“I don’t think there’s any call for that quite yet. I’d rather not embarrass her if I can avoid it, and she may only have been trying to spark Ronnie’s interest.” He considered a moment. Should he wait until Bishop Fleetwood woke to give Caro the sweets he’d bought for her? It seemed a waste of a perfectly good gesture to give them to her now, with no one to see, but...”I brought you something.”
Her smile widened. “Did you?”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a paper packet. “Lemon Gibraltars,” he said, presenting them to her. “The confectioner had peppermint as well, but I thought you’d prefer lemon.”
She laughed. “Is that on the principle of ‘sweets for the sweet,’ only the opposite?”
“Not at all.”
“Good, because I do prefer lemon. Thank you, that was most thoughtful of you.” Smiling, she took the packet, glancing in her father’s direction. “It appears Papa has fallen asleep, though I’m sure when he wakes, he’ll insist he was only ‘resting his eyes.’”
“Are those slippers he’s wearing the ones you embroidered for him?”
“Yes.”
“Fine work. Perhaps someday you’ll make some for me.”
“Perhaps,” she said, a smile playing about her lips. “If you behave yourself.”
“What were you reading to him?”
She showed him the title page.
“The Bride of Lammermoor,” John read aloud.
“Have you read it?” When he shook his head, she explained, “It’s something of a Scottish Romeo and Juliet, with the addition of storms and crumbling castles and spectral visions, all very dark and romantic.”
“But tragic.”
“Yes, though it’s more deliciously horrid than heartrending. Men swear vengeance, women go mad. There’s even a well-placed patch of quicksand. I’ve read it before, but Papa hadn’t.”
He took a seat beside her on the sofa. “I had to swear off reading sad love stories after The Sorrows of Young Werther left me almost as despairing as poor, suicidal Werther.” He didn’t mention that he’d read it not as a youth, but rather after he’d left her behind to take up his post in Vienna.
“I don’t mind reading tragedies—but then, sometimes I like having a good cry, and I don’t suppose most gentlemen feel that way, do they?”
“They’re not likely to admit it if they do.”
“Does that mean that you gentlemen don’t allow yourselves to become as unhappy as we ladies do, or just that you go about holding it in all the time?”
“Neither, really. We have different ways of expressing it—sulking or drinking more than we should or making hermits of ourselves.” Or remaining angry for five years.
“I think I prefer crying to being disagreeable.”
He reached up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I don’t like the notion of you crying.”
Her eyes twinkled. “You don’t seem to care much for my being disagreeable either.”
He chuckled. “In that case, I’ll just have to make sure you have no cause for unhappiness.” He felt a powerful urge to kiss her. No one would see—her father was sleeping. Though was that a point in its favor, or a reason not to attempt it?
“John,” Caro said shyly before he could make up his mind, “I wanted to ask you something. It’s about Ronnie...”
All thought of kissing her went out of his head as he remembered the way she’d been whispering with his brother in the hunting box, and the familiar way she’d taken Ronnie’s arm on the stairs. “What about him?” he asked warily.
“Do you know what he means to do with his life? Have you talked with him about it?”
The question felt vaguely ominous. Why was Caro so interested in Ronnie’s future? They weren’t making plans together, were they? “Why do you ask?”
“Only because my uncle was questioning me about him this morning. I couldn’t answer, since I really don’t know what Ronnie’s ambitions are—”
That was a good deal less troubling, though talk of Ronnie’s ambitions did leave him feeling defensive about his guardianship. “Let me worry about Ronnie’s future. I’d like to see him go into the diplomatic service, though he’ll have to start applying himself at Oxford before that can happen.”
“But you have talked with him about what he wants, haven’t you? And when you talk with him, you do listen, not just tell him what you expect—”
“Caro.” He knew she meant well, but the conversation reminded him too much of all the wrangling he’d done with his stepmother when he’d tried to discharge his duties as Ronnie’s guardian and she’d opposed him at every turn. “I only want what’s best for my brother.”
“Best in what way? Are you talking about what will make you proud, or what will make him happy?”
Aware of her father dozing only a few feet away, he was careful to hang on to his patience and keep his voice low. “Why should those two things have to differ?”
It appeared she was struggling for patience too, for she breathed a sigh before continuing. “Will you do me a favor, John? Will you ask Ronnie whether he wants to go into the diplomatic service? Whatever you may think is best for him, you should at least find out how he feels about it, and whether he might have other ambitions.” She met his gaze, and he was struck anew by the vivid blue of her eyes. “Please?”
What harm would it do to agree? As much as he disliked the implication that he hadn’t given Ronnie’s wishes sufficient consideration, he was no tyrant, determined to force his brother into the wrong career. He simply wanted Ronnie to make something of himself. “Very well. I’ll ask him.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” To his surprise, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
He glanced over in her father’s direction, wondering if perhaps the bishop was awake now and he simply hadn’t noticed. But, no—her father’s eyes were still closed. It was a real kiss, not just for show.
