Only a Promise

by Mary Balogh

  “I wrote to you to beg you to talk him out of going, Ralph,” Lady Harding said. “I ought not to have done that. You were not responsible for what our son did or did not do. We let Thomas go—we both did. We sent him to war with our blessing, with dreadful consequences. But we were proud of him. We are proud of him. And we were and are terribly sorry for you. Not sorry that you survived. We were both very, very glad that at least one of you did. But we were sorry for what losing your three closest friends right before your own eyes must have done to you at such a young age. I think that is why we never got around to writing. We thought you did not need the reminder. Though that was foolish. You could not forget anyway, could you? But you thought we blamed you? Oh, my poor, dear boy.”

  Ralph stared at her and then at Harding.

  “I think, my boy,” Harding said sadly, “we had all better start assigning blame where blame is due. I have blamed myself for permitting Thomas to have his commission, and you have blamed yourself for putting the idea into his head. It was war that killed him, though. We must not blame even the French. They were trying to kill you just as you were trying to kill them. They were just ordinary boys, like you and Thomas and Max and Rowland. It was war that was to blame, or rather the human condition that leads us to believe that we must fight to the death to settle our differences.”

  “You are extraordinarily kind,” Ralph said. “Sir Marvin Courtney and Lord and Lady Janes may see things differently, however. They may—”

  “Oh, no,” Lady Harding said. “The deaths of our sons drew us close in our grief. And we all felt the same way about you. Lord Janes went to call on you after you were brought home, but he was turned away at the door. You were not receiving visitors. Neither were your mother and father, who were distraught over your condition, I daresay. He did not go back. Lady Courtney wrote a letter of commiseration to your mother but did not receive any reply. Your mother, I suppose, was too busy watching over you to read her letters, or at least to answer them.”

  She fumbled for a handkerchief, and Harding handed her one of his.

  “Lady Courtney died a few years later,” she continued after she had dried her eyes. “I think her heart was broken, though she still had her daughter left, and a sweet young lady she was too. But I never heard Lady Courtney breathe one word that would suggest she blamed you, Ralph. Or any of the others either. Quite the contrary. We all felt dreadfully sad for you. You had lost your three best school friends all at once, and it seemed very possible that you had seen them . . . die. Did you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Ma’am, they were cheerful and brave. They were—”

  “Yes,” Harding said. “We knew our son.”

  “Chloe,” Lady Harding said, getting to her feet and pulling on the bell rope, “you have not said a word. You have not had a chance to say a word. We have been depressing you with all this talk about our sad history. We have been told that your name was Muirhead before you married Ralph. Thomas had an earnest young friend of that name at school. Is he related to you?”

  “Graham,” Chloe said. “He is my brother, ma’am.”

  “Ah,” Lady Harding said. “He was a likable boy. Our son was very fortunate in all his friends. He enjoyed his school years. It is a comfort to remember that. What has become of your brother?”

  And, incredibly, for the next half hour they all drank tea and nibbled on cakes and conversed on a variety of subjects. Viscount Harding told them about his twin brother with whom he had always enjoyed an extraordinarily close relationship. The brother had married late and had a growing family of three boys and two girls. It was very clear to Ralph that both Harding and his wife doted upon their nieces and nephews and saw them frequently. The eldest boy was, of course, Harding’s heir after the boy’s own father. The nephews and nieces would never replace the Hardings’ own son, of course, but it was clear that they were a consolation.

  Lady Harding told Chloe that Miss Courtney, the young sister of Ralph’s friend Max, had just married a clergyman from the north of England.

  “We were at the wedding,” she said, “and a very pretty one it was too. The bride glowed. It was understandable, I must say. Her husband is a well-set-up young gentleman and more handsome than any clergyman has a right to be. It was very clearly a love match—the very best sort, would you not agree, Chloe?”

  “I would, ma’am,” Chloe said and smiled.

  “You must not be strangers,” Harding said when Ralph got to his feet a short while later. “Now that we have seen one another again and got over the awkwardness of a long silence, we must keep in touch.”

  “We will send you an invitation to our ball at Stockwood House,” Chloe said. “Please come. Graham will be there. He will be delighted to see you.”

  Five minutes later they were walking home, Chloe’s arm drawn through Ralph’s. He had dismissed the carriage when she had assured him she would enjoy some fresh air. They walked in silence for several minutes.

  “I like them,” Chloe said eventually.

  “What?” He paused to toss a coin to a young crossing sweeper who had cleared some horse droppings from their path. “Oh. Yes. They are very pleasant. They always were.”

  “I hope they come to the ball,” she said.

  “Mmm.”

  They did not speak again until they reached the house. He could not seem to unfreeze his brain.

  “Chloe,” he said when her foot was on the bottom stair.

  She turned to look back at him.

