by Mary Balogh
He went with George to attend one of the king’s formal levees and accepted His Majesty’s condolences and congratulations.
“I understand, Worthingham,” the king said, “that there is to be a celebratory ball at Stockwood House in the next week or two.”
“There is, indeed, Your Majesty,” Ralph said. Good Lord, did the whole world know, though the invitations had not even gone out yet?
“I shall think of honoring it with my presence,” the king informed him. “Provided neither you nor the duchess is of a modern turn of mind and likes to keep windows open on the assumption that night air is good for the constitution?” His eyebrows were raised. He was awaiting an answer.
The king’s own entertainments were famous for their fainting ladies and stiflingly hot and stuffy rooms.
“All windows will remain tightly closed, Your Majesty,” Ralph assured the great mountain of a man before him.
“And so,” he told George in the carriage a short time later, “we will all boil in the heat that evening on the faint chance that Prinny will take it into his head to show his face at the ball for all of five minutes.”
“Not Prinny any longer,” George reminded him. “The king—George the Fourth. And yes, we all will, Ralph. But if he comes, you know, even for five minutes, yours will indeed be pronounced the entertainment of the Season. That will be gratifying for your wife.”
Ralph laughed. “She will die of terror when I tell her,” he said. “No. No, she will not. She will carry it off with cool dignity even if her knees are knocking.”
George turned his head to smile at him.
“You made a good choice, Ralph,” he said. “I am not sure you are fully aware of that fact yet. But it was a good choice.”
They were on their way to Hugo’s house for a late luncheon, just for the men. Lady Trentham was out somewhere with family members and had taken Hugo’s young sister with her.
“Well, you two look grand enough to stop a few female hearts,” Hugo said, looking over their court dress when they arrived. “Come and tell this poor commoner all about it.”
Hugo was a commoner, or had been. His father had been a wealthy businessman of solidly middle-class background. Hugo’s title had been awarded him after he had led a bloody and successful attack in Spain.
George had to leave after they had eaten. He had asked Chloe earlier when he had brought his carriage to take Ralph to court if he might have the honor of driving her in the park later in the afternoon.
“If I know your husband, Duchess,” he had said, “and I believe I do know him a little, he will answer all your questions about the levee with monosyllables. I, on the other hand, will tell you everything.”
“I would be delighted to be seen in the park with you even without that incentive,” she had said, laughing. “Everything?”
“Every sordid detail.” George had even winked at her. Ralph did not believe he had ever before seen George wink.
After they left, Hugo and Ralph settled back at the table with a pot of coffee between them, Ralph having declined anything stronger.
“Well, lad,” Hugo said.
Ralph poured them both a cup and added some cream to his own. Those words had not been meaningless. Hugo had always had a way of indicating that he was ready to allow the conversation to become serious. Big and seemingly gruff though he was, he had always been a sensitive listener, though sometimes he had been the one needing to talk. That was what had made their group so close knit. They all took from it. And they all gave back to it in equal measure.
Another thing about Hugo was that he was not intimidated by silence. He never rushed to fill it when he knew his companion needed time.
“Do you feel that Lady Trentham is your superior, Hugo?” Ralph asked him at last.
Hugo pursed his lips and considered.
“My grampa dropped his aitches more often than not,” he said, “and ate his food with his knife and both elbows on the table. He had a Yorkshire accent so thick you could have cut it with his own knife. My pa’s accent was only slightly thinner. They made their money the hard way, the vulgar way, if you like. Gwen’s blood is blue to the very heart. There is hardly a member of her family that does not have a title attached to his name—or hers. And most of them are titles that go back for generations. Is Gwen my superior? No, she is not. Nor am I hers. She is not up there on a pedestal with stars about her head for a tiara while I grovel down here worshiping and adoring. And I am not up there, the great military hero, while she bats her eyelashes with adoration from down here. It just would not work either way, Ralph. We are equal. We are together. We are one. I do sound more than a bit daft, don’t I? But you did ask.”
Ralph gazed into the cup he held in one hand.
“You think the duchess is your superior?” Hugo asked.
Ralph looked up at him and set down his cup.
“That evening when we were at the theater with George,” he said. “Viscount Harding and his wife were there.”
“Harding?” Hugo clearly did not know whom he was talking about.
“Their son was with me in the Peninsula,” Ralph explained. “Tom.”
“Ah.” Hugo understood. He knew about Tom and Max and Rowland. “Did they see you?”
“I looked away before our eyes met,” Ralph told him. “But, yes, I think so.”
“Ah, lad.” Hugo sighed. “I am not going to tell you that you ought to have gone to see them long ago, or written to them at the very least. I am not going to tell you that you are not as responsible for their son’s death as you believe you are. I am not going to suggest that they may not hate you as much as you believe they do. I am not going to tell you anything. I have been where you are, even if my case was a bit different from yours. I still find myself in that place occasionally, and a deep, dark place it is. I know getting over it is not a simple matter of willing it away. Most people would not understand. I do. What is the connection between the Hardings and your duchess being your superior?”
