Someone Perfect (Westcott Book 10)

by Mary Balogh

  “You would make a saint of me, would you?” he said. “I was furious with him. For not seeing the truth himself. For having married her— after he had been married to my mother. They were not just different sorts of women. They were more like different species. But he married her, and he always—always— treated her with unfailing courtesy. Forgive me, Lady Estelle, but I have said enough. More than enough. He was my father. Maria is my sister.”

  “I think perhaps,” she said, “you were and are very like your father.”

  He did not reply.

  “Do you think he probably suspected the truth?” she asked. “Even knew it? Do you think he expected that you would go and live with one of your aunts? Or find some respectable employment with their assistance? Was his intention to remove you from a place and a situation that were intolerable to you— and to him? Did he never expect that he would lose all communication with you?”

  “How the devil am I supposed to know what he expected or intended or thought?” he asked her.

  “But instead,” she said, “you went off on your own and worked at any menial job you could find until you ended up at the stone quarry and made your home there. And your family. I suppose your aunt and uncle had promised to say nothing of your whereabouts or of the place where they sent you letters. Was it your way of punishing your father?”

  He wheeled on her. Beneath the brim of his tall hat his eyes looked black and bleak. Just a few weeks ago Estelle would have been frightened. She might have taken a step back.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. That is exactly what I was doing. Thank you for making me understand that. I had not realized it until this moment. And you were quite right a few minutes ago too, Lady Estelle. No one is innocent. But how can I forgive my father now? He is dead. How can he forgive me now? He is dead.”

  They stood facing each other for several moments, his breathing labored as he glared at her, and she gazed back. He reminded her a good deal of her father as he had been during those weeks after Viola had broken off their betrothal and he was at home with her and Bertrand, determined to be there for them at last but still bearing the burden of his guilt and loneliness. Wanting to let them in but not knowing quite how to do it. Wanting forgiveness. Wanting Viola but punishing himself by not going after her.

  Lord Brandon turned away first, and they stood side by side, gazing out over the countryside mapped out below them stretching west, south, and north. There was little to see except fields and pasture, sheep, a few cattle, some huddles of farm buildings. Almost no people. There was a cart in the middle distance, driven by a man with a woman at his side. It looked as though she was holding an infant on her lap. There were three children standing on the bars of a gate not far off, watching the sheep on the other side.

  “Ricky,” the Earl of Brandon murmured. “Where are you?”

  Estelle touched his hand, and without turning to look at her he set his arm about her waist and drew her to his side. She did not believe he was even fully aware that he was doing it. His dog had settled, panting, at their feet.

  “He was always the peacemaker,” Lord Brandon said. “You must not imagine that life in that cottage was some sort of rural idyll. Wes and Hilda used to quarrel occasionally, and quite noisily at times. Wes sometimes bickered with me and I bickered right back. Ricky would say things like ‘You weren’t nice to Hildy, Wes. She didn’t mean to burn the crust on the pie. You ought to say sorry.’ Or ‘You needn’t get cross with Wes, Juss, because he can’t read those words. He’s trying. You ought to say sorry.’ And dash it all, we always did. No one ever lost their temper with Ricky. Or got impatient with him. Or made fun of him. There was a great deal of love in that house too.”

  “It was a family,” she said. For four years it had been his family. It still was.

  “Please, God,” he muttered a while later, and his eyes were closed and his head tipped back, Estelle could see when she turned her head. “Let him be found. Let him be safe.”

  Estelle leaned her head to the side and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

  The next day the sun was shining, the air was suddenly almost hot again, and Maria suggested they cheer themselves up with a picnic at the lake after luncheon. They all went, even Lady Maple, who rode there in a gig with Mrs. Chandler, her niece, while Mr. Chandler carried a chair for her, having brushed off the services of a footman. A whole fleet of servants carried their tea out there in large hampers, however, and spread big colorful blankets on the grass for them to sit upon.