A kiss on the cheek wasn’t necessarily romantic. She’d kissed her father on the cheek when they’d arrived. But it was affection—genuine affection—and that was such a huge leap forward that John took her hand and blurted “Thank you” in return, too astonished to think what he was saying.
* * *
As Caro undressed for bed that night, there was no mention of ringing for Sophia’s abigail or of John’s keeping his back turned. She didn’t ask, and he didn’t suggest it.
“Today was another good day, and you’re doing splendidly,” Caro remarked as she took off her petticoat. “I hope being plunged headlong into my family hasn’t been too trying for you.”
“Not at all. I enjoyed meeting Mr. and Mrs. Edge yesterday, and you know how I feel about your father. As for your aunt and uncle, they’ve made me feel quite at home.” He pulled a wry face. “Though parts of today’s trip into Kegworth were a bit uncomfortable. For such a young girl, your cousin can be shockingly forward.”
“‘Such a young girl’? Sophia is older than I was when you asked me to marry you.”
“Is she?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I suppose that’s true...” He studied Caro, his dark eyes speculative.
She sat down on the bed. “What is it?” she asked when he went on regarding her steadily. “You’re looking at me as if you’ve never seen me before.”
“I’m not sure I have, really and truly,” he replied, leaving her even more puzzled. “Caro, tell me something. On our wedding night, why did you let me consummate our marriage?”
Her smile abruptly vanished. Oh, God. Not their wedding night again.
“Why did you let me consummate our marriage?” he repeated when she didn’t answer. “I’d like to know why you went through with it if you were only planning to run away.”
“Because...” Moments ago she’d been quite happy about the way the day had gone
, and now he was making her feel like a child all over again, foolish and unsure of herself. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Do we have to talk about this now?”
“Can you think of a better time?”
She couldn’t, not when so little about that night made sense. Perhaps the best possible time to talk about such a thing was on a night in her uncle’s house, when the family in the rooms nearby made it necessary for Welford to keep his voice down. “Then the answer is I don’t know. After the ceremony I couldn’t make up my mind what to do, stay with you or run away to Lawrence. I wanted to be with him—I was convinced I was in love with him—but I’d married you and I knew that was no trifling matter.” She sighed. “And then there was the champagne.”
“The champagne?”
“I had a good deal that night, much more than I was used to drinking. Remember? You said it would help settle my nerves.”
He frowned. “So what does that mean, that you weren’t planning right from the start to run away?”
Should she tell the truth? It wasn’t going to make him think any better of her. Then again, it wasn’t as if he thought that highly of her to begin with. “Do you really imagine I had a plan that night? I’d never expected to go through with the wedding. Being alone with you seemed to come out of nowhere.” She looked down at her hands. “And then you started kissing me, and it was...exciting. I kept thinking, I’ll stop him in a moment, before we go too far. But between the wavering and the champagne and the kissing I never did.”
He was silent a moment, pondering this. “So you’re saying you enjoyed it.”
Her eyes flew up to meet his. “Of course I enjoyed it!”
“‘Of course’? I recall your saying something very different shortly before I left for Vienna.”
Oh, God. He remembered that, did he? She’d hoped he’d forgotten it long ago. “Whatever I may have said in anger later, I did enjoy it.”
He said nothing, only rubbed his jaw.
“But then afterward you fell asleep,” she went on, “and it wasn’t long before I went from being tipsy and swooning with pleasure to feeling guilty and a little sick. I kept asking myself, How could I have done that with him? And what was worse, How could I have enjoyed it so much? You seemed much older to me then, and I was in love with Lawrence—or at least, I thought I was. I was sure I belonged with him. I was so confused, I couldn’t sort out my feelings. I think that’s why I ran away.”
“You think?”
“I mean, as near as I can remember.” She couldn’t meet his eye. “As I said, I wasn’t used to drinking that much champagne.”
He breathed an unsatisfied sigh. “This is the first time you’ve mentioned being ‘confused.’”
Her mouth fell open. “What? You know I told you as much that very night. When you found me at the inn, I did my best to explain myself. You simply wouldn’t listen.”
“You did try to explain yourself,” he said evenly, “but as I recall, you offered up three different explanations in the brief span between my finding you at The King’s Head and our reaching Halewick. First you told me you and your militia officer were secretly engaged—as good as married in your eyes, you said—and he’d pledged to elope with you.”
“Which was almost true,” Caro said, wondering how she could have been such a perfect idiot about Lieutenant Howe. “I suggested it to him, before you proposed, only he wrote me a painfully cold letter saying he wasn’t in the habit of abducting bishops’ daughters.”
“The letter you were reading on the day I proposed?” At her nod, his mouth curved down in a wry expression. “Well, at least someone managed to show some sense back then.”
She could only stare at the floor, all too aware of her own mistakes. Lawrence’s letter had been the last word of any kind she’d had from him. She’d heard just the past spring that he’d married a brewer’s daughter and was living in Dorset.