Ralph pushed his cup and saucer away, his coffee untouched.
“She went to call on Hitching,” he said, “the morning after Muirhead told her the truth about her birth. It was the very last thing she wanted to do. But what else was there when she is likely to meet him and his family innumerable times this spring and in the coming years? I went with her, Hugo. She was terrified. She even went with Hitching to meet his wife and his daughter and son. They did not greet her warmly. I can only imagine what it must all have felt like for Chloe. Good God, Hugo, Hitching is her father. But she did it. I thought she might need to lean on me a bit, but she did not. She did it all herself. I am not fit to kiss the hem of her dress. That sounds theatrical. But I am not.”
“Because you cannot get up the courage to call on Harding and his wife?” Hugo said.
“I would probably do more harm than good if I did,” Ralph said.
“To whom, lad?” Hugo asked quietly.
Ralph closed his eyes and clenched one hand on the tabletop.
22
“You have plans for this afternoon?” Ralph asked.
They were eating luncheon together at home, an unusual occurrence. Usually he was gone from the middle of the morning until late afternoon.
“Sarah has invited me to tea,” Chloe told him. “Your grandmother and Great-Aunt Mary are going too. And Lucy. And Gwen will be there with her cousin, Viscountess Ravensberg, who has just recently come to town with her husband. She is the abandoned bride, Ralph, the one the Earl of Kilbourne was about to marry when the countess arrived at the church just in time to stop the ceremony. I cannot wait to meet her. Oh, and the countess herself will be with them.”
“Ah,” he said.
Chloe looked more closely at him, her knife and fork suspended above her plate. She had expected a bit more of a reaction from him.
“What is the
matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He looked back at her with raised eyebrows—and blank eyes. “Nothing at all. I hope you enjoy yourself.”
“What did you want me to do this afternoon?” she asked him.
“Nothing.” He frowned.
“What are you going to do?”
He set his knife and fork down across his plate with a clatter.
“Sometimes you can be the most pestilential of females,” he said.
Chloe recoiled but did not stop staring at him.
“I beg your pardon.” There was a dull flush in his cheeks. “I do beg your pardon, Chloe. That was quite uncalled for. I will be paying a call of my own this afternoon.”
She did not ask. She waited instead.
“Viscount Harding and his wife are leasing a house on Curzon Street,” he explained when she did not break the silence. “I thought I would call on them. Apparently they are at home most afternoons. Today may be the exception, of course.”
He was doing a lamentable job of sounding casual. Chloe had not forgotten who the viscount and his wife were.
“You wanted me to come with you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “there is no need. You have other plans. You may tell me this evening if your curiosity over Viscountess Ravensberg has been satisfied.” He picked up his knife and fork as though he intended to resume eating, then merely frowned at his food.
“I shall come with you,” she said. “I’ll send a note to Sarah excusing myself.”
“There is no need,” he said again.
“Yes, there is,” she insisted. “I’ll come. You came with me.”
“Did I ever tell you,” he asked, his eyes inscrutable as they lifted to meet hers, “that sometimes you can be the most pestilential of females?”
“Yes, a time or two,” she said. “But I am coming anyway.”
And then she bit down hard on her lower lip. Before he turned his head sharply away and got abruptly to his feet, his eyes had glistened with what she would swear were tears.
* * *
Ralph wondered fleetingly if this was how Chloe had felt when they stood outside Hitching’s door, waiting for it to open. And he wondered if this was the most selfish thing he had ever done. Was he trying to make himself feel a little better at the expense of people who must wish he were buried in the deepest point of the world’s oceans and consigned to the farthest corner of hell?
Would he feel better?
Or ten times worse?
Was there any worse to feel? Or was there only feeling to feel? He had cut it off more than four years ago as a technique of survival. If he did not feel, then there was nothing to drive him back to the brink of suicide. He had allowed himself to become fond of six friends and to love his family, it was true, provided he kept himself at some emotional distance from them all. And he had allowed himself in the last month or so to grow fond of his wife. It had seemed only right and fair. He had tried, though, to keep her far enough from his heart that he could survive.
He had tried . . .
The door opened and a thin young man in an ill-fitting footman’s uniform looked out at them.
“The Duke and Duchess of Worthingham to see Viscount and Viscountess Harding, if they are at home,” Ralph said, handing the young man his card.
“Oh, they are at home, right enough, Your Lordship, Your Worship,” the footman said, still blocking the doorway. “But I’ll have to go and ask. That is, I do not know if they are at home or not, but I’ll find out for you.”
“New on the job?” Ralph asked.
“Just promoted yesterday from kitchen help,” the young man said, flushing scarlet. “Jerry was dismissed on account of he was light fingered and got caught with a silver spoon down his stocking, and Mr. Broom said as how I could have a chance before they went looking for someone else, Your Worship, Your—”
“Your Grace is the term you are looking for,” Ralph said. “I am a duke. And I believe you ought to admit us and perhaps offer Her Grace a chair while you run off to see if your master and mistress are at home and willing to receive us.”
