by Mary Balogh
Alice laughed shakily and turned around.
“Hm,” Andrea said. “Nothing that a little cold water will not disguise. Come to my dressing room with me. Perhaps we will meet a handsome stranger on Milsom Street. If so, I shall drop my reticule at his feet and effect an introduction. And you will be bowled off your feet and forget your Mr. Westhaven in the snap of a finger.”
Alice laughed. “He must be worth ten thousand a year at least,” she said.
“Done,” Andrea agreed. “It will be the first question I ask when he picks up my reticule.”
Two days later Alice left, completely alone, for Devonshire. She traveled post. There was a remote village close to the Sea, where she and Web had spent a day during their wedding journey. They had wandered hand in hand along the beach on a sunny, blustery day, laughing with the effort of keeping their hats from blowing away, marveling at the sunlight dancing on the waves.
“If I ever had to leave Chandlos, Allie,” he had said, “if I were ever wanted by the law for some grand crime of passion, I think I would come here. I think I could live contentedly here for a lifetime. With you beside me, of course.”
He had kissed her there on the deserted beach. She could still remember the newness of being able to allow such liberties, her relief at finding that she liked Web to touch her. She had always enjoyed intimacy with him, enjoyed the evidence of his pleasure.
She did not know why she remembered that particular place and those particular words. But she did. And she had decided almost immediately that she would go there.
There was a good posting inn close by, where she and Web had stayed. She would stay there for a day or two and inquire about the availability of cottages in the area.
She would stay there for a few months if she could while she made a more final decision about her future and her child’s.
At the inn where she spent the first night, she packed away the clothes she had worn that day at the bottom of a trunk of black garments. If within a few months she was to be noticeably a woman with child, then she must be recently widowed.
She felt a pang of guilt toward a husband who had died and been bitterly mourned more than two years before.
***
A long soak in a hot bath to rid himself of Sally’s perfume and the whole debauch of the night and morning, and two cups of strong black coffee made Piers feel at least human again, even if they did not rid him of his headache or the knowledge that he had reacted to pain and loss in a remarkably immature manner—as usual. Nothing much ever changed in his life, except the incidentals.
It would have felt good to follow Sally’s advice and sleep for the rest of the day. But sleeping would not cure him of a hangover, as he knew from experience. He dressed in his most fashionable London finery, put on his best expression of careless dandyism, and set forth in the direction of Russell Square.
By some miracle Cassandra was at home with her mother, though she was to drive out to St. James’s Park later—with Sir Clayton Lansing, of all people.
Piers was only thankful that the gentleman had not taken himself off back to Bath to bother Allie again.
“Ah, my dear,” he said after exchanging civilities with Lady Margam. “How lovely it is to see you again. And in better looks than ever.” He took Cassandra’s hand and raised it to his lips.
It was true, too. Someone had clearly advised her that a young lady about to become a young matron should rid herself of some of her ringlets. Her hair was shorter, less fussy, far more becoming.
“I have been busy,” she said, “and out every day and every evening. Have I not, Mama?”
“I do not doubt it,” he said, smiling down at her. “I shall have to keep a jealous eye on my betrothed, I can see, or she will be snatched from under my nose.”
“I do not like jealousy,” she said. “We will have to come to an agreement before our marriage on the amount of freedom each of us will be allowed.”
“Ah,” he said, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips. “But freedom to do what, pray?”
“To be admired by others,” she said. “To spend time with others. You are not planning to be Gothic, are you, sir?”
“My love,” her mother admonished quietly.
“I don’t believe it will be within my power,” he said. “I do not have any cobwebby attics or haunted garrets to lock you inside at Westhaven. You may rest easy, Cassandra.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” she asked, looking bewildered and not a little impatient. “Mama and I have drawn up a list of wedding guests. You must look it over to see if you wish to add any names. There are four hundred and twelve at the moment.”
“Good Lord,” he said. “Do we know that many people?”
“We do not wish to give offense by omitting anyone,” she said.
“Ah, of course,” he said. “You have not forgotten the sweep who cleaned my chimneys last summer, have you, Cassandra? He will be ferociously wrathful if we forget him.” He grinned at her.
“How foolish you can be,” she said. “It has been hard work to draw up the list, has it not, Mama? It is certainly no joke.”
“I do beg your pardon, my dear,” he said, making her a bow. “If it pleases you to have four hundred guests at our wedding, then proceed. I am sure there is no one I would wish to add to the list.”
