by Mary Balogh
She was looking forward to seeing Lavinia again. She was looking forward to seeing the village and the house and park. Forever afterward when she thought of him—perhaps there would come a time when that would not be almost every single hour of every single day—she would be able to picture him in the right setting. And of course she wanted to see him again—dreaded it and longed for it.
She was missing Lass, she thought suddenly—that warm, constantly loving presence of another living being. She had left the collie in Gloucestershire, where Thomas’s children were spoiling her dreadfully.
The carriage rounded a curve in the road and she could see a church spire in the distance ahead. Could that be it? It must be. Bowood was the next village along their route, was it not? There was a strange lurching in her stomach and she spread a hand over it to keep the feeling from escalating into panic.
“Is that the village ahead?” Beatrice asked, waking Edwin with the sound of her voice. “I do hope so. My bones are as weary as bones can be. Are yours, Sophie? Oh, it will be wonderful to see Lewis again. Is he nervous, do you suppose, Edwin?”
“He will be soon, m‘dear,” he said with a chuckle, “once he has you to fuss over him and remind him that he is about to be a bridegroom.”
“I wonder,” she said, not taking up the bait, “if Sarah and Harry will have arrived ahead of us. I am longing to hear about their wedding trip to Scotland and the Lakes. Dear Sarah—it is still difficult, I declare, to realize that she is a married lady. Viscountess Perry. She has done well for herself, has she not, Sophie?”
Sophia smiled and nodded. They had arranged to set her down at Lavinia’s cottage before proceeding on to Bowood Manor. Perhaps, she thought, life at the house with all the wedding guests would be so busy that she would scarcely see Nathaniel except at the church and wedding breakfast. He could be no more anxious to see her than she was to see him, after all.
But then she was very anxious.
The hand she held over her stomach was doing nothing to quell the turmoil and growing queasiness the proximity of their destination had brought on.
“One shudders,” Eden said, “to discover what changes can overtake a man’s life when he does not watch himself. When I think, Nat, of the way we envisioned our lives when we sold out of the cavalry.”
“We were boys, Ede,” Nathaniel said, “even if we were closer to thirty than twenty, all of us. We had been living in an artificial environment that made us grow up in a hurry in one way and kept us back from maturity in other ways.”
“And that is the worst of it,” Eden said. “You never used to be a philosopher, Nat.” He shuddered theatrically.
With only two days to go to Georgina’s wedding Bowood was teeming with guests and with all the extra servants hired for the occasion. The stables and coach house were full to overflowing. And a mood of only-just-controlled hysteria had settled over the female members of the family as the day approached—except Lavinia, who wisely stayed at her cottage.
Eden had arrived the day before. He and Nathaniel had escaped from the house for an afternoon stroll in the park.
“There are Ken and Rex, married men this long time,” Eden continued, “and Rex in the letter that arrived this morning writing about nothing but babies. I ask you, Nat. Could you picture Rex a few years ago writing a lengthy missive about his anxiety over his wife’s going into labor one month early, about his insistence on remaining with her through the whole lengthy ordeal—Rex!—about his idiotic wonder at having fathered a small but perfectly healthy daughter, about his terror over Catherine until the physician informed him that she was out of all dariger? Is this what we have come to?”
Nathaniel chuckled and turned when they were halfway down the long lawn before the house to look back up at it. He never tired of the joy he felt in knowing it was home—a joy that had somewhat tempered the unwelcome depression and lethargy that had threatened him since his return from London.
“It would appear so, Ede,” he said.
“And you, Nat.” Eden gestured toward the house. “We would have had a collective shuddering attack if we could have pictured this—all this wedding business, all this domesticity. And you the host of it all.”
“I took Georgina to London in the hope of finding her a husband,” Nathaniel said. “I succeeded—or rather she did—and I am happy for her.”
“And so you are going to be alone,” Eden said.
“Yes.” Nathaniel waited to feel the satisfaction he had expected to feel on such an occasion. It just would not come.
“And the worst of everything,” Eden said with what seemed to be a gloom that matched Nathaniel’s own, “the very worst, Nat, is that I might just be caving in too.”
Nathaniel looked at him.
“I went home for a couple of weeks last month,” Eden said, “or rather to the house and estate I have owned since my father’s death. I have never lived there. Neither did he. I went out of curiosity. The house was mostly shut up, of course, with everything draped in holland covers. But the housekeeper, who has been there forever and obviously loves the place, has it all clean and gleaming. And the steward, who has been there just as long, has everything ship-shape—he even has the park looking like a damned showpiece. I knew I was wealthy, Nat, but when I looked over the books, I discovered that I am something of a nabob. And all the neighbors started organizing balls and assemblies and dinners and treating me as if were someone’s long-lost brother. It was deuced embarrassing.”
“And deuced tempting?” Nathaniel suggested.
“And deuced tempting,” Eden agreed. “What is happening to me, Nat? Am I growing senile?”
“Growing up, I suppose, like the rest of us,” Nathaniel said. “Shall we keep walking?” They had been standing gazing at the house.