“Right you are, guv,” the footman said, stepping to one side. “I daresay it’s a bit nippy standing out there. Come on in, then.”
“Thank you,” Chloe said, smiling at the young man as he dragged a chair close to the door for her to sit on. “And congratulations on your promotion. You are learning your new duties quickly.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Thank you, ma’am,” he said and hurried away up the stairs, waving Ralph’s card before his face like a fan.
Ralph exchanged a glance with Chloe and clasped his hands at his back.
“Well, that was diverting,” he said. Strangely, it had been too. Though now he felt sick to the stomach again.
They were not kept waiting long. It was not the thin footman who came back down the stairs, though, but Harding himself, his wife on his heels.
“Worthingham,” Harding said, reaching out his right hand. “Ralph. Good God, man, you have come to us when we ought to have come to you. You did see us at the theater, then. We ought to have waited on you at your box during the interval. Or we ought to have called at Stanbrook House the very next morning. Instead, we have made you come to us.”
He was wringing Ralph’s right hand as though he would break every bone in it. Then he stepped aside while his wife took both of Ralph’s hands in her own and held them tightly to her bosom.
“Ralph,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Ralph Stockwood. Oh, my dear boy. We neglected you quite shamefully when you were brought home to England, and ever since then we have been too ashamed to seek you out or even to write. How do things like that happen? And now you have come to us. And you have brought your new wife?”
“Yes.” He stood back, more than a bit bewildered. “Chloe, the Duchess of Worthingham. Viscount and Viscountess Harding, Chloe.”
“Chloe,” the viscountess said, beaming. “What a pretty name. And what a very pretty lady. And you grew into a very handsome man, Ralph, as of course I knew you would. But, oh, your poor, poor face. It was cut when—?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I am so glad you came,” the viscountess told him. “Though you have put us to shame. We have been feeling more and more guilty every day and keep on saying that we really must call upon you. It is not so easy, though, when so much time has passed. We thought you must be disappointed with us, even angry with us. We thought perhaps you thought we did not care. But now you have come to us. Oh, do come upstairs to the drawing room. What are we thinking to keep you standing down here? Duchess, do come up. Or may I call you Chloe? Ralph was almost like a son to us, you know.”
And she linked an arm through Chloe’s and drew her in the direction of the stairs.
Harding gestured with one arm so that Ralph would follow them.
“How are you doing, Ralph, my boy?” he asked. “We heard that you hovered near death for a long time, and then you went off to somewhere in Cornwall and were there for years. We feared you must be permanently incapacitated. But then Courtney’s girl saw you in London and reported that you seemed fine apart from a nasty scar. How are you?”
Ralph had no opportunity to answer. They had arrived in the drawing room, and Lady Harding was directing them to a couple of chairs. Ralph did not sit down. When he did not, they all turned to stare at him. For a moment, there was silence.
“You do not . . . hate me?” he finally asked, looking from one beaming face to the other.
“Hate you, Ralph?” Lady Harding looked puzzled.
“Because you lived and Thomas died?” Harding’s smile had faded. “And Max and Rowland too? But you did not kill them, Ralph. The French did.”
“Did you think we resented the fact that you lived while our son died?” Lady Harding had tears in her eyes again. “Oh, Ralph, m
y dear boy, is that what you have thought all these years because we did not come to see you? We did not come at first because we were prostrated with grief and you were not allowed any visitors. And then you went off to Cornwall and we did not know exactly where. We could have found out, I suppose. We should have found out. We should have written to you at the very least. But what was there to say? And so much time had passed before we thought of it that we felt awkward and guilty. We ought to have done it sooner. You were one of Thomas’s dearest friends. You had been a frequent guest in our home and we had loved you. We were embarrassed about neglecting you. We were always going to write but never actually did. And then we saw you a couple of weeks ago and still could not make ourselves go and talk to you. How dreadful you must have thought us.”
“But Tom would not have been in the Peninsula if it had not been for me,” Ralph said. “I talked all three of them into it. You did not want Tom to go. Max and Rowland’s parents did not want them to go. They came because I persuaded them.”
“Sit down, Ralph,” Harding said and waited until he had seated himself on the chair the viscountess had indicated. Harding stayed on his feet. “We raised our boy to have a mind of his own. We were pleased with the friends he made at school. You were all good lads, you and Max and Rowland, and there were a few others too. You were the leader, of course. That was clear. But we did not mind. You had a good heart and a good head on your shoulders, and none of them followed you slavishly. If they disagreed with you, they said so. If you disagreed with them, you said so. We were dismayed when Thomas begged me to purchase a commission for him when he left school. We argued with him for a while, and I was determined to keep on refusing. But he was a young man more than a boy. I talked with him at last, man to man—took him fishing for a whole day and just talked. And he convinced me that he could not be happy unless he did what he conceived to be his duty and went to fight. I knew you had planted the idea in his head. But I knew too by the time I gave in and let him go that he was following his own firmly held convictions, not yours. He would have gone even if you had changed your mind.”