  It was a lovely occasion, Estelle thought, and surely something that ought to have been happening every summer for years past. The three distinct family groups had mingled well from the start of this visit and were enjoying one another’s company today. One person had kept them apart until now— the late countess. What an unhappy woman she must have been. And what unhappiness she had spread around her.

  The boat was brought out of the boathouse, and rides were given in relays, the various rowers being the earl, Ernest Sharpe, and Bertrand. Estelle stayed away from it, having always been of the opinion that water was best appreciated from the safety of firm land beneath her feet, or beneath some part of her person, anyway. A few of the younger people— Paulette Ormsbury, Megan and Wallace Chandler, Nigel Dickson, and Rosie Sharpe— went swimming, though they did more splashing and shrieking and laughing than actual swimming. The young children surprised their parents by being more interested in playing in the grotto than in frolicking in the water.

  Some people strolled along the banks of the lake, on both sides of the bridge. Maria stood right on the bridge for a long time, gazing at the waterfall, her cousins Angela and Frederick Ormsbury on either side of her. Gillian Chandler and Sidney Sharpe climbed partway up the steep hill on the other side of the waterfall from the grotto while both their mothers kept anxious eyes upon them, though neither— to her credit— called out to them to come down. A few people simply sat and soaked up the heat and the sunshine and chatted with whoever happened to be close.

  Captain, reclining upon a flat rock outside the grotto, kept watch over the children.

  Estelle strolled between Mr. Rowan Sharpe and Mr. Harold Ormsbury, enjoying their conversation though not participating in it a great deal. She was too busy watching everyone else and appreciating the whole scene. And feeling— paradoxically— a bit melancholy. Everyone belonged here in one way or another, except her and Bertrand.

  “Your brother is going to have blisters on his hands tonight, Lady Estelle,” Mr. Ormsbury said, nodding in the direction of the boat, where his wife and her sister, Lady Crowther, were being rowed by Bertrand. All three of them were laughing. Bert did not seem to be feeling any lack of belonging. He was being sociable and kind and charming to all, and Estelle knew he was actually enjoying himself here, despite his misgivings before they came.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “He was on a rowing team when he was at Oxford, and I never once heard him complaining of blisters.”

  “Complaining to his sister?” Mr. Sharpe said. “I should jolly well think not. A man has to have some pride.”

  Estelle laughed.

  She felt her lack of belonging, something she never felt when she was with the Westcotts, her stepmother’s family, though she had no blood connection with them either. Most of them were not even really her stepmother’s family. Viola had been married to Humphrey Westcott, the head of the family, for twenty-three years, but the discovery had been made soon after his death that, unknown to her, it had been a bigamous marriage and her three children were illegitimate. The Westcotts had simply refused to let her and her children go. They had rallied, something at which they excelled. They were always more willing to give love a chance, to ignore differences and forgive wrongs, than to bear grudges or stubbornly maintain old hurts. As this family was perhaps more prepared to do than either Justin or Maria had given them credit for.

  When Viola had married Estelle’s father at a family Christmas, the Westcotts had gathered Estell
e and Bertrand into the fold too. Honorary Westcotts, Alexander Westcott, Earl of Riverdale, head of the family, had told them at the wedding breakfast, his eyes twinkling.

  She could have been drawn into this family too, Estelle thought— if she had said yes instead of no at the summerhouse. She could still belong—if he made good upon his warning that he would offer for her again before she and Bert left here within the next few days. And if she said yes.

  Would he?

  Would she?

  There was still so much darkness in him. And it would be very much worse if Ricky Mort was never found. Was she willing to take on a man’s darkness? It would be madness.

  But was she willing to walk away from the only man who had ever stirred her deepest emotions?

  Bertrand was holding the boat while the Earl of Brandon handed his aunts out. The two men turned the boat over on the bank, and all four of them came across the bridge to the picnic site for tea. The earl stopped on the way and offered his arm to Maria. She hesitated a moment, but then she slid her hand through it.

