His mother stopped, met his eye and said. “You won’t. It is in your nature to do what is right. I shall inform Mr. and Mrs. Charnock to arrange a betrothal party so the announcement may be made properly. As to your mistress, well, your father would not approve but I shall leave her to your own conscience.”
She ended her statement with a tight smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes.
In the past, Gavin would not have seen past that smile. In trying to understand, he was learning to understand others—and he realized, there was much he didn’t know about his own mother. His father had taken up the room in his life, leaving his mother more in the background, even after his death.
The dowager opened the door and was ready to sail from the room, until Gavin stopped her by asking, “Did you love my father?”
She started as if his question had been completely unexpected, and it had. Gavin hadn’t even known he would ask it. Her brows came together. “Love?”
“Aye, cupid’s emotion. I believe it is part of the marriage vows.”
“Why are you asking, Gavin?”
She scarcely used his given name. From the moment he had received his first title, a courtesy title, the Marquis of Trenton, she had referred to him by it. He’d been Trenton, my lord, Baynton, Your Grace, or “my son.”
“I’m not asking. I’m wondering,” he said. “After all, it is obvious Ben adores Elin. Jack would go to the ends of the earth for Charlene. I cannot see either of them with mistresses and I’ve started to wonder about Father? Did he live two lives?”
“Never. As far as I know, your father was one of the rare men who was completely faithful.”
“So, he loved you?”
“I don’t understand this question.”
Gavin stood. “Not too long ago, you kept company with Fyclan Morris and I think you were the happiest I’ve ever known you.” The financier Fyclan Morris was Elin’s father and an important mentor to Gavin. Without him, he could not have restored the Baynton fortunes that his father, the old duke, had come close to ruining.
“I have respect for Fyclan,” his mother answered. Now she was the one who trod carefully.
“Did you love him?”
With a sound of impatience, the dowager shut the door. “This is nonsense.” And he would have believed her except for the second of raw emotion that swept her face to be quickly schooled away.
“Did he not return your regard?” Gavin pressed, on a mission now.
“In his fashion. What does this have to do with our discussion about Miss Charnock?”
“It doesn’t, I suppose. And yes, I know my obligations . . . except recently, Mother, I feel as if I stand at the edge of an abyss and one step might destroy me. Not other men—me.”
“I’ve never known you to be given to foolishness.”
“Perhaps I never had a reason to before.”
She frowned, took a deep breath, released it, and then said, “I’ve always admired Fyclan. When he and I kept company, I found I cared deeply for him . . . except he will always love his wife. She has been gone several years and still he loves her. Oh, he was kind and considerate when he was with me but the heart of him belonged to her and would never be mine.”
There was a moment of silence and then she said, “In truth, I cared too much for Fyclan to be able to breathe in his wife’s shadow. Lord Kent—” she referred to her current escort “—is also a widower but he doesn’t pine for what he once had. He holds me in high regard.”
“Do you feel the same?”
“I am happy,” she pronounced with a touch of defiance. “We suit each other. Fyclan will never let go of Jenny. Some men are that way. I will never be what she was to him. And now,” she continued, opening the door, “I have appointments. I will let you know what date the Charnocks choose to announce the betrothal. Oh, and may I say, I wish you would hire a new secretary. It is tiresome communicating with you since you gave Talbert the sack.”
“I shall, Mother.”
He half expected her to flee the room then, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked back at him. “Gavin, don’t think overmuch on love. It has nothing to do with marriages of our class. Remember that, my son.”
She left the room.
Chapter Seventeen
Don’t think overmuch on love.
His mother’s advice haunted Gavin.
She was right in that any discussion he’d ever heard about suitable marriage partners, love was never one of the qualities mentioned. A successful marriage was one that met the needs of the Great Houses and ensured the dynasties would be preserved.
In fact, he had never considered the true nature of the word “love” before—not relative to himself. He had an idea about what love looked like. He had given his blessing to Ben to marry Elin because they were in “love.” He had stepped aside from Lady Charlene because she and Jack “loved” so deeply, they would defy convention.
Yes, he’d seen love. He’d not experienced it.
He now found himself trying to piece his thoughts about love together.
Ben and Elin served as a good example. He’d never known his younger brother to be so happy. Or productive. Ben’s star was rising fast in the War Office. He was a respected, stable, and considered administrator, something he definitely had not been before Elin. She brought out the best in him. Even Ben, happily, gave her full credit for his success.
It was the same with Jack and Charlene. They belonged together. Gavin had been furious that his twin had claimed his bride. He had considered his brother’s behavior traitorous. Everyone in society had known that Gavin had set his sight on Charlene.
And yet, once Gavin was in their company, he realized it would have been almost cruel to separate her from Jack, even if he could. He’d had to swallow his pride, let them marry; he had even paid for the wedding breakfast.
Because they were in love.
Late that afternoon, he found himself at the Bishop’s Hill Theater. He took a chair in the rear of the theater.
