Only Enchanting: A Survivors' Club Novel

by Mary Balogh

  Why had he never felt this way about his father, much as he had loved him?

  It was clear he was not going to go back to sleep, even though Agnes felt warm and comfortable against him and he was tired. Briefly he thought of waking her, of making love to her. But there was a strange blackness in his head. It was not exactly depression. Or a headache. Just . . . blackness.

  He eased himself out of the bed, found his dressing gown on the floor and drew it on, and let himself quietly out of the room. It was an unusually dark night, but he did not light a candle. He knew his way without needing any light. He let himself into David’s bedchamber and felt his way to the window. He pushed back the curtains, though there was not a great deal of light to let in. He could make out the shape of the bed, though, and of a chair against one wall. He drew up the chair to the side of the bed and sat on it. He set one hand flat on the bedspread.

  It was where he had always sat when his brother was too unwell to get up. It was where he had sat for many hours both day and night during those final weeks. And he had always set his hand on the bed so that David could touch it whenever he wanted and so that he could touch David.

  Why had they always been so much closer than any other brothers he had known? They were as different as night and day. Perhaps that was why. The balance of opposites again.

  The balance was no longer there.

  The bed was empty.

  What had he been expecting? That a ghost or spirit would have lingered? That there would be some sense of his brother here? Some comfort? Some absolution?

  Why did I leave you to die alone?

  He knew why. He had been head over ears in love, and he had wanted to celebrate his betrothal before returning to the Peninsula.

  But why was I going back there?

  He had known David was dying when he came home on leave. He had not really expected that he would go back, although he had set a date for doing so. He would inherit the title and properties and have all sorts of responsibilities to keep him at home. He certainly had not intended going back while his brother was still dying.

  Why did I leave you?

  Flavian did not hear the door open behind him, but he was aware of dim light and then of a slightly brighter light, of the door closing softly. He had woken her. He was sorry about that. And strangely glad. He was not alone any longer. He did not have to do his living alone.

  He did not turn, but he waited for her to come close, as he knew she would. Then he could smell her familiar fragrance, and one of her hands came to rest lightly on his shoulder. He raised his own hand to cover it and tipped back his head until it came to rest against her bosom. He closed his eyes.

  “Why did I leave him?” he asked.

  It did not occur to him to offer her his chair or to draw up another for her.

  “You were here for a few weeks after coming home on leave?” she asked him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did you sit with him all that time?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You joined the military three years before that,” she said, “because you did not want to be trapped into marrying Lady Hazeltine—or Velma Frome, as she must have been then. Yet after being home for a few weeks, all the time sitting here with your brother, you were so eager to marry her that you left him and went to London to your betrothal ball and then dashed off back to the Peninsula. How did that come about, Flavian? What else happened during those weeks?”

  “I went out for w-walks and rides,” he said. “It was emotionally d-draining to be here in this room all the time, even though he was p-peaceful. He was just s-slipping away, and there was nothing I could do. . . .”

  He closed his hand around hers and drew her forward to take her on his lap. He set one arm about her waist, and she twined one about his neck.

  Ah, God, he loved her. He loved her.

  “And did you meet Velma outside, as you had used to do?” she asked.

  And suddenly that great yawning core of blackness exploded into the searing light of a crashing headache, and he gasped for air. He pushed her off his lap, staggered to the window, fumbled with the catch, and raised the sash until he could feel cold air blowing in. He rested his balled fists on the windowsill and bowed his head. He waited for the worst of the pain to go away. Everything was wide-open. He could remember . . .

  . . . everything.

  “They were in London for the Season,” he said. “But they came h-home. I think my mother m-must have written to Lady Frome. Velma had not taken well with the ton after a few years of trying. Frome is not well-off or particularly well connected. She could have found a husband even so, but she aimed too h-high. She wanted a title, the grander the better. None of this was ever said in so m-many words, of course, but it was not d-difficult to piece together the truth. But I was home, and David was d-dying, and . . .”

  And they had come. He was not sure Sir Winston and Lady Frome had come from any other motive than concern for their neighbor. And he was not sure his mother had written to Lady Frome for any other purpose than to inform her of the imminent demise of her son. He hoped none of them had had any other motive.

  Velma had come almost daily to inquire about David, though she never came up to the sickroom. Sometimes she came with one or the other of her parents, but often she came alone, without either maid or groom, and on those occasions his mother had directed him to escort her home. And whenever he went outside for a breath of air, whether on foot or on horseback, almost invariably he came upon her—or, rather, she came upon him. It was just like old times. And always there were tears and sweet sympathy and tender memories of when they had been younger.

  He had been soothed by her sympathy. He had begun almost to look forward to seeing her. Watching life ebb away from a loved one must be one of the most excruciatingly wretched experiences anyone could be called upon to endure. Even though he had seen more than his fair share of death in the wars, none of it had prepared him for what he was going through now.

  One afternoon, while they were sitting in a little clearing above the waterfall, looking down at the lake, listening to birdsong and the sound of water, he had kissed her. Quite voluntarily. He could not blame her for it.

