by Mary Balogh
Those three words—no matter what—had just been hung about his neck like a millstone. They were about to deal him a life sentence just when he had begun to dream different dreams. There was only one way in which he could protect her.
Damn and blast, there was only one way.
He rammed his hat on his head and took up his cane.
AFTER THE LAST OF THE GUESTS HAD LEFT, EVE CALLED her whole household together with the sole exceptions of the children and Nanny Johnson, who stayed with them in the nursery. Everyone else gathered in the drawing room, from which the tea things had been cleared.
There was no point in delaying this encounter any longer. Nothing was going to change now. Nothing could save any of them. The best Eve could do was give everyone a few days' notice—not that they would not all have given it to themselves by now. They all knew the truth.
“I doubt my cousin will keep any of you on,” she said into the heavy silence that surrounded her. She had invited everyone to be seated but had remained standing herself. “Perhaps you, Sam, since you were once a groom at Didcote and Cecil is impressed by such things.”
“I was dismissed for poaching, miss,” Sam reminded her bluntly. “No one else would take a chance on me but you. I wouldn't work for him if he was to ask me.”
“And you, Mrs. Rowe, have a reputation as the best cook in Oxfordshire.” Eve smiled at her.
“But it got out that I was once cook for all the girls and their fancy gents in a London brothel, miss,” the cook said. “And you was the only one who would give me a job. I am with Sam. If I was to cook for his nibs, I would poison his roast beef, I would.”
“Ned.” Eve turned to her one-armed steward. “I am so sorry. All our wonderful dreams and plans will have to be abandoned. You will not even have employment here.”
They had been going to buy a piece of land adjacent to Ringwood—at least Eve had been going to buy it after the year was over, with Percy's approval, and Ned had been going to manage it. They had been going to set it up as a farm where destitute, permanently maimed soldiers could live and work and become self-sufficient in a sort of commune. Eventually the price of the land would be paid back and it would be truly Ned's, though Eve had never planned to enforce that provision.
“That is all right, Miss Morris,” he said. “I'll live. You are not to worry about me.”
“Charlie. Dear Charlie.” Eve looked kindly at him. “I am going to speak to Mr. Robson and see if he will offer you employment. I will do my best.”
“Did I do something wrong, Miss Morris?” he asked, looking utterly forlorn.
Sam Patchett set a hand on his shoulder and promised to explain to him later.
“Thelma.” But Eve could neither look at the girl nor say any more. She closed her eyes and pressed one hand over her mouth. There was a sharp ache in her throat and chest. Where would Thelma go? What would she do? Who would give her employment? How would she be able to feed and nurture Benjamin?
“Eve,” Thelma said, “you are not responsible for me. Really you are not. You have been unbelievably kind to me. You have yourself to worry about now. I'll manage. I'll find something. I did before you took me in here.”
Eve opened her eyes and gazed at her aunt. Her little cottage in Wales had been sold. The pension Papa had allotted her had not been mentioned in his will. Aunt Mari was old and worn out and half crippled. It had given Eve intense satisfaction to bring her to Ringwood and to pamper her with some of the luxuries she had never known before.
“You are not to worry about me, my love,” Aunt Mari said firmly. “I'll go home where I belong and where I have friends to take me in. I'll make myself useful and earn my way. But what are you going to do? Your dada took you from your roots and brought you up as a lady, and now he has left you with nothing, the wicked man, all because he could not have his way. I'd tell him a thing or two if he was still alive to hear me. Believe me I would.”
But Eve was not really listening. She was thinking about Davy and Becky. They were orphans. Their parents had died within days of each other of some virulent fever, and the children had been sent on an endless journey about England, passing from one to another of their surviving relatives, none of whom wanted them or were even willing to tolerate them. Last on the list had been their great-aunt, Mrs. Jemima Morris. Left to herself, Eve had always believed, Aunt Jemima would have opened both her home and her heart to the children, but Cecil had persuaded her that doing so would have shattered her nerves and ruined her health.
Unknown to Cecil, Aunt Jemima had come running to Ringwood, and Eve had taken the children in even though there was no blood relationship between her and them. Her father had recently died, Percy was off at the wars, the wait for John's return seemed interminable, she was lonely despite the presence of Aunt Mari in her home—and she had been unable to withstand Aunt Jemima's pitiful tears.
Mrs. Johnson, a widow from Heybridge who was known to have a way with children, had agreed to come and look after them, and Eve had set about the task of seeking a governess for them. A married friend of hers, now living thirty miles distant, had informed her of an unfortunate governess in her neighborhood who had been dismissed from her employment after it was discovered that she was increasing with her employer's child and had been grubbing out a meager existence ever since by taking in laundry. A week later Thelma Rice and her baby son had been established at Ringwood Manor.
What was to happen to Becky and Davy? Could Cecil be persuaded to allow them to stay now that he would have a larger home and a larger fortune to enable him to be generous? Would he let Nanny Johnson remain so that the transition would not be too terribly frightening for them? Would he let Thelma and Benjamin—but no! That at least was something she knew was out of the question.
“Agnes—” she began.