  “Thank you,” he said, “for changing your plans and coming with me.”

  She smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

  “I could not have done it without you,” he said.

  She smiled again and continued on her way.

  Ralph let himself into the library and shut the door behind him. He had something to think about, though he could not at the moment imagine what it was exactly. But whatever it was, it was something he needed to do in private.

  * * *

  Ralph had not gone out. The butler reported that he had shut himself in the library upon his return with Her Grace and had not come out again—or rung for any service. He had not gone up to his room to change for dinner. Burroughs reported that he had waited with His Grace’s shaving water and evening clothes, but he had waited in vain.

  Ralph did not come to the dining room for dinner, and Chloe decided not to have him summoned. She ate alone and then sent off a short note to Nora explaining that they would not be going to a private concert at which they had arranged to meet Nora and Lord Keilly. She spent the rest of the evening alone in the drawing room. She tried reading but gave up the attempt when she realized she had turned perhaps three pages in half an hour but had no idea what she had read. She worked doggedly but without enjoyment at her embroidery.

  And she wondered for surely the dozenth time if this afternoon’s visit had made any difference at all to Ralph. Was his sense of guilt so deep-seated that he would never be able to let it go? Was he willing to accept forgiveness even though it would seem none was necessary? Would he be willing now to live again? And if so, what about her? Where would she fit in his life? Would he be forever sorry he had married her? And if he was not willing to be forgiven, or, more to the point, to forgive himself, what then? Could she go on like this? But she did not have much choice, did she?

  She put away her embroidery eventually and got to her feet though it was early to go to bed. What else was there to do? She was feeling horribly depressed though she ought not to be. This afternoon’s visit had really gone very well indeed. And surely it had gone a long way toward setting Ralph free.

  She paused when her foot was on the bottom stair leading up to her bedchamber and looked toward the stairs going down. Was he still there? Or had he gone out some time during the evening without her hearing him? She hesitated for several moments longer and then took the stairs down. The footman on dut
y in the hall scurried ahead of her to the library and opened the door. He closed it behind her after she had stepped inside.

  A branch of candles had been lit. There was no fire burning, but it was not a cold night. He was slumped in a chair beside the fireplace. He had removed his neckcloth and opened the neck of his shirt. But he was still in his coat and waistcoat and pantaloons and Hessian boots from this afternoon. His hair was disheveled as though he had run his fingers through it a time or two. A half-empty glass stood on the table beside him, though he did not look drunk. A glance toward the sideboard assured Chloe that all but one of the decanters there were still full, and even that one was not depleted by more than a glass or two.

  He looked across the room at her.

  “Where do memories live?” he asked. “Have you ever thought about it, Chloe? Suddenly we remember things that happened years ago, things we have not thought about since, yet they are as vivid as the events were when they were happening. Where have they been in the meanwhile? You would think we would need heads the size of a continent just to store them all.”

  He did not sound drunk.

  “What have you been remembering?” she asked him.

  “Mostly school days,” he said. “People tell boys, and maybe girls too, that those are the best days of their lives, but as boys we scoff at them and hurl ourselves headlong at adulthood. I hate to perpetuate a cliché, but they were the best days.”

  She walked toward him. There was no stool beside his chair. The chair on the other side of the hearth seemed too far away. She lowered herself to her knees before and to one side of him, set a hand on his knee and rubbed it slightly before setting her cheek there instead, her face turned away. His hand came to rest on her head, and his fingers played gently through her curls.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Ten o’ clock.”

  “Ten?” He sounded surprised. “I missed dinner, did I? Were we not supposed to go somewhere with Nora and Keilly this evening?”

  “I sent our excuses,” she told him.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “Was it something you were particularly looking forward to? And you gave up your afternoon visit for me too.”

  “It was no great sacrifice,” she told him.

  “I have been remembering every scrape and antic I got up to with those three,” he said, “and every debate and quarrel. Every laugh we had. Every holiday we enjoyed together. And those early days in the Peninsula. There were not many of them. They were cut down far too soon. The reality of war was shocking, you know, to four boys fresh out of school, with only idealism and high spirits and energy to buoy us. But there were good times. There was laughter. We were laughing over something at breakfast that morning even though we knew what was coming, and I suppose the laughter was tinged with fear. I wish I could remember what had amused us, though I suppose it was something quite trivial. And then, just an hour or so later, I watched them die.”

  His hand smoothed lightly over her hair and fell still. Chloe gazed into the unlit coals. And then she heard a slight sound. Muffled laughter? Another memory? It sounded less like laughter the next time, though. She heard him swallow.

  She raised her head and scrambled to her feet, and both his hands went up to cover his face.

  “The devil!” he said. “Go away, Chloe. Get out of here.”

