And she moved to the far side of the seat while Matthew handed Cleo up the steps and Jack took his place opposite with his brother.
“It was a good thing,” Matthew said, “that Jack had a previous acquaintance with you, Mrs. Pritchard, and discovered you the very evening we cast him to the lions. We invited him to join us in Town, you see, because we judged he had spent quite long enough rusticating after recovering from his wounds, and we insisted that he join us at the very first ball following his arrival to enjoy himself. But of course, we had not taken into account the fact that he knows almost no one.”
They were, Jack realized with a rush of gratitude, going out of their way to set her at ease. It was not difficult to see that she was tense and nervous.
“You must tell us,” Charlotte said, laying a hand on Cleo’s arm, “what Jack was like in the Peninsula. We have heard all sorts of wonderful things from other people about his exploits there, but he is far too modest to tell us anything himself.”
Cleo looked up at last. She met Jack’s eyes first and then turned her head to look at Charlotte as the carriage rocked into motion.
“I did not know Major Gilchrist well,” she said, “but I was aware that his men were devoted to him. That did not happen with all officers or indeed with many at all.”
Apart from that one time, when he had brought her word of Pritchard’s supposed death, Jack would have thought she was quite unaware of his existence.
“You must come to tea at Waterton House one afternoon, Mrs. Pritchard,” Charlotte said, “and we will have a comfortable coze over tea. I long to know of your own experiences following the drum too.”
“She doubtless will not tell you, Charlotte,” Jack said, “of her own heroism. She endured appalling conditions along with all the men, but while we all cursed and complained volubly, I never once heard Mrs. Pritchard utter a word of complaint.”
“Oh, that is because you could never hear my mind, Jack,” Cleo said, looking at him with a smile.
And then she bit her lower lip and looked down at her hands in her lap again. She must have realized that she had spoken aloud and smiled and called him Jack. Which was shocking indeed when Matt and Charlotte both knew that he was planning to make her his bride.
He gazed fondly at her lowered head, and then he looked from his brother to his sister-in-law in the semi-darkness of the carriage interior. What were they thinking? Doubtless he would hear in the morning at breakfast, or tonight after the theater.
But there was the whole evening to live through yet.
And he did not, of course, care what they thought. Well, he did, but their opinion would not weigh with him. He had chosen to take upon himself the duty Matt had begged him to consider, but how he fulfilled that duty was his concern, and his alone. And that of the woman he chose too, of course.
He was rapidly coming to realize something. He already liked Cleo Pritchard. He already knew he was fond of her too. He found her more than appealing as a bed partner. But it seemed to him now that he could fall in love with her without any effort at all.
The carriage was slowing again. They were arriving at the theater, he could see.
Her life had suddenly become almost unrecognizable to Cleo.
Last evening at the theater had been unlike anything she had ever experienced before in her life. The Earl and Countess of Waterton had treated her like an honored guest. The countess had seated her beside herself in the earl’s box until just before the play began, when she had relinquished her seat to Jack and taken her place beside her husband. During the intermission, the four of them had strolled in the corridor outside the boxes and taken refreshments and stopped to chat with several people.
It had all been more wonderful than anything she had experienced in her life before it. For one evening she had been part of that small family group and had been made to feel as if she belonged. And yet it had all been very public. The earl and countess had attracted attention, of course, but Jack had attracted even more. And she, Cleo, had been with him. There must surely have been some speculation—the ton thrived upon gossip.
She could be a part of all that for the rest of her life.
And she would be if she conceived.
She had lain awake half the night, turning from one side to the other in a vain attempt to find comfort and oblivion. But it had been no good.
Everything felt wrong.
Her own carefully thought out scheme had been made to seem cheap rather than noble. And the glamour of the evening’s events, which had so enthralled her at the time, made her distinctly uneasy in retrospect.
She had not intended to make such a public appearance with Jack. She had not consented to it. It had been forced upon her—though she could have simply refused to go, of course. In going she had given her consent.
She had expected that while she discovered whether or not she could conceive, her life and Jack’s would proceed along separate lines. She had expected her own to continue much as it had been for the past five years—with the exception of their regular afternoon trysts, that was. She had expected him to continue with his social life among the ton, perhaps getting to know some other young ladies as he did so.
He had not asked her if he might inform his brother and sister-in-law that he was courting her. But why would he? He might court whomever he chose. The lady concerned would still have the freedom to refuse to be courted.
By this morning Cleo felt that she was being drawn again into something that threatened to move outside her control. She had had no control whatsoever over her life or even her person while Aubrey lived. She had been her own mistress since his death. She had a home and just enough money to live comfortably and keep two servants. She had her dreams, even her hopes, but she also had a firm grasp on reality. She was not actively unhappy and knew how to cultivate contentment.
All that had been disturbed, shaken up, made rather public, and she was beginning to feel something very close to panic.
