by Mary Balogh
* * *
Ralph could not take his seat in the House of Lords before he received a Writ of Summons from the Lord Chancellor’s office. It had not come yet. He was to attend one of the formal levees at court next week. George, Duke of Stanbrook, had arranged it and had agreed to accompany him. In the meantime, Ralph carried on with his life much as he had before the death of his grandfather, grateful that he was not expected to accompany his wife either to Bond Street or on the round of visits his mother had planned for the afternoon.
He was looking through the morning papers in the reading room at White’s Club when his father-in-law stepped into the room. Sir Kevin Muirhead looked about him until his eyes alit on Ralph, and then came toward him with purposeful strides. Ralph stood and they shook hands.
“Your butler thought you had come here,” Sir Kevin said, his voice hushed so as not to disturb the other readers. “I am glad he was right. I need to have a word with you.”
“Perhaps you would care for some luncheon, sir.” Ralph gestured toward the dining room.
“Graham is busy with parish work,” Sir Kevin explained when they were seated. “And Lucy is walking in the park with a lady friend of hers and their children and nurses. Nelson is deeply immersed in the writing of one of his plays, or rather in sawing the air with one arm while he proclaims each speech before he writes it. He is ever hopeful of penning the masterpiece that will immortalize him. Julia has gone shopping with Chloe, and Easterly is at the House for what he considers an important debate. You were the only one left to keep me company, Worthingham.”
“It is my pleasure, sir,” Ralph said as a waiter arrived to take their order.
“Hitching is in town,” Sir Kevin said abruptly when they were alone again, “with his whole family. They came a day or two ago.”
“Yes,” Ralph said. “Lady Angela Allandale was at the theater last evening.”
“And you . . . ?” His father-in-law looked appalled.
“We were there too,” Ralph said. “There was no unpleasantness. Chloe behaved with great fortitude. So, I suppose, did the other lady. They did not come face to face.”
Sir Kevin closed his eyes briefly and exhaled audibly.
“I once informed Hitching,” he said, “that he might retire to his estates in the north of England and live out his life there with my blessing, but that if he should ever dare show his face in London again, he could expect me to rearrange the features on it. Or words to that effect. I was young and foolish enough to believe that he would heed the warning and live forever after in fear and trembling of my wrath.”
He had to pause while the waiter set their food before them.
“That was twenty-eight years ago,” Muirhead continued, frowning down at his plate as if in disbelief that he could have ordered such a hearty feast. “If he was ever afraid of me, clearly he is afraid no longer. Though I daresay he never was. Now he is here with his wife and daughter and one of his sons.”
“It was all a long time ago,” Ralph said. “There may be no need of any unpleasantness, sir. We are to host a ball at Stockwood House. My secretary presented us with a list of prospective guests this morning, and Chloe insisted that Hitching and his whole family be included on it. She seems determined to prove to everyone that last year’s gossip was so much nonsense.”
His father-in-law had eaten only one mouthful of his roast beef. He set his knife and fork down across his plate with something of a clatter. He closed his eyes and rubbed two fingers up over his forehead from a point between his eyebrows. Ralph held his peace, and the silence between them stretched for what seemed a long time. There was a hum of conversation from the tables around them.
“I suppose,” Muirhead said at last, lowering his hand and looking across the table at Ralph, “she ought to know the truth. Do you think?”
“I answered that question at Manville, sir,” Ralph reminded him.
“Does she know, I wonder?” Muirhead said. “Hitching’s daughter, I mean? Has he ever told her? Or his wife? It has not occurred to me until this moment that they too must have been affected by the gossip last year. Yet they have returned this year.”
Sir Kevin was still not eating. He was rubbing his temples with a thumb and middle finger as though he had a headache.
“Perhaps, sir,” Ralph said, “you would care to come for dinner this evening. Bring Graham too. I am sure Chloe would be delighted.”
Muirhead lowered his hand and looked steadily at him.
“Thank you,” he said. “I think that would be best.”
“I think it would,” Ralph agreed, and hoped he spoke the truth.
Sometimes sleeping dogs were best left lying. And sometimes not. How was one to know which choice was better in a certain situation? And, unbidden, a memory returned from last night.
You must face them, then. You must call on them, Chloe had said, referring to Viscount Harding and his wife. And, when he had said he would not, You are content, then, to live out the rest of your life in hell?
* * *
Chloe was feeling tired when she arrived home late in the afternoon. The shopping trip had gone well. Her aunt had both a good eye for color and design and a knowledge of what was fashionable and would suit her niece. Chloe had her opinions too, most of which coincided with her aunt’s. Most of the clothes she ordered for all occasions were in muted shades of her favorite greens, browns, and creams. The gown that was to be made for the ball at Stockwood House, however, was emerald green. Grandmama would be pleased.
