by Anne Gracie
The warmth in her eyes dimmed. “Of course, Lady Elinore. And I’m sure the girls enjoyed the British Museum. I know Grace loves it. She has a fascination for ancient worlds, you know.”
Somehow she’d moved closer during the last twirl. His legs brushed against hers several times. Unable to think of a single thing to say, he produced a strangled sort of noise.
She said softly, “I suspect you’d prefer to dance the remainder of this waltz without the encumbrance of conversation, isn’t that so, Mr. Reyne?”
He nodded brusquely and tried not to draw her even closer.
“Then let us simply lose ourselves in the music and the movement,” Hope whispered. She closed her eyes and let him and the music take her.
Thus blinded, in his arms, she was totally his. It would be their last waltz. He had spoken of Lady Elinore again. But for just this one dance, she could pretend he was hers.
He danced with awkwardness and precision. She loved how he danced, holding her as if she were so precious and delicate, yet steering her around the floor like a wheelbarrow instead of a woman. And yet, somehow, she felt more fully a woman dancing with him than she’d ever felt with anyone.
She could get grace and elegance anywhere. She opened her eyes briefly and saw Giles Bemerton waltzing by with Lady Elinore. Even such an unlikely pair danced with harmony.
But nobody waltzed like her Mr. Reyne, with that unique mix of stiff, protective awkwardness amid waves of severely repressed passion.
Hope closed her eyes and wished the waltz would go on forever.
“Why did you choose him again, twin?” Faith asked as they were disrobing for bed. “Everyone knows you never choose the same partner twice for that dance. And after that quarrel.”
Hope squirmed at her sister’s gentle inquiry. She flung off her clothes.
“Will you mind the gossip? Because there will be gossip, love, you know.”
Hope thought about it as she shrugged into her nightgown. “People will gossip about anything. I was in the wrong, and I wanted to make it up to him.”
“It was a very public apology.” Faith looked troubled. “I thought you had decided he isn’t the one, Hope.”
Hope slumped on the bed. “I just don’t know, Faith. I do feel drawn to him, but if you’d ever waltzed with him, you’d know why I’m so uncertain! In the dream it was perfect, absolutely perfect!”
Faith tilted her head. “He’s never asked me to waltz. You know, he can tell us apart.”
Yes, Hope knew.
“I spoke to Lady Elinore this evening,” Faith said. “She’s invited us both to visit Mr. Reyne’s orphans on Friday. I think it will be very interesting.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
Faith regarded her thoughtfully. “You’re very certain he’s a good and decent man, aren’t you?”
Hope stared at her, frustrated. She’d promised Mr. Bemerton she wouldn’t reveal the details of Mr. Reyne’s life, and she meant to keep her promise. “I am. Mr. Bemerton told me some things about Mr. Reyne, but he told me in confidence, so I can’t tell you.”
Faith stared at her, dismayed. “What? Not even me?”
Hope shook her head unhappily.
“But we always tell each other everything.”
Hope bit her lip. “I know, and I’m sorry, twin. But I promised.”
Faith gave her a long, hurt look, then turned away, folding her petticoat slowly.
It pained Hope, too, not to share. All their lives she and her twin had been as close as two peas in a pod—closer. They’d shared everything: hopes, dreams, fears. All their lives they’d longed for love. They’d shared their visions of love, analyzed it, shared their dreams of shadowy heroes, shared the waiting and yearning for for nineteen impatient years. It had seemed so simple then.
Now everything was suddenly unclear. Hope was more than halfway in love with a man who did not fit her dream at all, and Faith . . . well, who knew what Faith felt? She was certainly dazzled by her violin-playing count. But was it love?
Then, as one, both girls turned to each other. They spoke simultaneously.
“It’s so much—”
“It’s not that—”
They stopped and laughed and then got a bit teary. “Oh Faithy, I’m sorry. It’s so much harder than I thought it would be. I wish Prue were here.” Prudence was their sister, but she was the closest thing they’d had to a mother for most of their lives.