  An hour or so later they straggled homeward in small groups after the gig had arrived to take Lady Maple. This time it was Lady Crowther who went with her. Bertrand helped the earl put the boat away in the boathouse while Estelle and Maria gathered up the wet towels from beside the lake and the cushions from the grotto. They heaped the towels into a hamper in the boathouse to be collected later and put the cushions on their assigned shelves. Bertrand set out for the house with a few other people while Estelle and Maria followed. The earl waited on the bridge for his dog to finish sniffing around the boathouse.

  “What a lovely day it has been,” Maria said. “I hate to see it come to an end.”

  Estelle chuckled. “Yet just a couple of weeks ago you were dreading coming,” she said.

  “I know.” Maria thought for a moment. “Estelle, I loved my mother. I will never stop doing so. But I think perhaps she may have been oversensitive about some things. She easily felt threatened, probably because she was of humble origins socially— though the Dicksons have been wealthy and influential in Yorkshire for several generations, I understand. They have also always been unabashedly middle class, except for Great-aunt Bertha and Mama, who wanted something they considered better. And then there is the fact that Mama was very young when she married Papa— good heavens, she was three years younger than I am now. She saw criticism and jealousy and quarrels where none were intended, and walled herself off from further threats that simply did not exist. It is all very sad. She could have been far happier if she had had her family about her, and she could have found consolation with them after Papa died. So could I. I do not believe I am being disloyal to her in allowing myself to be restored to them now. Am I?”

  “Oh, absolutely not,” Estelle said. “You need your family, Maria. You have been so very alone. Now they will always belong to you.”

  “Rosie wants me to go home with her for a while,” Maria said. “And Aunt Betty and Uncle Rowan are willing to take me if it is all right with Brandon. Gillian and Megan and Wallace want to come back here later when Aunt Sarah and Uncle Thomas come. They do not believe Aunt Sarah will mind. According to Wallace she is a brick— whatever that means.” She laughed. “And Aunt Augusta and Aunt Felicity have told me Brandon and I simply must come to Cornwall next summer— if I do not meet someone and marry him during the spring. Or if Brandon does not.”

  “Goodness,” Estelle said. “It sounds as if you have a busy year ahead.”

  Or if Brandon does not. Meet and marry someone during the next Season, that was.

  Fortunately there was some sort of distraction up ahead. “But what is this?” Estelle asked.

  This was a ragged beggar standing in the middle of the drive just on the house side of the Palladian bridge, looking hesitantly toward Lord Crowther and his eldest son and daughter-in-law. They had been distracted for the moment by the two children, who were gazing intently into the river and pointing and demanding to know what sort of fish those were.

  “Oh dear God,” Estelle said, hurrying past the others until she was just a few feet from the beggar. “Ricky?”

  He looked at her warily, a tall, solidly built young man with pleasant features more or less disguised by a scruffy growth of beard and a few layers of dirt, and dirty fair hair that stood in stiff, untidy spikes on his head. He had no hat. His clothes were not so much ragged as filthy and grass-stained with clumps of straw clinging to them in places. The sole of one of his boots was bound in place with what might once have been a handkerchief. Even from several feet away Estelle could smell him.

  “I don’t know you,” he said slowly.

  “I am a friend of the Earl of Brandon,” she told him. “Justin Wiley. Juss.”

  “You know Juss?” he said.

  “I do.” She smiled at him. “He will be so happy to see you, Ricky. Let me take you to him.”

  But he was looking suddenly anxious and agitated. “Did he find his sister?” he asked.

  “His sister?” Estelle said. “Maria?”

  “Did he find her?” He took a step toward her. “She is lost. He is looking for her. I come to help.”

  Oh. In his letter explaining why he could not go to see Ricky as planned during July, the Earl of Brandon must have explained that he was going to find his sister and bring her home.

  “I’ll look too,” Ricky said. “We’ll find her, me and Juss.”

