of Waterton. It was equally clear that the almost awed admiration with which he had been greeted five years ago on his return from the Peninsula really had not abated to any marked degree in the interim. The Duke of Wellington was by now, of course—since the Battle of Waterloo last year—the most famous, most venerated man in England. And Jack had once saved his life. He could not even deny it. It was true.

  But that did not make him a hero. Any soldier would have done the same thing if he had been in that particular spot at that particular time. And Wellington had always had a habit of moving coolly about a battlefield, well within firing range.

  Jack found it all very wearying. He longed for his cottage and his solitary life. But both were, alas, no longer attainable. When he married, Matthew was already insisting, he would reside in the main house at Rigdon. And when he married, of course, he would no longer be alone.

  He made his way on foot the following afternoon to Mrs. Pritchard’s house. He was still castigating himself for rushing her when he ought to have spent at least a week or two taking her for walks and drives, dancing with her at balls, speaking with her at concerts and soirees, and so forth. He ought to have let her see—and everyone else too—that he favored her. He ought to have given her time to prepare herself for his offer. And he really ought to have spoken to her brother. And possibly to his.

  He was nervous. What had she decided? More than ever he hoped she would marry him. The thought of having to choose and court someone else was daunting, to say the least. He did not fancy anyone else.

  He did fancy Mrs. Pritchard. The realization had taken him somewhat by surprise during the night—yet another one in which he had got precious little sleep. He had realized that, even apart from the necessity of getting married, he actually wanted to marry her. Something about her … soothed him, if that was the word his mind sought. He liked her. He sensed that they would deal very well together, that they could have a good life together.

  No, soothed was not the right word. Neither was liked. He felt a definite attraction to her. And what was more, he suspected he always had.

  It was strange, really considering the fact that she had never said or done anything to draw anyone’s attention her way, much less to attract anyone. Quite the contrary.

  But there had always been something about her. It was something he had never tried to explain to himself before now, for of course she had been another man’s wife. And even when he had finally kissed her, it had been such a dreadfully inappropriate response to the occasion that he had been consumed with guilt and embarrassment afterward. He had embraced—and sexually wanted—another man’s wife when she was at her most vulnerable.

  And so all thoughts of the incident—and of her—had been firmly suppressed. Very successfully, as it had turned out. Until he saw her again two evenings ago, he had forgotten her to all intents and purposes.

  He had arrived at the house. He knocked on the door and waited. If she refused him today, he would always wonder whether her answer would have been different had he wooed her with greater care. But such thoughts were pointless. It was too late to do things differently now. And he had promised not to pester her if her answer was no.

  The door was opened by the servant who had brought the tea tray yesterday. She appeared to be expecting him. She took his hat and gloves and showed him into the parlor.

  Mrs. Pritchard was seated where she had sat yesterday. She was in the process of setting aside her embroidery. She was all cool poise as she got to her feet and indicated the chair where he had sat.

  “Good afternoon, Major Gilchrist,” she said.

  It was impossible to read anything in her face.

  “Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, inclining his head.

  She sat back down, and he took his seat. She picked up her embroidery again and bent her head to her work.

  Good Lord, this was awkward.

  “The sun is shining again,” he said. “It is actually quite warm outside. Perhaps you would like—”

  She did not let him finish.

  “I have thought since yesterday,” she said. “I have thought and thought. But thoughts can move in endless circles and settle nothing. Eventually a decision must be made.”

  “I am deeply sorry,” he said, “if—”

  “I believe I gave you the wrong impression two evenings ago,” she said. “Indeed, I know I did, because I did it deliberately. I let you believe that I am happy in my widowhood, that my life is busy and fulfilled. That is not actually the case.”

  Ah. Perhaps he ought to have guessed it. But he knew so little about her. Indeed, he knew very little about women.

  “I am not unhappy,” she said. “And my life is not empty of meaning or activities or friends. I do not need a man in my life. I can live alone with some contentment, for the rest of my days if necessary. But I would like to have a man, preferably as a husband but not necessarily so.”

  He gazed at her bowed head in some shock. Had she just said what he thought she had said?

  “Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, “I hope I have not given the impression that my intentions are anything less than honorable?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes huge and calm.

  “No, of course you have not,” she said. “You need to marry. I do not.”

  Her eyes went back to her work, and her hand pushed the needle through the cloth again and drew it back out. They were graceful, elegant hands.