“You don't need to say no more to me, my lamb,” her housekeeper said. “I did my time in jail more than once, I did, and I lived to tell the tale. I left London to look for a better life, and I got taken up for vagrancy. Then you took me in. I'll always remember that, and I'll bless you with my dying breath, but I'm not going to add one ounce to your burden. You are not my keeper, miss—I am. But if it's all the same to you, when you are forced to leave here, I'll stick with you for a while and be your keeper. It can be a cruel world out there.”
“Oh, Agnes.” Eve could no longer restrain her tears.
Agnes took charge of dismissing everyone, and they all tiptoed away—all except Aunt Mari—as if leaving the room of an invalid.
ONE OF EVE'S FAVORITE TIMES OF DAY WAS AFTER dinner in the evening, when she went up to the nursery and played with and read to the children while Thelma devoted herself to Benjamin and sang him lullabies when it was time for him to sleep. It was Nanny Johnson's time off.
This evening Eve was reading stories. Davy sat on one side of her, not quite touching her. He had learned during the months following his parents' death that the adult world was hostile and not to be trusted, and he was unlearning that cruel lesson with slow caution. Becky was curled up against Eve's other side. Placid and good-natured, she sometimes seemed to have been less deeply affected by her experiences than Davy. But she occasionally awoke in the night, Nanny reported, either crying helplessly or screaming.
Thelma was standing in the doorway to Benjamin's bedchamber beyond, listening to the story. The little boy must already be asleep. Muffin was curled up at Eve's feet, his chin on his paws, snoozing.
Everything seemed almost frighteningly normal.
Eve made every effort to concentrate her mind upon the adventures of two children who had escaped the clutches of an evil goblin in the dark forest only to find their way to safety barred by a ferocious lion with a thorn stuck in one paw. She tried desperately not to think about the future. She resisted every urge to set both arms about the children and hug them so tightly that she would convey her own fright to them. The little dinner she had eaten sat uneasily in her stomach.
Where was John? she kept
wondering despite herself. Not that he could save everyone around her now even if he arrived tonight—it would be far too late to have the banns read in time. And it seemed selfish to think only of her own comfort and security. But where was he? It would be such an enormous relief just to see him, just to feel his arms about her again, just to be able to unburden herself of all her woes to him. Perhaps he would be able to think of something.
But there was nothing.
Her decision to wait for John had been a selfish one, she thought suddenly, as well as a foolish one. He was not coming back. He had not written even once either during the year he had expected to be away or during the months since he had expected to be back. She had been naive to trust his protestations of undying love. But her sudden loss of faith in him frightened her. She had clung to it for so long. And she loved him. With all her heart she loved him.
Was she the world's most gullible fool? If she had accepted one of her other suitors during the past year, she and all her friends and dependents would not be in this predicament now.
But how could she possibly have married a man who was not John?
A tap on the nursery door interrupted Eve's scattered thoughts. She looked up from the book as the door opened to reveal Agnes Fuller, looking even more sour than usual.
“It's that military gent,” she said.
Eve merely stared.
“The one with the nose and the scowl and the long handle of a name,” Agnes explained. “He has come calling. At this time of night.”
“Tell him I have gone out. Tell him I have retired for the night,” Eve said indignantly. How dared he! Colonel Lord Aidan Bedwyn was the last man she wanted to see—ever. His insensitivity to her and his words to Cecil on the terrace this afternoon had wiped out any sense of gratitude she had felt toward him.
“He said he wasn't going to believe no excuses,” Agnes informed her. “He also wouldn't wait in the hall when I told him to. He went striding off into the parlor without a by-your-leave. I'll try chucking him out if you want, my lamb. I probably won't be able to budge him even though I can square up to most men, but I wouldn't mind a good scrap with him anyway for being so high-handed. There was no need to be, was there? I hadn't even given him any excuses yet.”
“Well!” Eve got to her feet and handed the book to Thelma. Muffin scrambled to his feet with a woof. “We will see about that. But if anyone is to enjoy the pleasure of a good scrap with him, Agnes, it is going to be me. He had the nerve this afternoon to tell my cousin Cecil that all his ridiculous plans for improving Ringwood will make him a better-respected gentleman. He completely ignored me.”
“Oh, how incredibly ill-mannered!” Thelma exclaimed.
“Right!” Agnes turned away, all belligerent ardor. “I'll give him what for, I will, that chest and them shoulders notwithstanding. I'll put another bend in that nose, I will.”
“No, you will not.” Eve sighed when her housekeeper stopped and looked back at her, a mulish expression on her face. “Finish reading to the children, will you, Thelma? I will see him, Agnes. Perhaps he wishes to go down on his knees and beg my pardon.” She bent to kiss the children and bid them a good night. She instructed Muffin to stay, and he sat again, regarding her mournfully from his one eye.
“Shall I come right in there with you?” Agnes asked as they descended the stairs together. “Or would you rather I fetch Mrs. Pritchard?” Aunt Mari usually spent a quiet hour or two in her room after dinner before joining Eve for a cup of tea before bed.
“Neither. I'll see Colonel Bedwyn alone,” Eve said. “But you may stay in the hall if you wish. I'll call if I need help.”