  “She has been found and brought home,” Estelle said. “Here she is, Ricky. Maria is Justin’s sister, and she is back home safe and sound.”

  Maria was gazing at him, both hands pressed to her mouth. The others had turned from the river and were gawking.

  “Good God,” Lord Crowther said. “Here he is. He found his way.”

  “She is back?” Ricky said. “I’m happy. I come to look with Juss, but now I can go home to Wes and Hildy. Maybe Hildy will make my favorite soup. I’m hungry.”

  “Let me take you to Justin first,” Estelle said, stepping up to him and taking his large hand in hers. “Come. I believe he will be at the stables by now.”

  He was not. He had walked home, not beside the river as Maria and Estelle and the others had done, but closer to the house. He was up on the terrace now, looking toward the bridge. Captain was looking too, and then bounding down the stone steps and streaking through the formal gardens and across the lawn to jump up on Ricky, both large paws against his shoulders while he licked his face.

  “Cappy,” Ricky complained, laughing. “You mustn’t do that. Your paws may be dirty. Juss will be cross with you. Hildy would be cross if she was here.”

  But Estelle was not looking at either the dog or the man. She was looking at Lord Brandon, who was still up on the terrace, a wide, sun-filled smile on his face as he took off his hat and dropped it at his feet. He strode down the steps then and down to the bridge, his eyes never leaving Ricky’s face.

  “Well, it’s about time,” he said as he drew close. “What kept you so long, Ricky? I thought you would never get here.”

  And he caught Ricky up in his arms, heedless, it seemed, of either the dirt or the smell, and laughed.

  And oh, the realization hit Estelle low in the stomach like a real physical blow.

  Oh, she loved him.

  Nineteen

  Ricky launched into excited chatter, much of it incoherent, though Justin did understand some of what he said. He had come to Everleigh, it seemed, not because Justin had failed to go to him but because Justin had lost his sister and was going to look for her and bring her home and Ricky wanted to help in the search.

  He had remembered the name of the house because when Justin had said it, he had also said, Everleigh is mine for everly and everly after, Ricky. And he knew the house was in a big place with a long name, but Juss had told him it was often shortened to sound like a place where hearts (or Herts) belong because it is home. He had found his way by asking stagecoach drivers when they were stopped outside inns. They refused to
give him a ride.

  “Though I never did ask, Juss,” he said, “because you can’t do that without money and I didn’t take any from Hildy’s jar because she buys stuff with it to make dinner.”

  But they would wave off in the direction of hearts belonging because it was home and told him that was where it was but it was too far off to be walked.

  He did get some rides, usually on farmers’ carts among hay or vegetables or even manure, once for a whole afternoon standing up behind the vehicle of a wild young man whose name he could not remember. But they had moved like the wind, and when Ricky had laughed, the young man had laughed too and they had gone even faster. He sometimes got food, but only when he could do something to earn it. Not otherwise. He would not let that young man buy him a meal even though it was going to be beef and potatoes and gravy and other things. It was wrong to beg unless you were starving and he was never starving, just hungry. He was very, very happy now.

  “That lady told me you found your sister, Juss,” he said. “She is nice. I wouldn’t’ve talked to her because she is a stranger, but she said she is Juss’s friend and that’s you. And she said she’d bring me to you.”

  “She is my friend,” Justin told him, looking at Lady Estelle, who was flushed and bright-eyed and smiling at the two of them. “She is Lady Estelle Lamarr. Ricky, you stink.”

  “That’s not a nice word, Juss,” Ricky said. “I don’t stink, though Hildy would tell me time to wash my hands and Wes would tell me time to shave. The sole come almost off my boot, but I used my handkerchief to keep it on. Look!” He raised his foot for Justin to see. And he was off again, recounting some of his adventures and how yesterday a few men had shouted after him. “They even guessed my name, Juss. That was clever, wasn’t it? But they was strangers so I ran and hid and then they went away.”