But whom was she trying to deceive? What was so very wonderful about her present life apart from the fact that it was within her control? And was even that so? She had hoped for marriage, and marriage had eluded her. Until now.
Her life was not a happy one and had not been for five years. Or ever, in fact.
She was just a coward. She was afraid to be happy.
No, she was not. She just did not want Jack to be trapped in a childless marriage. His need for children was his only reason for giving up the freedom he seemed to value. And she did not want to be trapped in a marriage that could not offer her what she craved. Though it was only with Jack that she craved love.
Cleo sat on the bench of the pianoforte, running her fingers aimlessly over the keys, not even depressing them. She sighed aloud. Why were some decisions so difficult to make?
When in doubt, say no.
When in doubt, say yes.
The pessimist versus the optimist.
The realist versus the dreamer.
The coward versus the valiant.
Nothing helped.
Jack would be coming this afternoon to take her to the house he was going to rent for a few weeks.
It all suddenly seemed a little sordid.
A Puritan conscience was a horrible thing to have.
And then her sisters came to call. Cleo assumed they had come to persuade her to go shopping with them, and she got gladly to her feet before they were ushered in.
When in doubt, buy a new bonnet.
It was instantly clear that they were both brimming over with excitement.
“Cleo!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “You dark horse, you. You danced with Major Gilchrist at Lady Claremont’s ball, and you accepted his obliging offer to walk home with you when we met him in Hyde Park the following day. But you said nothing about the fact that he is actually paying court to you.”
Cleo stared at her, aghast.
“He is not—” she began.
“It is all here,” Gwinn said, waving a newspap
er in her hand. “You have actually appeared in the society pages this morning, Cleo. You were a guest in the Earl of Waterton’s box at the theater last evening, and you were being escorted by the handsome hero of Fuentes de Oñoro. Word has it that the two of you were acquainted in the Peninsula, and that Major Gilchrist came out of seclusion recently in order to find you again now that your mourning period for Colonel Pritchard is decently over. Word also has it that as the Earl of Waterton’s heir, the major is planning to take a bride in order to secure the succession. One particular bride, it would appear. There will be many disappointed young ladies this morning.”
“Let me see that.” Cleo snatched the paper from her sister’s hand and scanned the passage in growing dismay. Gwinn had not exaggerated in her paraphrase. “Oh, how dare they.”
Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands.
“Cleo,” she said, “I could not be happier. It is disrespectful to speak ill of the dead, I suppose, particularly when he was your husband, but I felt badly for you throughout your marriage. I always felt that I ought to have married him myself and so saved you. You deserved far better. And now you are going to get it at last.”
“Major Gilchrist is very handsome,” Gwinn added. “As well as being famous. How splendidly brave he was in risking his own life in order to save the Duke of Wellington’s. And there is a strong chance that he is to be your husband, Cleo?”
Cleo closed her eyes briefly. Could life possibly get any more unreal?
“We had a passing acquaintance in the Peninsula,” she said. “Because he was a military man for so many years and has lived in the country since being so badly wounded, he knows very few people in town despite the fact that he is the son of an earl. I daresay he knew no one but me at Lady Claremont’s ball apart from his own brother and sister-in-law. It was natural that he dance with me. And it was understandable that he invite me to the theater last evening. I was delighted to attend. The play was very well done.”
And I may at this very moment be with child by him.
Elizabeth and Gwinn exchanged amused glances.
“Methinks the lady protests too much,” Gwinn said, “or whatever that quote actually says.”
“Methinks you are right,” Elizabeth said as she smiled fondly at Cleo.
Fortunately, Mrs. Evans chose that moment to bring in a tray of tea, and they all took seats and enjoyed a visit together until Elizabeth got up to leave. Nothing more had been said about last evening or the very foolish little passage in the paper.
“We have the Severidge garden party to dress for, Gwinn,” she said. “You are coming too, Cleo? We will come by with the carriage.”
“Oh,” Cleo said. “No. I have other plans, I’m afraid.”
“Let me guess,” Gwinn clasped her hands to her bosom. “Major Gilchrist.”
Cleo thought of lying. But it was too late. Her cheeks felt suddenly hot, and she knew she was blushing.
“He is taking me for a drive,” she said. “Will you mind terribly much—?”
They assured her they would not and went merrily on their way.
Was this how Pandora felt, Cleo was left to wonder, after she had opened that famous box? Had she despaired of ever replacing all its contents before closing the lid and restoring tranquility to her life?
But, Pandora aside, did she want to restore tranquility to her life?
The inner debate resumed.
Chapter Seven
When Jack arrived at Cleo’s house that afternoon, he was on foot. And it was just as well, he saw when he was shown into the parlor. She was not dressed for the outdoors. She was standing before the fireplace, her hands clasped at her waist, a determined look on her face, as though she had steeled herself to say something and was not to be deterred.
Which fact rather deterred him, for he had something to say too.