She drew a deep breath as she opened the door to the visitors' parlor.
CHAPTER V
HE WAS STANDING IN FRONT OF THE FIREPLACE, as he had been the first time she saw him, but he was not in uniform this time. He still looked almost as large and menacing, though. He had taken the liberty of lighting the candles in the branch on the mantel, it being almost dark outside.
“Colonel Bedwyn,” Eve said briskly, closing the door behind her. She made no attempt to smile or be gracious. “What may I do for you?”
“You withheld the truth from me,” he said, “in effect if not in strict fact. Your father did leave Ringwood to you, but only under conditions with which you have not complied. You are about to lose everything. In four days' time in fact.”
For a moment she was so furious that all she could do was curl her hands into fists at her sides. Was this what aristocratic privilege did to a man? It made him believe it gave him the right to come where he had not been invited, to pry into her private business, to speak thus boldly and abruptly to her?
“This is what you have come for?” she asked. “To accuse me of lying? You are impertinent, Colonel Bedwyn. You may leave my house immediately. Good night.” Her heart thumped uncomfortably as she stood away from the door. She was not one to lose her temper easily. She rarely spoke in anger.
“You might as well enjoy issuing such an order now,” he said, not moving. “It will not be in your power to do so for much longer, will it?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “when you come visiting next year or the year after to admire the marble portico and the paved, treeless driveway, you will say something equally impertinent to Cecil and he will have the satisfaction of ordering you off the property instead of me. But tonight I am still mistress here. Get out!” She felt rather like a mouse trying to impose her will on an elephant.
“He is a prize ass, is he not?” he said.
She was not quite certain she had heard him correctly. She looked into his dark eyes, but they had not changed expression.
“How else but by allowing him to fawn over me was I to learn the truth about you?” he asked.
She frowned. “The truth about me is none of your business,” she said.
“I beg to disagree with you, ma'am,” he told her. “Your safety and security and happiness were your brother's business. He passed that responsibility on to me at his death. That is what he meant, quite clearly, when he had me promise to protect you. He knew what his death would mean to you. By keeping the truth from me you refused him the peace he sought when he solicited my promise.”
She had not considered his offers of help in that light before. She did not want to think of them that way now. He was a stranger. In addition to that he was a man from a different world, so far above her on the social scale that it was impossible to converse with him or deal with him as she would with any of her neighbors and friends. He was Lord Aidan Bedwyn, son of a duke. She approached the nearest chair and sat on it.
“You owe me nothing, Colonel,” she said. “You do not even know me.”
“I know,” he said, “that I am responsible for you. I gave my word of honor. I have never broken my word once it has been given, and I will not start with you.”
“I absolve you,” she said.
“You do not have that power,” he told her. “What do you intend to do? What are your plans?”
When she drew breath to speak, she found that she could not draw in enough air. She felt as if she had been running hard. She shrugged.
“I will think of something,” she said lamely.
“Do you have anyone to go to?” he asked.
She still resented the abrupt, probing questions into her private life. But she understood now that he must not be enjoying this any more than she was. How he must be wishing that he had not come upon Percy before he died. How he must be regretting the fact that his batman had caught a cold before he could leave as planned yesterday. She shook her head.
“Not really.” She could not, of course, take up residence with James and Serena, even temporarily. Her only relatives were Cecil and Aunt Jemima, Aunt Mari, and her cousin Joshua, whom she would once have wed if her father had not forbidden the connection on the grounds that Joshua, though a wealthy shopkeeper, was neither a gentleman nor a landowner. He was now married to someone else and had three young children
.
“You plan to take employment, then?”
“I suppose so.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees. She had not changed since this afternoon, and she was feeling rumpled. “I am not without skills and I am not afraid of hard work. But it seems rather cruel and cowardly simply to go away and concern myself with my own survival. I have a few days, though, in which to try and arrange something. I should have thought ahead and planned for just this eventuality, should I not? Percy was always in danger of dying.”
“Why did you not?” he asked her. “You knew the terms of your father's will. You knew, as you have just pointed out, that your brother lived in constant danger of dying.”
“I suppose I did not like to admit that possibility,” she said. “I suppose I chose to deny reality. He was my only brother. He was all I had left. As for marrying, it seemed calculating and distasteful to me to wed only in order to secure my inheritance. I always imagined that I would marry for love.”
She did not mention John. Would she have married someone else this year if there had not been John? She was not at all sure of the answer.
“Percy told me he did not want the estate or the fortune and was determined to sign it all over to me as soon as it became his,” she added. “Marrying someone this past year never seemed urgent to me. I would not have minded dreadfully even if he had changed his mind. He was as fond of me as I was of him. It was foolish of me to put all my trust in his surviving, was it not?”
He did not answer her but stared at her for a long, silent moment, his eyes hard, his features immobile.
“Why cruel?” he asked. “Why cowardly?”
“What?” She looked up at him blankly.
“To whom would your taking employment be cruel?” he asked. “It is the word you used a short while ago. To the pupils in the village school? To the mothers who need the services of your midwife?”