Sarah did not know he was there. She was busy on stage with her actors. She was full of authority and exercised it very well, he had to note. He enjoyed watching her move on the stage. Her every gesture was grace.
His favorite moments were when a new idea struck her and her eyes came alive with possibility. Even at home, he would catch her standing, her mind mulling over a particular scene or bit of dialogue. He would watch her mentally chew on the problem, then gifting him with a smile of victory when she’d riddled it out to her satisfaction.
This afternoon, the actor playing the male lead Jonathan Goodwell did not like a line and Sarah changed it. Listening, Gavin had to admit the actor’s wording was better. Gavin himself was not fond of admitting when he was wrong but Sarah was of a more open mind. She continually weighed what was best for her play, a trait Gavin had discovered that since knowing her, he had started to use in his political life to good success.
The actors were rehearsing the last scene. This was where Goodwell declares himself to the Widow. The actor playing the role was Thom Rawlins. He was a long, narrow man with a sharp chin and deep-set eyes.
Sarah had wanted a more dashing actor for the role but beggars could not be choosers. Gavin was as aware as Sarah that many of the prime actors in the city had chosen not to audition for Widow because they were not comfortable with a female manager.
He had offered to hire a male manager for her but Sarah was committed to serving as actress-manager and so she would.
Watching her, Gavin could tell she relished this dual role. His love liked being in charge—
His love.
The endearment caught his attention.
She was his love.
Many a night, after a bout of robust lovemaking, he would hold her and realize how blessed he was to have her in his life. Blessed, yes . . . wasn’t that part of love? The blessing of love?
Nor did he have a desire to lose her. She was more than his lover; she was a confidant. He could speak his th
oughts aloud and receive not only her wise counsel but also her loyalty. For the first time, he’d met someone who would never betray his trust—anymore than he would betray hers. There had even been times over the past weeks when she had understood what he was truly feeling before he could express it himself.
And he understood the same about her. That was the miracle.
In the past, Gavin had been so wrapped up in his ducal responsibilities, he’d rarely had a moment to think of anything or anyone else . . . but he thought of her. All his waking moments. The grace of her visited his dreams as well.
Right now, observing her working, he knew she was frustrated with Rawlins. She claimed he was a lazy actor, always a bit slow with his responses or paying attention to the business on stage.
Only the other night, when Gavin had been saying Rawlins’s lines to help Sarah practice hers, she had exclaimed with exasperation that she wished the actor had a bit of Gavin’s ability. “You are a natural at this,” she had declared.
“If I can’t move the Money Bill forward, perhaps I shall turn to the stage,” Gavin had teased in response. “Facing an audience will be vastly easier than Liverpool’s disappointment.” However, he’d been pleased by her compliment. He took pleasure in his escapade with the theater.
He took pleasure in Sarah.
She was not happy with how Rawlins crossed the stage to deliver his character’s pronouncement of love for the Widow. She accused him of moving like a clod and not a man in love, something that made the other members of the company snicker. Apparently Rawlins was quite taken by the young woman playing the Widow’s sister.
“Quiet, all of you,” Sarah said in a voice that would have made a general proud. “We open in two days’ time. We must pull together. Each of us can do a bit more. This play will be a success. It has everything Londoners like from their theater, but we need to give it our all.”
Several heads nodded. Rawlins even managed to move with more grace.
And Gavin felt his chest swell with pride. His Sarah was a leader. She was clever, bright, and bold, a remarkable woman. She graced his table and his bed and he never wanted her to leave his side. It was that clear, that simple.
He loved her, and the knowledge was humbling because he actually needed her in his life.
Yes, Gavin must marry. If his mother and Dame Imogen believed the Charnock chit was suitable, he would not argue. But he would not give up Sarah. He couldn’t.
Many men were more faithful to their mistresses than to their wives. He would be one. Sarah would lack for nothing.
His mind settled, Gavin left the theater to attend a meeting to negotiate with the Opposition to the Money Bill. It would be a late night. Apparently, Rov had not left London as everyone had anticipated in spite of his being disgraced in the duel. Jane had, thankfully, retired to the country but Rov stayed. It was said he whispered against Gavin but truly, what damage could he do? No decent door was open to him. The man was now beyond the pale.
The hour was late by the time he returned to the house he shared with Sarah. He let himself in, not expecting her to be awake.
Instead, he was surprised to see Sarah working away at her desk, crumpled and discarded sheets of paper on the floor around her chair. She looked up as he entered, the very picture of misery.
He crossed over to her. “Why are you awake? And what are you writing?” Looking down, he saw the names of the characters in The Fitful Widow. “You can’t be rewriting your play. Not at this late date.”
“I worry,” she confessed. She was wearing her nightdress and her hair was down, the way he liked it. “I was thinking that the middle should have more power. Perhaps more drama.”
“It has drama enough.” He took her pen from her hand, setting it aside.
“But the part where Peregrine realizes Jonathan’s true intentions is so slow.”
“Not slow—studied,” Gavin corrected. “Your audience will want to hear the nuance to every word. Isn’t that what you told me last week?” He pulled her from the chair.