“And Charity,” her sister said, putting her arms around Hope. “Sometimes I really miss them so badly it hurts. Think what it will be like when we are all married and in different places.”
Hope hugged her sister hard. “I know.” Below in the hall the clock struck two.
“It’s late, we should sleep,” Hope said.
“Shall I stay?”
Hope nodded. “Like we did when we were little. Who knows, it might be the last time we share a bed.”
And so the sisters climbed into bed together, two halves of a greater whole, facing the future in the way they’d always faced things, side by side and hand in hand, but knowing now that the path before them branched.
Chapter Ten
And listen why; for I will tell you now
What never yet was heard in tale or song.
JOHN MILTON
RAIN PATTERED AT HIS BACK AS SEBASTIAN RANG THE DOORBELL of Sir Oswald Merridew’s house. The friendship that had sprung up between Grace Merridew and his sisters was proving an inconvenience for a man determined to avoid Hope Merridew.
The logical thing would be to put a stop to it, to find some other companion for his sisters. But Cassie and Dorie always came home from an afternoon or morning at Grace’s home with such a light in their eyes, Sebastian could not bring himself to do the logical thing.
He would not normally come to pick the girls up in person, but this morning Cassie had said that Miss Hope and Miss Faith were attending a picnic at Richmond, so the coast was clear. Besides, he was curious to see what his sisters enjoyed so much.
He rang the doorbell again. Lady Elinore would put his sisters’ needs before her own pleasures. The Merridew twins were forever out at balls and routs, parties and picnics.
He was ushered to the nursery by an ancient butler. Sebastian knocked. He could hear music, and when no one answered him, he opened the door and looked in. It was a large, cozy room with worn, comfortable chairs and a square table in the middle. A fire crackled in the grate, and in the corner stood a pianoforte. Miss Faith played while the others sang. It was a lullaby Sebastian had not heard in years.
Sleep my child and peace attend thee,
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night.
He stood in the doorway, unnoticed, remembering another room, small, cramped, and bitterly cold without a fire. His newly widowed mother, her ill-fitting clothes dyed a cheap black, stretched tight across the mound of her imminent pregnancy, rocking a fretful Cassie and singing the same song. As if music could soothe hunger pains. He and his little brother, Johnny, had come in from long hours of work and scavenging. His mother’s question, the one that greeted him each time he arrived home: had he brought any food? Sebastian, feeling angry and helpless and guilty, producing only two bruised apples and a quarter loaf of stale, hard bread.
“Mr. Reyne?”
He looked up, suddenly aware that the music had stopped. Miss Hope walked across the room and asked in a soft voice, “Are you all right? You had such a strange look on your face.”
With an effort, Sebastian banished the memories. “I am perfectly well, thank you.” Aware that his response had been brusque, he retreated into politeness. “How do you do, Miss Hope, Miss Faith, girls. I . . . I thought you were on a picnic.”
“The weather turned nasty,
so it was postponed.”
He nodded and ran a finger around his cravat to loosen it.
“I’ve come to collect my sisters. I hope it’s been a pleasant visit.”
Hope placed a hand on his arm. She had a way of smiling at him that made him feel warm clear to the bone. “It’s been delightful. But you must stay a little longer. We are in need of an audience.”
“I—I have an engagement this evening. I cannot tarry.”
“Please, Mr. Reyne. We’ve been practicing so hard,” Grace added her plea.
Cassie tossed her head as if she couldn’t care in the slightest what he did, but there was enough tension in her indifference to alert him. And Dorie watched him with big eyes. In her hand she clutched a triangle.
He did not want to hear the song, did not want to be dragged back into those times. But his own wants were as nothing to the look in Dorie’s eyes or Cassie’s careless, heartbreaking feigned indifference.
“Very well,” he agreed stiffly and was instantly rewarded by a glowing look from Miss Hope.