The afternoon had been more daunting than the morning, but without unpleasant incident. The Dowager Countess of Berwick had arrived promptly with Nora to take Chloe visiting, and they had called upon three ladies and stayed for a very correct half hour at each house. There were other visitors too, all ladies, with some of whom Chloe had a prior acquaintance from her earlier stays in London. A few of the others she had met at Manville Court on the day of the funeral. Several she had not met before. Some were more friendly than others, but all were polite. Chloe wondered if Mrs. Barrington-Hayes, who welcomed them to her home with almost obsequious deference and presented them to her other guests with open pride, remembered the time six years ago when her butler had informed Lady Muirhead and Miss Muirhead that she was not at home.
Ralph was already home when Chloe returned. He came out of the study as she was removing her gloves.
“Your mother and Nora took me to pay three afternoon calls,” she told him, “and I have arrived home all in one piece.”
“As I see.” His eyes swept over her best green outfit—the one she had worn to her wedding. “I hope you have not tired yourself out. We have guests coming for dinner.”
“Oh?” Her spirits fell.
“Your father and your brother,” he told her. “I ran into your father at White’s.”
She smiled with relief. “That will be lovely.”
“I hope so.” He inclined his head to her and turned back to the study.
There had been not a glimmering of a smile on his face or lurking in his eyes, she thought as she climbed the stairs to her room. But then she supposed having her father and Graham to dinner would be no great pleasure for him. He had invited them for her sake. She warmed herself with the thought.
* * *
Ralph did not need to make any great effort to keep the conversation going during dinner. Graham, when asked, was quite willing to recount some of his experiences in the London slums, where he did most of his work. None of the stories redounded to his glory or made the poor and the destitute sound like inferior beings, Ralph was interested to note. There was real affection in Graham’s voice when he talked of people Ralph himself would pass in the street without so much as a glance. It was a humbling realization and filled him with that old mingling of admiration and irritation.
Sir Kevin, when prompted, spoke of the time when his daughters and
his son were children, and Chloe and Graham chimed in with memories of their own, sometimes conflicting ones. All of them were careful not to exclude Ralph from the conversation, however. They explained things to him that might have been puzzling and identified people he did not know. They must have been a happy family, he concluded.
Chloe described her afternoon visits when her father asked about them and amused them all with her keen observations on various ladies she had met. She was obviously enjoying herself enormously, Ralph thought, noticing her sparkling eyes and somewhat flushed cheeks. Whatever had driven her from home a few months ago seemed to have resolved itself, and all of them appeared to be having a merry time.
Perhaps Sir Kevin was going to be content to leave it thus.
“But all the conversation has been about us,” Chloe said at last, looking apologetically across the table at Ralph. “How dreadfully ill-mannered we have been. We will talk of nothing but you, Ralph, when you join me in the drawing room with Papa and Graham. It is a promise. I shall leave you to your port now.”
Muirhead spoke up as she got to her feet.
“Chloe.” He glanced Ralph’s way and set his napkin down on the table. “I will come with you if I may.”
“Of course.” She raised her eyebrows in surprise but smiled with obvious pleasure. “You do not want any port, Papa?”
“Not tonight,” he said, taking her by the elbow. “I would prefer to have a word with my daughter.”
His voice and his manner were grave, and her smile faltered before she left the room with him.
Graham, Ralph was interested to note, made no move to follow them. He was looking steadily at Ralph instead. With a brief nod Ralph dismissed the footman who remained in the room.
“You know?” he asked when the two of them were alone.
“He told me a few hours ago,” Graham said. “I suspected, of course. Well, I suppose I knew. But sometimes it is preferable to cling to illusion than to admit an unpalatable truth. I loved my mother. I still do. But all through life, it seems, we have to learn and relearn the lesson of loving people unconditionally, no matter what. It is not always easy to do with our parents. We grow up believing them to be perfect.”
Ralph poured them each a glass of port. “And will this knowledge change your feelings for Chloe?” he asked.
“If I were not a peaceable man,” Graham said, “I might feel obliged to plant you a facer for asking that question, Stockwood. Chloe is my sister. Does the reality of her birth make you think any less of her?”
“Not at all. But I had little doubt of the truth even before I married her,” Ralph told him.
“Does she know?” Graham asked.
“In the same way you did—and did not,” Ralph told him. “Having the matter put beyond all doubt will be a blow to her. But ultimately it will surely be better for her to know.”
He hoped he was right.
Graham toyed with his glass, twirling it by the stem.
“Why did you marry her?” he asked.
“I needed a wife,” Ralph said after a small hesitation. “More specifically, I needed—I need—a son, an heir. Chloe wanted a husband and children but thought all her chances had passed her by. She knew—she overheard me tell my grandmother—that I was reluctant to marry, that I had nothing beyond material goods to offer any prospective bride. So she made me an offer. We could both have what we wanted, but there would be no illusions, no sentiment, no pretense of any emotional attachment.”
“And you agreed?” Graham said. “No sentiment, Ralph? No emotional attachment? Nothing to offer? You?”
“I will look after her,” Ralph assured him. “You need not fear that I will not.”
Graham pushed his glass away, the port untouched.