“I have not included Mrs. Penhallow,” she said. “She has gone home to Bath, has she not, and would be unlikely to return for the wedding. Doubtless she would not wish to be reminded of her own widowhood, anyway. It is a pity for her sake that she is not a few years younger. Perhaps she would be able to find herself another husband if she were. But gentlemen do not like their brides to be beyond the age of twenty, do they?”
“You have done the right thing,” Piers said. “Mrs. Penhallow would not be interested in returning for our wedding.”
“Well, then,” she said, “I must get ready to drive with Sir Clayton, sir. He was very insistent and I did have this afternoon free. You may escort Mama and me to Lady Audley’s concert this evening.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I shall look forward to it.” He did not know whether to laugh or rage as he drove away in his curricle ten minutes later. And he did not know whether he would take her over his knee the day after their wedding and give her a thorough walloping—it was almost a shame that he did not believe in wife beating—or give her the freedom she clearly desired and enjoy the greater freedom he would have as a result.
It was also something of a shame that he did not believe in marital infidelity—by either the husband or the wife. He really did not think he could tolerate his wife’s lovers—and he had a strong premonition that they would be plural—calling at his house to take her driving in the park and on to their particular lovers’ nest.
No, of course, he would not be able to take the easy and in some ways the most desirable course. He must gird his loins for the battle of a lifetime with his future wife.
***
Alice stayed away for three months. She was fortunate enough to find just what she was looking for: a cottage that had belonged to two sisters, until one of them had died and the other had moved away to live with a married brother. The cottage was for rent. It was situated at the edge of a village only a few miles from the one Alice had had in mind. It was almost within sight of the sea.
She hired a maid and a cook from the village and settled to a life of quiet domesticity. She made friends with the rector’s wife and the local squire’s family. But she was not expected to participate in all the social life of the neighborhood, being apparently a lady in deep mourning.
She had kept her own name. If she should decide that this was where she wished to settle for the rest of her life, she had thought at first, then this was where her child would grow up. She would not wish to complicate his life by giving him a false name.
She thought about her future and about her child’s during endless walks along the cliffs and on the beach. Whatever happened, wherever s
he finally settled, she would tell the child the truth from the start. She would not tell anyone else. She would try at least to ensure that he was given a normal childhood, without the label of illegitimacy. But he must know that she had never been married to his father, and the sooner she told him, the better.
Whether she would also tell him who his father was, she had not decided even at the end of the three months. He would have the right to know, of course, but she hated the thought of his going to find his father when he was old enough to do so. It would be far better if Piers never knew. He would have his own family to concern himself with. And she certainly did not want him to feel obliged to find her out at that future date to make some sort of atonement.
No atonement was needed. She had had her night of love and had never regretted it, and she had been left with a priceless gift for a lifetime. At the end of the three months she was still waiting for the panic and the guilt to replace the elation. But as the signs of her pregnancy became more definite, she could only feel more deeply the warm gladness she had felt on that first morning.
Now it was even better. The morning nausea had stopped promptly at the end of the second month.
She was content where she was. She liked the thought of bringing up her child in that particular part of the world. Indeed, she would have been quite happy never to have to go back, to sever the ties with her past without any further effort. But there was a home in Bath to be sold and servants to be helped to other positions. There were possessions to be brought to Devonshire or otherwise disposed of. There were arrangements to be made about the house in London. There were a thousand other pieces of business to do.
And if she must go, she decided finally, then she should go without further delay. For in another month’s time, perhaps sooner, her condition would be becoming obvious to other people, too. She would hate to put Andrea and her other friends in the awkward position of noticing and pretending not to do so, of wondering who the father was. Andrea would guess, of course.
She would go now, much as she dreaded the thought. If she worked hard, she could complete all her business in one week. Then she could come back and forget and be forgotten. She could begin her new life in earnest.
She returned to Bath late in August.
***
Those months for Piers were neither so tranquil nor so uneventful. He was soon caught up in the whirl of the second half of the Season by the necessity of taking his betrothed about whenever no other favored gentleman was taking his place.
Mr. Bosley had the marriage contract drawn up, he declared genially, but had forgotten it at his office one afternoon when Piers called at the house. A few days later he had noticed a minor clause that had been copied wrongly and would need a little rewriting. It would be ready within a couple more days.
Piers waited for his chance to have a talk with Cassandra. It was not easy, when very little of her time was free for her fiancé and almost none of that was private time. But they must talk, he had decided. It would not be fair to wait until after the wedding before making clear to her that he expected—and would demand—a wife who would be faithful to him in both fact and appearance, that he expected a wife who would be mistress of Westhaven and a mother to his children.
He would have to explain, of course, that he would be willing to give her pleasure, too, by taking her to London for the Season or to one of the spas for the summer months. He was prepared to give. But a marriage could not succeed on all giving, whoever was the giver. She must also be prepared to give. He must make that clear to her.