  “The trouble with marriage,” she said, “from my point of view anyway, is that it is so very permanent. I cannot try it and then decide that after all it is not what I want. I know that from experience.”

  “If you marry me,” he said, “I will spend the rest of my life seeing to it that you do not regret your decision. That is no idle promise.”

  “No, I know it is not.” She set her work down in her lap again, the needle still in her hand, and looked at him once more. “But you would be powerless to prevent my regretting the decision if I discovered after a few months that I cannot conceive a child. You could not fail to regret it if that happened, though you would, of course, behave for the rest of our lives with scrupulous honor and courtesy. It would not be a hap
py marriage, Major Gilchrist, for either of us, and the only type of marriage that could lure me away from my freedom is one that gives some promise of being at least mildly happy.”

  “In all probability,” he said, “you can have children, Mrs. Pritchard. In all probability, so can I. But there are no guarantees. There never are. There never can be.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, looking down to thread her needle through the cloth before setting her hands, one on top of the other, over it, “there can be.”

  He frowned in incomprehension.

  She looked up at him again.

  “I realized in the end last night,” she said, “that despite all the arguments against accepting your offer, I would nevertheless say yes except for one thing. Only one of those arguments was a stumbling block I could not see my way past. I may be barren. You cannot know how long five years can seem to a woman who waits in hope at each month’s end before pinning her hope on the next month. I always longed for a child. It would have validated my hasty decision to marry Aubrey. It would have enriched my life.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a staying hand and he closed it again.

  “If it could be proved that I am not barren,” she said, “then I would marry you, Major Gilchrist. Gladly. There are two months or so of the Season remaining. If that proof could be made during that time, then I would marry you. Indeed, I would have no choice but to marry you. But if there were no proof, then my answer would be no. For both our sakes.”

  He was on his feet, Jack realized. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

  “What are you suggesting?” he asked, though he would have to be an imbecile not to understand.

  “It is really quite the accepted thing, you know,” she said, “for a widow to take a lover, provided the affair is conducted discreetly and does not cause any open scandal. I believe I would like to have a lover for a couple of months. It is four years since Aubrey died. “

  “Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, using a voice he had not used since selling his commission, “enough of this. You are suggesting that I debauch you? It is something I would not do in a million years.”

  “Well, then,” she said, “my answer must be no.”

  He might have turned and stridden from the room and the house had not her eyes filled with sudden tears a moment before she hid them by lowering the lids over them.

  Fatally, he hesitated.

  Tears?

  Why?

  “I thank you for your kind offer,” she said. But her voice was no longer the calm, flat sound it had been until now. It shook. She stopped and swallowed. When she spoke again, she sounded breathless. “But I must decline it, Major Gilchrist. I do wish you well in your search for a bride. I am quite sure you will have no trouble at all. I wish you happy.”

  He frowned down at the top of her head, hesitated again, and then closed the distance between them. She did not look up. He went down on one knee before her and possessed himself of one of her hands. It was, as he expected, as cold as marble. He dipped his head and saw that her eyes were still swimming with tears.

  “You were serious?” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “And it had nothing to do with debauchery or immorality. It is not immoral for a widow to take a lover. Whom would I be likely to harm? It is not as if you are a married man. And it would be over before you married someone else.”

  “Or,” he said, “it would result in our marriage if I were to impregnate you.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I would feel as if I were insulting you,” he said, “and treating you like a broodmare.”

  “Nonsense.” She sniffed. “The suggestion was mine, not yours.”

  He handed her his handkerchief and waited while she dried her eyes and blew her nose. She crumpled the handkerchief, hesitated, and then shoved it behind her on the chair.

  “Will you not reconsider?” he asked her. “Will you not marry me without conditions? I really do wish to marry you, you know. There is no one else, and I would really rather there not be.”

  “You are kind,” she said.

  “I am not offering out of kindness,” he told her as he got to his feet.

  “No, I know.” She seemed more in command of herself again. “And it is for that reason I would need to be sure.”

  She was looking steadily at him now.

  “I would like to be married to you, Major Gilchrist,” she said. “But only if I were sure that I could offer you sons or at least the chance of sons.”

  He wished he had never mentioned to her his reason for marrying. He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.

  “But where … ?” He tried again. “When … ?”