He took a few steps into the room and waited until he heard the door click shut.
“Cleo,” he said.
“I will not be coming with you,” she said. “I am truly sorry for the trouble you must have gone to in renting a house. I hope you will be able to cancel any lease agreement you made. I must insist upon sharing any expense with you—or even paying it all if you wish. I will not be coming, either this afternoon or any other.”
“Good,” he said. “There is no house. I did not rent one—or even look for one.”
“Oh.” She looked suddenly mortified. But she replaced the determined look almost immediately. “I ought to have added that we will not remain here either. I mean—”
He held up a staying hand.
“There is no affair between us, Cleo,” he said. “One afternoon does not qualify for the name, does it?”
“No,” she said after a brief silence, and her eyes slipped from his to focus upon his chest. “No, it does not. Not at all. I thank you for your … your kindness to me. I hope you find a suitable bride soon. I hope she will be someone who can make you happy. You need to be happy. You need not feel obliged to stay any longer. I—”
“Cleo.” He took a step closer to her.
She stopped talking and looked up into his eyes again. Her own looked huge and … wounded? Her cheeks were flushed.
“If you have no other plans,” he said, “will you fetch your bonnet and come walking in the park with me? Not in any of the fashionable parts of the park, though. I am not in the mood for crowds, and I daresay you are not either. I do not suppose either if us ever is, in fact. There are areas that are more like secluded countryside. Come walking there with me?”
“Why?” she asked. “You do not need to—”
“Yes,” he said, “I do, Cleo. Please come. Unless you would really rather not, that is.”
He held his breath while she examined the backs of her spread hands for a few moments.
“Very well,” she said at last. And she moved past him without another word and left the room.
Five minutes later she was back, wearing a straw bonnet and a blue spencer one shade darker than her dress.
They remarked upon the unseasonably warm weather as they walked to the park, and discussed last evening’s play. He wondered if she had seen the morning paper and decided that yes, she must have. He did not ask.
And then they were in the park, strolling among trees along a path that was wide enough only for pedestrians but was not being used by any of those, it seemed, except themselves.
They had been silent for five minutes or more.
“Cleo,” he said at last, setting his free hand lightly over hers on his other arm, “talk to me. Tell me why.”
“There are so many reasons,” she said after a minute more of silence, “that I do not know quite where or how to begin. I just cannot do that again, Jack, what we did yesterday afternoon. I thought I was woman of the world enough to do what many other widows do without a qualm of conscience. Not that it is exactly conscience with me. I do not believe that what we did was wrong—morally wrong, that is. It just was not right. I cannot explain it better than that.”
He patted her hand.
“I cannot marry you,” she said, “without being sure that I can offer you the one thing for which you are ready to sacrifice your freedom. And yet I have understood today that I have actually been afraid that I would conceive if we had an affair that lasted two months. Then I would be forced to marry you.”
He winced inwardly and they walked onward, slightly uphill. To his right he could see the open fields of the park spread slightly below them.
“For five years,” she said, “I was actively unhappy. I had no one but myself to blame. I was not forced to marry Aubrey. I wanted to. I was the first of my family to marry when I had expected not to marry at all. Aubrey was not really cruel to me. He did not beat me. But—”
“He was cruel,” Jack said, cutting her off. “He destroyed your sense of self, Cleo. He convinced you that you are not beautiful.”
“Oh,” she said, turning her head to look at him briefly, “I did not need him t
o convince me of that. I have always had access to a mirror. But that is beside the point. I married and was unhappy because he was unkind to me. And now I have been offered the chance to marry again, and this time I would be unhappy because you would be kind. Children or no children, you would be kind. I know that. Indeed, if there were no children, you would be even kinder than if there were. I could not bear it, Jack. I am sorry. I really ought not to have come to the park with you.”
“I hope,” he said, bending his head closer to hers, “I could never be less than kind to anyone who was in my care.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice sounded hopelessly bleak. Her head was down. He could not see her face around the brim of her bonnet.
He glanced quickly about. There was no one in sight. He turned sharply off the path, taking her with him, and then he swung her around in front of him, her back to a tall tree trunk. He hemmed her in with his arms, and dipped his head until he could see her face clearly. Her eyes were startled and were looking directly back into his.
“Why do you think,” he asked her, “I want to marry you, Cleo? Apart from the fact that I must marry, that is, if I am to do my family duty. Why do you think I chose you over every other lady I might have asked?”
“Because you knew me,” she said. “Because you are rather shy, I believe, or at least reserved in manner, and it was easier to offer for me than to—”
He rested his forearms up to the elbows along the trunk on either side of her head. Her body was half pinned between him and the tree.
She fell silent.
“That,” he said, “is a little insulting to me, is it not, suggesting as it does that I chose without any real care either to your feelings or indeed to mine?”
“I did not choose my words carefully,” she said. “I meant no insult. I have been flattered. I—”
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