And all the time he worried about Alice. She had not been leading too busy a life in Bath. Allie was not a vaporish female. She had been sick, not tired on that morning when she had not come to the Pump Room. And she had refused to come there the following morning, though it was his last. Why? Because she had feared—or known—that she would be sick again?
For two mornings in a row?
God!
He never did have his talk with Cassandra, after all. He arrived at Russell Square one afternoon to take her to Madame Tussaud’s to find Bosley alone in his drawing room, rubbing his hands together in apparent embarrassment. Cassandra, it seemed, had eloped that very morning with Sir Clayton Lansing, the naughty puss.
“I should cut her off without a penny,” Bosley said. He shook his head. “But such is young love, and such is an uncle’s fondness, sir, that she will doubtless succeed in wrapping me about her little finger again when she returns a married lady.”
Piers clasped his hands behind his back and pursed his lips. He concentrated on not showing any outward signs of amusement. It would be inappropriate at the moment. Lansing and young love? Cassandra and love? Bosley being wrapped about anyone’s little finger? It was all vastly diverting. He looked forward to telling Alice all about it.
But that thought sobered him in earnest.
“It is a good thing under the circumstances, my dear sir,” Bosley was saying, “that the marriage contract has not been signed. You might have taken me for my fortune if you had been an unscrupulous man.” He laughed heartily.
Well, Piers thought, if this was a stage, he could be every bit as good an actor as Bosley, and probably better. He could scarcely be worse. He delivered what he considered an affecting speech of disappointment and took his sober leave.
His mother did not seem greatly affected by his news, “Good,” she said. “Next time, Piers, perhaps you will have the wisdom to choose someone closer to your own age, and someone with your interests and vastly more sense than you.”
”I think I would prefer that there not be a next time, Mama,” he said, kissing her cheek as he took his leave of her.
“Nonsense!” she said. “The lady for you is probably under your very nose, Piers. Besides, I was foolish enough to have no other children but you. You are my only hope for grandchildren.”
Piers was on his way to Westhaven Park two days later, though he decided at the last moment to go to Bath first. Just to let Allie know. Not for any other reason. He must not conceive any hopes that he knew in advance were totally unrealistic. But he would call just to let her know. She would be glad for him.
He need not stay longer than one night.
Besides, there was something he needed to check on for his own peace of mind.
Chapter 16
“A COUSIN of Web’s in Yorkshire.” Piers frowned.
“On his mother’s side,” Andrea explained to him. “They were very close, she said, but the cousin and his family have been traveling for the past year. Now they are home, and they want Alice with them for the summer, and even longer than that, apparently.”
Piers continued to frown at the floor in front of his feet.
“I thought she would write,” Andrea said. “Though of course she still may do so. She has been gone for only a month.”
“I shall go there,” he said, getting to his feet in sudden decision.
“Yorkshire is rather a large part of the country to wander over,” she said. “Do you know where to go?”
“I went there once with Web when we were young sprigs on our way to seek adventure in Scotland, “ he said. He grinned at her. “I shall tell Allie it is time she wrote to her friends.”
Andrea returned his smile. “Perhaps she will return with you,” she said. “Perhaps she will be in time to attend your wedding.”
“Why did you not merely ask without roundaboutation?” he said, winking at her before turning toward the door. “There is to be no wedding, ma’am. The lady cried off in order to elope with an acquaintance of yours—Sir Clayton Lansing. Ah, something about young love, I believe. There is no stopping it, apparently.”
“Oh.” Andrea clasped her hands to her bosom and watched his retreating back. “I love it. And where is Clifford when I most need him? I shall burst if I do not find someone within the hour with whom to share this delightful on dit. I shall not pretend to commiserate with you, sir.”
”Thank you,” he said.
/> The next morning, Piers left early for the long journey to Yorkshire, though he knew that he was on a wild goose chase. There was indeed a cousin in Yorkshire, a reclusive misogynist who had greeted Web and him coldly and offered them neither a meal nor a bed for the night. They had laughed about it for the rest of their journey through Scotland.
And Allie had gone there? If she had, she must have gone without an invitation and doubtless would not have been welcomed. And yet after a month she had not come home again. He was as sure as he could be that there were no other relatives in Yorkshire, certainly none to whom Web had been close.
Yet if she had not gone there, where had she gone? And why? Or if she had gone there without an invitation, why had she done so? And where had she gone after she had been turned away, as she surely would have been?
He feared that he knew the answers to some of his questions.
God! Allie! Why had she not told him?