“Sophie is at your cousin’s?” Eden said. “Should we walk over there and pay our respects to her, Nat? I suppose I should pay mine to Miss Bergland too, though doubtless she will bite my head off and accuse me of treating her like a charity case or calling there only so that I might condescend to inform her how quaint her cottage is—or something like that. I wonder you did not find her somewhere altogether farther away than the village to live. For your peace of mind, old chap.”
The Houghtons had arrived the day before, having set Sophie down at Lavinia’s cottage. He should have walked over there last evening, Nathaniel thought now. Or this morning at the very latest. He had made the excuse to himself that he had houseguests to attend to. He had convinced himself that she would not wish to see him any more than he wished to see her. But that fact was immaterial. She was to all intents and purposes his guest, since she had come for Georgina’s wedding to her nephew. He owed her the courtesy of a visit.
He dreaded seeing her. He had scarcely begun to get over her. Now he would have to start all over again.
“Lavinia and I have been remarkably in accord with each other since we returned from town,” he said as they resumed their walk and directed their footsteps toward the village. “Yes, we really should pay our respects to Sophie.”
They walked in silence—and in gloom. Nathaniel was sure that Eden shared his mood. It was unusual to find him either silent or in low spirits. Perhaps they would both cheer up when Ken and Moira arrived—they were expected later in the day.
Lavinia’s cottage was larger than its name suggested, and though it was part of the village, it was situated somewhat apart from the general cluster of buildings around the village green. It was set in a large garden that was almost a little park of its own. It had been the home of a retired rector and his wife until the two of them had conveniently decided to move away early in the spring in order to be closer to the rest of their family.
Nathaniel found an excuse to call there most days. He had called yesterday morning. He might not have come today unless Eden had prompted him. He would do anything, he thought as the two of them went through the gate and up the gravel path toward the front door, to find an excuse not to call
today after all. Perhaps they were out. Perhaps Lavinia had taken Sophie on a walk or on a visit to some of the village’s inhabitants.
But he was not to be so fortunate. They were in the rose arbor behind the house—Lavinia’s manservant directed them there. They were sitting on a stone bench inside, talking and laughing together, their backs to the house so that they did not know of the arrival of guests until those guests were upon them. They both looked up, startled.
Nathaniel bowed to Lavinia and then turned his attention to Sophie. She had changed, he noticed in the second or two before he bowed to her. She was wearing a light sprigged muslin dress—new, he thought, and made to enhance her figure rather than disguise it. She must have had her hair cut. It was not short, but it was dressed prettily in a style that allowed for loose curls. Her face was fuller—she must have put back on the weight she had lost during those stress-filled weeks in London. And her eyes were large and luminous.
“Sophie,” he said, bowing to her. “How are you? How lovely it is to see you again, my dear. You are looking well.”
“Nathaniel,” she said. She did not say anything else. She smiled and gazed back at him.
She really was looking well. Any faint hope he had had that she might have regretted her rejection of him and have been looking faded and unhappy as a result died. How ridiculous of him. Had he really been hoping that?
“Oh, it is you, is it?” Lavinia had been saying to Eden.
“It is I,” Eden agreed, “stepping into your rustic idyll, Miss Bergland. But have no fear. I shall be stepping out of it again as soon as I have greeted Sophie and spent the obligatory half hour with the two of you, conversing about the weather and the health of every acquaintance we have in common.”
Those two had the most extraordinary verbal exchanges, Nathaniel thought, becoming aware of them as Eden was turning his attention to Sophie and greeting her with a great deal more warmth and courtesy.
And so they sat, the four of them, surrounded by the sight and perfume of roses and other summer nowers, with a blue sky above them and the warmth of the August sun beaming down on them, conversing about very little more than Eden had suggested. They were all very agreeable. They all talked and smiled.
Half an hour after their arrival he and Eden took their leave. The ladies walked with them to the gate, Sophie with Eden, Lavinia with Nathaniel. They parted with bows and curtsies and smiles.
“Well, that is over,” Eden said, sounding as relieved as Nathaniel felt. “She is in remarkably good looks, I must say.”
“Yes,” Nathaniel said. “Yes, she is.” He still could not believe that she had hidden her beauty so successfully for so long behind the dark, unfashionable, ill-fitting clothes and the heavy, unbecoming hairstyle and the cheerful, comradely expression. “She is, in fact, quite beautiful.”
“I did think,” Eden said, “that perhaps she would have discovered that living alone in the country did not suit her after all.”
“Yes,” Nathaniel said with a sigh, “I thought the same thing too.”
“I wondered if she would have lost some of her bloom,” Eden said.
“She has not.” Indeed, Nathaniel thought, she had bloomed gloriously, though she must be close to thirty years old. He wondered what she had been like before she married Walter. Had she been like this then? Had she ever before been like this? Or was it something quite new?
Eden chuckled. “I suppose,” he said, “I hoped she would have. It is somewhat lowering to know that one has had no affect whatsoever on a female even when one has no wish to have any affect.”
Nathaniel’s hands had curled into fists at his sides. What was this?
“She is not for you, Ede,” he said stiffly. “Hands off if you know what is good for you.”