  “Mrs. Evans’s regular day off is tomorrow,” she said. “She is my housekeeper and cook. And this morning I insisted that my maid take paid leave for a month or longer. Her father is very ill, probably dying, and her mother is nursing him while coping with eight other children.”

  She had thought this through before his arrival, Jack could see.

  They stared at each other, her cheeks gradually flushing.

  This was not something he ought to do.

  “I shall come again tomorrow, then?” he said.

  “Yes.” She clasped her hands together. “If you will.”

  He bowed to her and took his leave.

  If you will. As if he had offered to take her for a drive in the park or for a visit to some gallery.

  Would he? He strode down the street, pondering the question. Would he go back there tomorrow to bed her? And continue to do so daily until she was with child or until it became clear that it was not going to happen? But the test period was to be only two months. Surely it often took longer…

  This was madness.

  But he wanted her. Despite everything back there at her house, despite his shock and discomfort at what she suggested, he had felt the stirrings of desire. Perhaps because she was the last person he would have expected to make such an improper suggestion.

  Tomorrow he could act upon his desire.

  Would he?

  Did she desire him? She wanted to marry him. She had made that clear. Perhaps she also found him attractive.

  He was going to have to think. Long and hard.

  One thing he knew. He wanted to marry her. Even if Matthew were to inform him when he arrived home that everything had changed and he could return to Dorsetshire and his cottage, he would not go. Not before he knew beyond all hope that she would not have him.

  But of course Matthew would not release him from the obligation. And Mrs. Pritchard knew of it and would not release him from it either. She would marry him only if she was satisfied that she was capable of helping him fulfill that obligation.

  Dash it all, he was going to have to think.

  Cleo sat at her dressing table the following afternoon, brushing her hair. She gathered it into a jeweled clip at the neck and let the length of it fall loose down her back. She liked to wear it this way when she was home alone and was not expecting visitors. Without all the curls and ringlets that were necessary for a woman to be properly dressed, her face looked less large, less square.

  Today, of course, she was expecting a visitor.

  She had thought everything through with deliberate care. She was still pleased with the very sensible solution she had found to a dilemma that had seemed at first to be without solution.

  This way she could both ensure that neither she nor Jack Gilchrist was forced to live through the disappointment of a childless marriage and avoid the bleakness of saying an outright no to his marriage proposal. If he was right and she could have children, then this way she would be able to both marry him and present him with the child he needed—assuming, that was, she would have a son. But nothing could be absolutely guaranteed.

  And, if she could not have children, or at least if she did not conceive within two months, then she would remain free of a marriage that would have brought her nothing but ultim
ate pain and him a quiet frustration. In the meantime, she would enjoy him as a lover for two whole months.

  It all still made perfect sense to her.

  She was not going to start feeling guilty. It really was unexceptionable for a widow to take a lover. And if unexceptionable was perhaps a little too strong a word, then certainly accepted was not. She was free to take a lover without having to feel a qualm of conscience.

  And if the thought had crossed her mind, as it inevitably had, that losing him after two months if she failed to conceive was going to be too excruciatingly painful to be borne, then she ignored the thought. She would deal with it when the time came.

  If the time came.

  She might just as possibly be getting married in two months’ time, or even sooner.

  Cleo got to her feet and went to stand at the window of her bedchamber to look down at the street outside. And there he was in the distance, striding purposefully toward her house, five full minutes early.

  Her stomach lurched. She looked back over her shoulder. The bedcovers were neatly turned down, the two pillows plumped up side by side. She looked down at herself. She was fully dressed since she had not liked the thought of answering the knock on the door in her dressing gown. She was not wearing stays, though, since it was difficult to lace herself into them.

  She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, schooled her features, as she had done yesterday afternoon, into calm placidity, and started downstairs. There was a firm knock at the door before she reached the bottom. She almost lost her courage at that point and scurried back upstairs to wait until he had gone away again.

  But her life had been one long exercise in timidity.

  She finished descending and hurried to the door to let in her lover.

  Her first thought was that he looked like Major Gilchrist. Which was patently absurd, for of course that was precisely who he was. But … he looked like Major Gilchrist. Like a soldier, an officer—cold, commanding, self-possessed.

  And then their eyes met and his softened. He smiled.

  “Mrs. Pritchard,” he said.

  She stood aside to let him in and shut the door after him. Now already they were in the realm of impropriety, a single man and a single woman alone in a house together. She took courage now that it had started.