  She turned and sat on his lap instead. She burrowed her head against him and slipped her arms as best she could about his waist. And she held him while sobs wracked him until he could no longer hold them in but wept and wept for three dead friends and the end of youth.

  She held him for long minutes after he had finished and found a handkerchief and blown his nose and presumably dried his eyes.

  “I never wept for them,” he said at last. “I never felt I had the right.”

  “Until now,” she said.

  “Is it possible,” he asked, “that they really do not blame me? That they never have?”

  “I think,” she said, “that they want to believe, quite correctly, that their son acted on the strength of his own convictions, that he insisted upon going because it was what he wanted to do. I think the other parents believe the same thing about their sons.”

  “It was a strange sort of vanity, then,” he said, “to believe that I had so much influence over them?”

  Chloe hesitated.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think if you search your memories, Ralph, it is quite possible you will remember that the idea came from you but that the decision was individually made by four friends.”

  They lapsed into silence. One of his hands came to the back of her head again, and she felt him lower his head to kiss her.

  “I do not suppose,” he said, “you will ever be an obedient wife, will you?”

  “It is not unmanly to weep,” she told him.

  “The devil it is not.” He nudged her away from his chest and gazed into her face. His own was a bit blotchy. His scar was more pronounced than usual.”

  “I hope you do not mind too much that I stayed,” she said. “Sometimes we need company while we weep, especially when we are mourning a loss.”

  “They have been dead for more than seven years,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “For you they have just died.”

  “What did I do to deserve you?” he asked her.

  “Oh. Nothing.” She sat up abruptly and got to her feet. “I asked you, if you will remember. It was very brazen of me.” She brushed her hands over nonexistent creases in her skirt.

  “I am very glad you did,” he said.

  She looked down a little uncertainly at him. He was looking more disheveled than ever, quite rumpled, in fact. And almost irresistibly gorgeous.

  “Are you glad?” he asked her.

  “Of course I am,” she said. “I did not want to go through life a spinster.”

  “And that is all this is?” He was half smiling at her. “A convenient marriage?”

  She did not know how to reply.

  “You tell me,” she said.

  He got to his feet, took her right hand in his, and drew it through his arm.

  “I think we had better go to bed,” he said, “and make love. We still have an heir to create, remember? Or perhaps a daughter first. I would like a daughter. Do you think she would have your hair? Let’s go create. And have some pleasure too. It is enjoyable, is it not?”

  He turned his head and raised his eyebrows when she did not reply.

  “Yes,” she said, “it is.”

  His hand was on the doorknob. Before he turned it, he lowered his head and kissed her briefly and openmouthed.

  23

  Ralph could remember only one occasion when the ballroom at Stockwood House had been used as such. He must have been somewhere between the ages of eight and ten. It had been his grandparents’ ball, though it was his mother and father who had acted as hosts through most of the evening. Ralph and his sisters had watched the revelries from an upper gallery for half an hour or so under the supervision of a nurse, but while the girls had been enraptured by absolutely everything and everybody and could not wait until they were old enough to attend such a ball themselves, he had watched the men bow and scrape to the ladies and mince gracefully about the dance floor like idiots and wondered in horror if he would ever be expected to behave in such an asinine way.

  He smiled at the memory now as he looked about the ballroom. The floor gleamed with fresh polish. The three chandeliers still rested on it, but soon the candles would be lit and they would be hoisted up close to the ceiling, which was ornately coved and gilded and painted with angels and cherubs and harps and trumpets floating in a blue sky among fluffy, pinkish clouds in a scene that came from no classical myth or Bible story that Ralph had ever encountered. The wall mirrors had been polished until not a speck of dust or a single fingerprint remained. Vines
had been twined about the pillars down the length of the room. Banks of flowers and greenery surrounded them and filled the air with their mingled scents. Several instruments were propped on the orchestra dais.

  Through the wide double doorway at the far end of the room, Ralph could see long tables covered with white linen cloths that would soon be piled with platters of fruit and dainties and drinks to refresh the guests before supper.

  His mother had come and fussed. So had Nora. Great-Aunt Mary had come and made free with her lorgnette and advice. Grandmama had asked a thousand anxious questions. Ralph had made it clear to all of them that he and Chloe needed no assistance, that they had organized the ball themselves and did not anticipate any major catastrophe—or any minor one for that matter.

  It was a bit unfair to claim all the credit, of course, since Arthur Lloyd had done a great deal of the planning and most of the work had been undertaken by the housekeeper and the cook and all the household staff.

  When his mother had come to offer her services, Chloe had been from home and Ralph had been about to go out. She had sat down in the drawing room after he had thanked her for coming but declined her help and gazed at him for a long moment.

  “Ralph,” she had said then, “you are back? You are really back?”

  He might have been forgiven if he had not known what on earth she was talking about. But he did know.

  “Yes,” he had said. “I am, Mama.”