“Eh?” Eden stopped walking—they had just left the village behind them and had turned onto the tree-lined drive-way to the house. “What the devil? She is of age, Nat. If I were interested. Which I am not. Heaven forbid. I have some sense of self-preservation.”
“Sorry, Ede,” Nathaniel mumbled. “We are a sorry pair, are we not? About to come to fisticuffs over a woman who has made it very clear that she wants neither of us.” He laughed and started to walk on.
Eden caught up to him and they walked in silence for a while. Then Eden cleared his throat.
“Just for the record, Nat,” he said, “about whom were we talking back there?”
“About whom?” Nathaniel frowned. “Why, about Sophie, of course.”
“Ah,” Eden said. “Quite so. Yes, indeed. She is in good looks. She has done something with her hair.”
What the devil? Nathaniel was thinking. Ede had been talking about Lavinia? He might have felt amused if he had not been inwardly grimacing over what he had just revealed about his feelings for Sophie.
How would he ever be able to call upon Lavinia in the future without feeling the presence of Sophie there—even after she had gone? She would be at Bowood too a few times. His home would be haunted by her presence for a long time to come, perhaps for the rest of his life.
How would he bear it?
An invitation to take tea at Bowood Manor was delivered the following morning. Sophia would have been quite happy to make some excuse if Lavinia had been so inclined. But Lavinia was of the opinion that it might be discourteous not to go.
“There are some social niceties that even I cannot ignore, alas,” she had said with a sigh.
She had done a fair deal of sighing since Sophia’s arrival, especially since the visit of the afternoon before. They had both agreed that it was very civil of the gentlemen to have called, though if they had come because they thought male company essential to female happiness, then they were sadly mistaken. But Lord Pelham had always struck Lavinia as one of the most conceited gentlemen of her acquaintance—he thought altogether too much of the power of those blue eyes of his. And Nat always thought he must call on her at least once a day lest she fall into some dreadful indiscretion out of which she would never be able to fall out again without his assistance.
They had spent the rest of the evening assuring each other, as they had been doing since Sophia’s arrival, that living alone and independently of male interference was really heaven on earth. At least that was what they seemed to imply, Sophia thought, even if they did not use those exact words. It was almost as if they had to reassure each other so that they would conyince themselves.
Lavinia, Sophia had come to suspect, had a strange fondness for Eden, even though the two of them could scarcely be civil to each other. He was, Sophia guessed, the gentleman about whom Lavinia had been unhappy during that last meeting in London. Poor Lavinia. It did not seem likely that Eden shared her feelings. He was, Sophia feared, un catchable.
They walked to Bowood, the weather being fine, though not as lovely as the day before. But the park and the house did not need the enhancement of blue sky and sunshine in order to appear splendid indeed to her eyes. The park was all woodland and green lawns. If there were flower gardens, they were at the back. The house itself, solid and imposing even if not one of the more massive mansions of England, was at the top of a steady rise. Below the slope to one side of it was a lake, shaded by willows and sturdier oaks.
And it all might have been hers, she thought with a heavy heart as she approached the house. She might have been mistress of Bowood.
Nathaniel’s sister Margaret, Lady Ketterly, received them on their arrival and took them to the drawing room, where they were served tea and Sophia was introduced to other houseguests and to the other sisters. Edwin and Beatrice were there too, of course, as were Sarah and Lewis. Moira and Kenneth, who had arrived the day before, came to speak with her. She felt less awkward than she had expected to feet—until Nathaniel appeared in the room.
Was he too feeling aware, she wondered, that she might have been mistress of all this? Or had his two offers of marriage been forgotten since they had been made out of a sense of honor and obligation? Perhaps he did not feel the a
wkwardness at all. Certainly he had shown no sign of any yesterday at Lavinia’s. He had even called her my dear in that kindly, friendly tone he had always used.
And then he was at her side, smiling at her.
“Sophie,” he said, “would you like to see the house after tea? I have not given Moira and Ken the guided tour yet either.”
She could feel herself flushing. But there could be no harm in it if Moira and Kenneth were to come too. And she did, perversely, long to see the whole of the house, to store away memories so that she would be able to picture him here—so that she would be able to torture herself with details.
“Thank you, Nathaniel,” she said. “I would like that.”
But Moira and Kenneth, when applied to, explained that they had promised to walk back to the rectory with Edwina and Valentine. Eden was going with them.
“We will take Lavinia too, if she will come,” Moira said. “I long to see her cottage. Margaret says it is very picturesque.”
“Oh,” Sophia said quickly, “perhaps I should go too, then.”
“I believe, Sophie,” Kenneth said with a grin, “that Nat’s nose will be severely out of joint if we all desert him. You must stay and be suitably impressed with the house. We will see it later, Nat.” He winked at his friend.
Sophia looked at Nathaniel in some dismay.
“I will walk back to Lavinia’s with you later, Sophie,” he said. “Please do stay.”
It was true, she thought. There was no awkwardness in his manner at all. Had she hoped there would be? That what they had shared in the past would at least have made him a little embarrassed with her? He had probably almost forgotten about that too, or at least had relegated it to the category of unimportant memory. He could hardly, after all, remember every woman with whom he had ever lain.
What a humbling and humiliating thought!