“But—” Sarah started to protest until Gavin silenced her with a kiss.
Her body quickly melted against his as if only he could give her strength. He ran his hand over her hair, her back, her hips.
He broke the kiss. “There is nothing wrong with your play,” he said. “It will be a success.”
“You never go to the theater.”
“Only the occasional Shakespeare,” he reminded her, savoring what had become a small joke between them. “But I have heard others speak who have seen Widow, and they all agree it is a brilliant piece of work. Trust your talent, Sarah. Your play will be the talk of London.”
“It already is,” she said. “Your connection to it has made it so.”
“Good. I am proud to shine a light on such a lovely new playwright.”
Her lips curved into a reluctant smile. She feared believing him. Gavin understood wanting something and yet fearing the outcome. “Be brave, my love.”
She showed her appreciation for his faith in him with another kiss, and then another until they were on the carpet making love. Later, he carried her sleeping form up to their bed. Stretching out beside her, he realized how happy he was to be with her. He’d missed being beside her last night. He felt more at home in this modest house than he did in the home of his childhood, Menheim. Then again, wherever Sarah was, there was where he would be happy.
He must not lose her.
Gavin was gone by the time Sarah rose the next morning. She felt rested and well loved. In the light of day, she realized he had saved her from immeasurable angst. Once she was in his arms, she could think of nothing other than him.
Of course, she was nervous about the opening of her play. One more day. That was all she had to prepare.
She knew that Colman and many of the other theater managers in town were very interested to see how she did. After all, most of them had turned down her plays. They hadn’t refused her talent to help their own work, but she sensed that, territorial men that they were, they were not going to greet The Fitful Widow with open arms.
Sarah dressed quickly and went downstairs to see what she had to break her fast. Afterward, she hurried to the theater, ready for the hundreds of tasks scheduled for the day. One item she didn’t have to worry about was her role. Gavin had rehearsed her so completely, she knew her part in every manner possible. One had only to throw out a line and Sarah could answer it. She knew this play better than anyone, save perhaps Gavin since he’d played every part rehearsing her lines with her. He’d even memorized most of them as well.
She was usually the first to the theater and especially so today. For a moment, she savored the quiet. Handbills had been passed out or tacked up where they may. Whether the house on the morrow would be a full one or almost empty, the die had been cast.
She knew there were some who said that Gavin had purchased all of this for her, and it was true. She’d said as much to him once. He’d answered that he was merely providing her the opportunity.
His faith in her seemed unwavering. Because of him, she’d found the courage to set aside doubts and to live her dream.
She prayed he would not be disappointed when the play opened, and yet, she knew he wouldn’t be. The Fitful Widow was a good play. Her best. She’d been around the theater long enough to know what pleased an audience.
The day’s rehearsals were in full costume. Things went wrong. They always did. Sarah was superstitious enough to believe if there were problems with the final rehearsal, then the play would be a success. She repeated that to herself every time a curtain didn’t pull or an actor dropped a line.
That night she could have poured herself in bed. She did not expect Gavin until late. He’d sent word that he would not be home until later that evening.
She intended to wait up for him. She promised herself she would only close her eyes for a few minutes, just for a touch of relief. Instead, she fell into a deep sleep.
Sarah was a bit disori
ented when she woke and realized it was still night. She reached over to Gavin’s side of the bed. It was empty . . . and yet she sensed she was not alone. He was near.
Sarah had left a candle burning in the hallway. She pulled on a dressing robe, walked to the bedroom door and opened it. All seemed quiet in the house. Picking up the candle, she moved to the top of the stairs and stared down into the darkness. If Gavin was here, why did he not have a light burning?
“Gavin?”
There was no answer, and yet, she was certain of his presence.
She went down the stairs to the sitting room and that is where she found him. He sat in a patch of moonlight, sipping a glass of his whisky.
He looked up at her as she approached as if she interrupted some deep thinking. “Why haven’t you lit a candle?” she asked.
“I preferred the darkness,” he answered. “Have you ever noticed how when it is truly dark you can almost imagine you have disappeared?”
His was an odd statement. Her every sense screaming that something was wrong, Sarah placed the candle on a side table and sat on the footstool close to his chair. “Do you wish to disappear?”
His sharp blue eyes met hers. He didn’t answer.
“Gavin, what is wrong? Tell me.”
His brows came together. His jaw tightened.
“Is it the Money Bill?” she asked. She knew he was frustrated by how long it was taking to drive this needed bit of legislation out of the Commons.
He shook his head. His mouth twisted in a mocking smile as if to say the Money Bill was nothing.
She reached for the glass in his hand and took a healthy sip. She placed the glass on the floor beside her, letting the warmth of the whisky settle through her. “Why are you down here alone?” She paused, reflected, and then asked, “What is it you don’t want to tell me?”
He gave a start. “You know me so well.”
“There is a reason you are not upstairs.”
Gavin nodded. Then he said, “I must marry.”
A Date at the Altar Page 20