“Why have you never been able to let them go, those three?” he asked. “You had so much more to give to the world than any of them. You had ideas, ideals, passion. Sometimes—often—I disagreed with you, but I always respected you, except perhaps when you called me a coward. But even then you were speaking out of the depths of your convictions. The others just wanted adventure, action, glory. I liked them—and I mourned them. But you have not been able to recover from their deaths, have you?”
Ralph took a drink from his glass.
“They would not have been there in the Peninsula if it had not been for me and my dangerous ideals,” he said.
“You do not know that.” Graham frowned. “To what degree are we our brother’s keeper? I did not go with you, though I heard your arguments as often and as clearly as they did. I disagreed and made other plans for my future. They did not disagree. It was their right and they acted upon it.”
“But they always agreed with me,” Ralph said.
“That did not make you responsible for them,” Graham said. “One cannot always keep one’s opinions, one’s passions, to oneself, Ralph, for fear one might influence others and they might suffer, even die, as a result. Provided we do not try to coerce others in any way, that is. You never did.”
“I called you a coward,” Ralph reminded him.
“But did I turn my back on all my beliefs and follow you to war just to win your approval?” Graham asked. “Don’t be absurd, Ralph. Boys call one another names all the time. They oughtn’t to do it—it causes pain. But no one is perfect, least of all a growing boy. You do not still call people names, do you?”
Ralph’s smile was a bit twisted. “Why did you agree to a duel and then refuse to take up a pistol, you idiot?” he asked.
“Well, I could hardly refuse,” Graham said. “It was an affair of honor, and I am a gentleman. But violence is abhorrent to me. I cannot stop others using it, but I can stop myself. And you do still call people names.”
They looked at each other and smiled slowly—and then laughed.
“And so you ended up as a clergyman, working in parts of London most people would never dare go,” Ralph said. “And I daresay you walk about the streets without even a club with which to protect yourself. Coward? Never. Idiot? Maybe.”
“And you ended up married to my sister,” Graham said. “Who would have thought it?”
“I will look after her, Gray,” Ralph told him.
“Yes,” Graham said, nodding slowly, “I believe you will. And I believe she will look after you.”
19
“I am so glad you came to London again, Papa,” Chloe said, her hand still linked through his arm as they entered the drawing room. “You have not been back here since—well, since Lucy married Mr. Nelson, have you? It is really not so bad, is it? Although I would have preferred to remain in the country, I am not sorry Ralph persuaded me to come here and face the ton. We have accepted a number of invitations for the coming weeks, and we have begun to organize our own ball, which everyone seems to believe will be one of the grandest squeezes of the Season. You must stay long enough to attend that.”
It was hard to recall all the conflicting emotions that had compelled her to leave home after Christmas, to put some distance between herself and her father at least for a while. But one of the happiest moments of the past few weeks had been seeing him descend unexpectedly from Graham’s carriage at Manville and realizing that he was Papa no matter what.
He patted her hand before releasing it and stepping closer to the fire. He held both his hands to the blaze while she took a seat.
“The Marquess of Hitching is in town again this year with his family,” he told her.
“Oh,” she said. “Is this why you left the dining room with me, Papa? To warn me? But I knew. Lady Angela Allandale was at the theater last evening. I know it was she though no one actually said so. She really does resemble me a little—even I can see that. And there was a swell of sound when she entered her box across from ours. I did not mind so very much, though, you know. Indeed, it will be a relief to meet her face to face one of these days, to be civil
to her, to let the ton know that all those rumors are pure nonsense. We will be sending them an invitation to our ball. There is no reason not to. Indeed, it would be remarked upon if we did not, and then the gossip might be revived. You must not worry for me, Papa. Truly you must not. I do not—”
“Chloe.”
He did not turn away from the fire or speak her name loudly, but there was a sharpness to his tone that silenced her.
And she knew what was coming, as surely as though the words had already been spoken. She held up a hand to stop him, but he was not looking at her.
“No father ever loved his child more than I love you,” he said. “I was there with your mother five minutes after your birth, though the midwife protested that neither of you was ready to be seen. I had never seen anything more beautiful in my life than the two of you. I named you. Did you know that? You were a tiny ball of precious humanity, and I immediately thought of a small and precious name for you. I did everything a father can do, Chloe, except provide the spark that gave you life. It was . . . Hitching who did that.”
And there was a world of difference, Chloe thought, between knowing deep down that something was true and knowing it beyond all doubt and denial. A universe of difference.
The air felt sharp and cold in her nostrils. Her hands and feet tingled with pins and needles. There was a faint roaring in her ears. And she felt the sudden impulse to jump to her feet and run—and to keep on running and running.
The trouble with running away is that you must always take yourself with you. Ralph had said that last night. She had run away once—twice—and it had not worked.
Papa was not her father, then. She could no longer even cling to the illusion that he was.
The Marquess of Hitching was her father. Lady Angela Allandale was . . . her half sister. And had she heard that there were sons too? Her half brothers.
Just as Graham was. Just as Lucy was her half sister.