“Lovely.” She took his arm and led him to the fireplace. “Stand here, where it’s warm. And Lily will bring tea in a few minutes. The girls’ reward for all their hard work.”
He leaned against the mantelpiece, arms folded, heart braced, trying to look interested. He hoped they’d perform only one verse. Or two. He did not want to listen to the third verse, the one where his mother’s voice used to get choked and husky. That verse she did not sing to the child in her arms, nor yet to the babe in her belly or the sons who watched. She sang to her dead lover, her husband, Sebastian’s father.
Faith played the opening chords on the pianoforte, then the others joined in. Hope and Grace sang the melody. Faith, in a clear, pure voice, helped Cassie’s wavering treble maintain a descant harmony while silent Dorie played a large silver triangle, her small face frowning with concentration, as each ting! came right on the beat. Sebastian bit his lip watching her, touched that the Merridew girls had included his mute little sister so naturally in their song.
The sight of the earnest little girl, proudly tinging away on her triangle, combined with the emotions churned up in him by the old song was almost more than Sebastian could bear. He clenched his jaw, keeping his face as impassive as possible, but when they came to the third verse, he turned his back. He stared into the fire, overwhelmed by memory and grief and bitterness as they sang . . .
Love, to thee my thoughts are turning
All through the night
All for thee my heart is yearning,
All through the night.
Though sad fate our lives may sever
Parting will not last forever,
There’s a hope that leaves me never,
All through the night.
The familiar words and melody tangled in his throat so he could hardly breathe. His mother’s voice echoed with every note. She’d yearned for his father, even after his death. After all he had done to them, his mother had still loved the man—loved him more than life itself.
How could she have loved him? His father’s weaknesses had brought his family to this place of desperation, and then he’d taken the easy way out—death—leaving Sebastian in charge. And he’d tried so hard, and failed them anyway . . .
No better than his father.
He closed his eyes, trying to force back the unwelcome memories. Nothing good came of dwelling in the past. Only pain and determination. He would never make the same mistakes as his father.
He suddenly realized the music had stopped.
“Didn’t you like our song?” Cassie demanded in a hostile voice. “I thought it was lovely!”
He turned. “It was,” he agreed. “Very lovely. The harmonies were beautiful. And the triangle added the perfect touch. It’s just . . .” His voice cracked, and he rubbed his forehead awkwardly, as if somehow he could rub away the emotion.
He was about to claim he had a headache, but something in their expression told him they deserved the truth. Even if it did reveal his weakness. Even if Miss Hope was there to witness it.
“It took me back, you see. I haven’t heard that song since our mother sang it to you, to help you sleep, when you were a toddler in the days just before Dorie was born. Mama used to sing it over and over, right up until the day Dorie came into the world.”
There was a sudden silence. Cassie and Dorie stared at each other, their faces shocked. Cassie turned on him, furiously. “What do you mean, our mother! You didn’t know us then!”
Sebastian frowned, surprised. “Of course I did. I was there when you were born.” He glanced from one to the other. “I saw both of you come into the world.”
There was another long silence. He was aware of the Merridew twins exchanging glances, but he was too surprised by Cassie’s response to take much notice.
Cassie narrowed her eyes at him, still obviously suspicious. “You don’t mean you’re our real, actual brother?”
There was such intensity in her voice that Sebastian was confused. He nodded. “Yes, of course I do. But you knew that already.”
“That’s what you told us, but people are always telling us they’re our uncles or fathers or our aunty.” She almost spat the last out with scorn. “You’re trying to tell us we had the very same mother?”
Sebastian was shocked, but suddenly a number of things fell into place. The girls’ reluctance to tell him of their past, Cassie’s hostility, Dorie’s lack of trust. If they had been handed from “relative” to “relative,” no wonder they hadn’t taken him at his word. He glanced at Miss Hope. This was intimate family business. He should not embarrass the Merridews by dwelling on such private matters. He was about to tell Cassie they would discuss it later, in private, when Miss Hope squeezed his arm.