  And she had told him that she loved him, that she adored him and always had. She had told him she would make the best viscountess he could possibly dream of. She had told him they must marry as soon as possible, by special license, so that they would not be delayed by the year of mourning that lay ahead when David died. And she would be by his side to support him through that year. She looked good in black, she had told him. He must not be afraid that she would look dowdy and let him down. Oh, she adored him.

  And she had thrown her arms about his neck and kissed him.

  He had apologized stiffly for his kiss, begged her forgiveness, told her that he could think of nothing at that moment beyond the fact that David was alive but desperately ill, that his brother needed him, and he needed his brother. That all else in his life was on hold. He had apologized again as he scrambled to his feet and offered a hand to help her up.

  She had been in tears, and he had felt like a monster.

  The following afternoon Flavian had been called down to the drawing room from the sickroom and had found his mother there with a pale, marblelike face. With her were a weepy-eyed Lady Frome and a stiffly formal and clearly furious Sir Winston Frome.

  Apparently Flavian had declared his love for Velma the previous afternoon before debauching her, but he had then informed her that there could be no question of their marrying for some time to come, what with all the uncertainty surrounding the illness of his brother.

  All of which, Frome had declared, was monstrously unacceptable, to put the matter mildly. What if Major Arnott’s merrymaking of the previous day had consequences? Lady Frome had sniffled against her handkerchief, and Flavian’s mother had flinched. Major Arnott’s honor as an officer and a gentleman dictated that he make restitution and make it without delay.<
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  The death of David might cause that delay. Frome had not said as much. None of them had, but his meaning had been clear. He had not demanded marriage by special license. That must have appeared unseemly to him, as it had not to his daughter. But he had demanded an instant and public betrothal. There was to be nothing havey-cavey about it. In fact . . .

  They had leased a house in London for the Season and had not let it go when they returned home. They would go back immediately, have the announcement put in all the society papers, and invite the ton to a grand betrothal ball, after which they would have the banns called at St. George’s on Hanover Square.

  Flavian had found himself unable to protest as vociferously as he would have liked, though he had denied ruining Velma. He had kissed her, though, and it could be said with some justification that he had compromised her. Her mother had wept. Her father had blustered and chosen to believe his daughter’s more extreme version of what had happened between them. How could he, Flavian, have continued to call Velma a liar in the hearing of her parents—his neighbors and friends? But it was so much like what she had done once before, three years ago, except then she had made her accusations only to David, in order to get him to cancel their betrothal plans. This time she had left nothing to chance.

  “And so you went to London,” Agnes said, and Flavian awoke to the realization that he had poured out the whole story to her. “And then went back to your regiment.”

  “David could see no honorable way out of my going,” he said. “But when I assured him I would rush b-back the morning after the ball, he m-made me p-promise not to come back at all. He could not be sure, he told me, that he would die within a month.” He paused and took a great gulp of the cold outdoor air. “If he did not die, and I could n-not be saved by the necessity to mourn, then I would be forced to marry and would be trapped for life. He m-made me promise to return to the Peninsula as I was scheduled to do. Perhaps, he s-said, Velma would find someone else to marry while I was gone. Or perhaps something else would crop up to save me. He made me promise, and I went.”

  He swallowed against a lump in his throat, fought tears, and lost the battle. He tried desperately at least to weep silently until he could get himself under control.

  And then her arms came about him from behind, and the side of her face came to rest between his shoulder blades. He turned and gathered her up into a tight hug and sobbed ignominiously against her shoulder.

  “He died alone,” he gasped out. “Mother was in town with m-me. So was Marianne. There were only his v-valet here and the other s-servants. I was on the ship back to Portugal.”

  She kissed him on the tip of one ear.

  “I am so sorry,” he said. “I have soaked your shawl.”

  “It will dry,” she told him. “Did you forget all this when you were brought back home later?”

  He lifted his head, frowning.

  “She had met Len a number of times,” he said, “when he came here to stay with me as a boy. But at that time he was not expecting to succeed his uncle to the earl’s title. He had it by the time I was brought home, though. She w-wanted it. I think I knew that, even though I did not know much of anything at all. And I knew she would get it if she c-could. I tried to warn him. I think I t-tried. And then she c-came to tell me she was ending our engagement and was going to m-marry him. And I tried to stop it—but all I could d-do was destroy the drawing room at Arnott House. I— He did not come. Len never came. George came instead and took me off to Penderris.”

  Agnes moved her head so that her lips were almost touching his.

  “Come back to bed,” she said. “Come and sleep.”

  He had kept her up for what felt like half the night.

  “Agnes,” he said, “were you waiting for me there? At Middlebury? Were you always waiting for me? And was I always waiting to meet you?”

  She was smiling, he could see in the flickering light of the candle.

  “All my life,” she said. “And all your life.”

  “Does life happen that way?” he asked her.

  “I think it does sometimes,” she said, “incredible as it sounds. And do you realize you have stopped stammering?”