“Your second explanation,” John continued, a peculiar note in his voice, “was that you didn’t know why you’d run away, but you were sick and I was being a perfect brute. You offered that one up with a good deal of sobbing, most of which I took to be crocodile’s tears.”
“But that explanation was the truth! It was all the champagne I’d drunk—well, that, and that I’d known you such a short time and our wedding came about so quickly, I could hardly credit we were really husband and wife. But you refused to believe me.”
“Which brings me to your third explanation, the one you’ve been repeating ever since, that I was too old and you were certain you could never love me and you hated the notion of spending another minute in my presence.” He spoke the words matter-of-factly, almost lightly, but the tense set of his shoulders made her wonder if the worst of her sins hadn’t been running away to Lawrence, but rather saying such a thing to John.
She hesitated a moment, weighing her words. She had to get this right. “An element of that was true—I did see you as much older,” she answered carefully, “but mostly that reply seemed the only way to explain myself when ‘I wasn’t thinking clearly’ sounded beyond foolish, even to me. Besides, I was upset, and by that time you’d turned unreasonable and you refused to believe anything but the worst of me.”
He’d remained composed up to that point, but as she finished speaking, he swore under his breath. “I can’t think what I did that night that was so unreasonable.” He went to the fire and, taking up the poker, prodded the logs on the grate. When he turned back toward her, the look on his face was more troubled than angry. “Tell me, Caro. What should I have done instead? Left you at that inn, unprotected and alone? Allowed you to turn your name into a byword, chasing after a boy who didn’t want you? Stood idly by when only hours before I’d vowed before God ‘for better, for worse’? Tell me what it was I should have done.”
“You should have tried harder to forgive me,” she said, a lump rising in her throat. “You should have listened more patiently when I tried to explain.”
“I’m listening now.”
“Yes.” She drew a deep breath. “Perhaps the truth was somewhere between the second and the third explanation. I was confused, and you did seem much older to me. But then you went to Vienna and left me behind, not troubling to mend matters first or even to bid me a civil goodbye, and the third explanation became the only one that mattered to me.”
“And is it still the one that matters?” He searched her face. “Do you still think I’m too old, and do you still hate the notion of spending another minute with me?”
She sprang to her feet. “No. Don’t you see? You were never too old, I was simply too young. You were already an adult, while I still had one foot in my childhood.”
“I’m beginning to realize that,” he said softly.
“And if I thought I could never love you, it was because I didn’t know you. I wish I could take back everything I said and did in the hours after our wedding, but the best I can hope for is that we can find a way to put it behind us and start over.” She gulped. “And when you asked me a moment ago what you should have done on our wedding night—John, you did me a great service, stopping me before I could get on the stagecoach to Chelmsford. Even assuming I could’ve talked Lawrence Howe into taking me in, I’d have quickly come to regret it. I would never have been able to see my father again, for a start. Papa couldn’t possibly have received me, at least not without having to choose between me or his position. And now he’s—he’s dying—”
Her voice cracked.
John’s brows drew together. “Caro...”
The next thing she knew he’d crossed to her and taken her in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps now was the wrong time to talk about this.”
She nestled her head against his shoulder. It felt good to be comforted by him, good to lean into him and feel how much bigger and stronger he was, good to sense he was w
illing to help. “I want us to stop fighting, John. Not just for my father’s sake, but for our own. I’m sorry about what happened in the hunting box. I was an idiot. No, worse than an idiot. I was purposely horrid to you.”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
God in heaven, he was actually being kind. She drew back and gazed up at his face. “Can’t we be friends at least? Really and truly, I mean, not just putting on a show for my father’s sake? I regret all the time we’ve wasted.”
Despite her heartfelt admission, there was something guarded about the way he held her, a trace of lingering reserve. “Friends?”
“Yes. I don’t expect you to forget all the mistakes I’ve made, but could we stop trying to hurt each other? Could we do our best to be civil and treat each other with respect?”
“I’m willing to try.”
She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder again. “That’s all I can ask.”
Chapter Sixteen
That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea, and that is a wrong one.
—Samuel Johnson
The next day was Sunday, and the entire Fleetwood household rose early to attend church. It was the family custom to walk to and from church on Sunday, a custom John’s own father had likewise observed, since it spared the coachman and grooms from having to work on the Sabbath. Only Caro’s father stayed behind, being too infirm to make the walk.
“Besides, it would be bad form for me to attend a church in another bishop’s diocese without first receiving an invitation,” he pointed out. “One has to be careful of treading on toes, even in holy orders.” He chuckled. “Especially in holy orders.”
As John walked from Stanling Priory to the church, Caro at his side, he wondered what to make of the talk he’d had with her the night before. Parts of her story rang true. He had offered her champagne to take the edge off her nerves on their wedding night. He could even remember her saying she might become tipsy, an objection he’d brushed aside on the theory it was better for her to be a trifle tipsy than to be terrified.
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