“They need absolute assurance on this, now,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about us. Tell them what they need to know, Mr. Reyne.” She nodded and gave him a small, encouraging smile.
He glanced at her, then turned back to Cassie and said, “Yes, we all three of us had the very same mother. And the same father. You and Dorie are my true blood, legitimate, legal sisters. Dorie and I even have the same gray eyes—Papa’s eyes.”
Cassie’s gaze flew from his face to Dorie’s, comparing.
He continued, “And though Dorie has more of Mama’s features—Mama was a beauty when she was young—you have Mama’s beautiful blue eyes and her pretty singing voice. Alas, Cassie, you and I have Papa’s nose, though yours is the smaller and prettier.”
Cassie touched her straight little patrician nose, then examined his longer, equally patrician one, crooked from where a fist had broken it. She paused, screwed up her nose in thought and then asked, “Who was Mam, then? And how did you come to lose us?”
He hesitated. Miss Hope intervened, seeming to read his mind. “Why don’t you three come and sit by the fire? If you prefer, Mr. Reyne, we can leave, and you can tell your sisters in private.”
He looked at her in silent gratitude; he’d never told the whole story to the girls—mainly because they’d made it clear from the beginning they wanted nothing to do with him. And he did not want to explain the great failure of his life in front of everyone, especially her, but Cassie said, “No, stay. You’re our friends, and I want you to hear it, too.” She looked at Sebastian and said in a challenging voice, “I’ll tell Grace anyway, you know, and she’ll tell her sisters.”
He looked at Miss Hope and said, “I must warn you, it isn’t a pretty story.”
Hope laid a hand on his arm and said, “Don’t worry about us. We know how to keep a confidence, don’t we, girls?” Her sisters nodded, and Sebastian felt a lump in his throat. She added, “Besides, our own story is hardly a tale for bedtime telling.”
Sebastian gave in. “Very well, the whole story. Let us sit down.” He sat down in a blue plush armchair, and his two sisters squashed into a matching one facing him across the fire. The Merridews quietly seated themselves on an overstuffed sofa and waite
d.
Sebastian wasn’t sure where to start. Then he remembered Cassie’s question. “You asked who the woman you called “Mam” was. I knew her as Widow Morgan—”
Cassie nodded at the name.
“—and I paid her to take care of you after our mother died.”
“How did she die?” Cassie asked. “And what about our father? Tell us the whole story.”
“Our father was a wastrel,” Sebastian said stiffly. “He was born a younger son of good family, but everything he wanted was given to him, without effort, and he never learned responsibility. He was also a gambler and . . . well, suffice it to say it was either feast or famine in our house. My early life was pampered and privileged, as was Johnny’s, my younger brother.”
The girls sat up at that. “You never mentioned Johnny before—”
“I’ll get to him later. He was two years younger than I, two years less lucky. I went to a good school for nearly four years. It made all the difference to my life.”
Hope watched his face as he spoke and recalled how Giles Bemerton said he’d known Sebastian at school.
“But Johnny was sickly, and in the end he never went to school, for by the time he was well enough to go, there was no money. Papa had disgraced himself.” His face hardened. “He was disowned by his family and could no longer lead the life he was accustomed to. He sold everything we had of value, but that was soon gone. He tried to live by the cards, but nobody would accept his vowels and—” He shook his head. “Well, you don’t need to know all the details. We slipped lower and lower down the social scale until by the time Cassie was born, we were living in rented rooms in the poorest part of town—in Manchester.”
He stared into the fire and said in a low voice, “I was there when you were born, Cassie, because there was no other choice. There was no money for a midwife, and Papa had been gone for days, off trying to raise some money. Mama told me what to do, and I did it.” He swallowed, fighting emotion. “I’ll never forget the first sight of you, all red-faced and angry and squalling your displeasure to the world. And then Mama fed you, and you stopped crying.” He glanced at Cassie and said thickly, “You were so beautiful.”