  “I h-have?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You must be freezing, Agnes. Let’s go back to bed.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He glanced toward the empty bed as he led her to the door. It was empty. David was gone. He was at rest. They had said good-bye to each other, and David had smiled at him. He remembered now. His brother had sent Flavian away to save him, and he had given him his blessing.

  “Live happily, Flave,” he had said. “Mourn a little for me if you will, and then let me go. I will be in good hands.”

  23

  It was Easter Sunday morning, and the sun shone from a clear blue sky. There was warmth in the air. The church bells pealed out the glad tidings of renewed life, and the inhabitants of the village of Candlebury stood about on the churchyard path greeting one another, wishing one another a happy Easter while their children darted about among the nearer gravestones as though they were a playground constructed specifically for their amusement.

  The rector stood outside the church doors, smiling genially and shaking hands with his parishioners as they came out of the church, his vestments lifted by the slight breeze.

  There was a heightened buzz of excitement this morning, even apart from the joy that Easter always brought. For Viscount Ponsonby—Mr. Flavian, that was—had come home at long last, apparently none the worse for his long and dreadful ordeal, but actually looking more handsome than ever. And he had brought a bride with him, and she was not that Miss Frome, who had abandoned him, poor gentleman, all those years ago at just the time he had most needed loved ones about him, and had gone off and married an earl.

  Mr. Thompson would lose his wager with Mr. Radley, though he did not look particularly upset about it this morning. He had wagered that, now the countess was widowed and back living with her mama and papa at Farthings Hall, she would maneuver matters so that she would marry the viscount after all, and before summer was out too.

  The new viscountess was not the sort of dazzling beauty Lord Ponsonby might have got for himself, handsome and rich as he was, not to mention the title. But everyone was glad of that fact. He had not chosen on looks alone. Not that the viscountess was not a beauty in her own way. She was nicely dressed and elegant, without being ostentatious about it and making all the rest of them feel rustic and shabby. She had a neat figure and a pleasant face, and she smiled a lot with what appeared to be genuine good humor. She looked them all directly in the eye as she smiled. She had done it when she went into the church on the viscount’s arm, and she had done it again when she came out. And she lingered on the path with her husband, exchanging a few words with some of their number.

  Most of the conversations beyond the earshot of Lord and Lady Ponsonby centered upon them, as was only natural. The previous viscount had suffered ill health for years before his death, poor gentleman, and they had scarcely seen him. And this one had been gone since even before his brother’s demise. Now he was back, looking fit and healthy and handsome and . . . happy.

  Any new bridegroom ought to look happy, of course, but it did not always happen, especially among the rich and titled, who married for all sorts of reasons, most of which had nothing to do with love or happiness.

  The bride looked happy too.

  And was it true that they had promised a garden party for everyone at some time during the summer? Yes, it most certainly was true. They had said so to Mrs. Turner, head of the altar committee, when she had called upon them two days ago, and Mrs. Turner had told Miss Hill in strictest confidence, and, well, they all knew what Miss Hill was like.

  Agnes did her best to memorize a few names and faces and occupations. It would take a while, as she confessed candidly to some of the people to whom she was introduced. She begged the indulgence of a little time while she became acquainted with the neighborhoo
d and everyone in it. Everyone seemed perfectly happy to grant her as much time as she needed.

  It must be the weather, she thought, that made this setting seem so idyllic and these people so amiable. She had never felt such a sense of home as she felt here. And she had never felt so happy. She had done the right thing. She had.

  Were you always waiting for me? And was I always waiting to meet you? he had asked a few nights ago.

  All my life, she had replied. And all your life.

  And, foolishly extravagant though the words sounded, they felt true. They surely were true.

  “Agnes,” he said now, bending his head closer to her ear so that she would hear clearly above the babble of voices and the lovely pealing of the bells, “will you come with me?”

  She knew where without having to ask. And she was glad of it. He had one more thing to do. She nodded and took his arm.

  There was no vault for the family Arnott, Viscounts of Ponsonby, and their families for more than two centuries back. But there was a separate area of the churchyard, well tended and set off from the rest by low and neatly clipped box hedges. The newest grave with its white marble headstone stood just a few feet inside the gate.

  David Arnott, Viscount Ponsonby, it read, together with the dates of his birth and death and a rather flowery inscription informing the world of his blameless existence and instructing angels to carry him up to the throne of heaven, where he would be welcomed with open arms. A marble angel, wings spread and trumpet held to its lips, stood atop the headstone.

  “He wanted something simple and to the point,” Flavian said. “Poor David. He used to shudder and laugh at the sorts of things people put on gravestones. Our grandfather, whom we remembered as a foul-tempered old tyrant, is written of as though he had been a saint.”

  But he spoke fondly and with a slight smile on his face, Agnes noticed—and without a trace of a stammer.

  “A graveyard ought to be a place of horrors,” he said. “It is not, though, is it? It is peaceful here. I am glad he is here.”