by Balogh, Mary
“Thank you,” Lydia said, and she shook the hand that was being extended for hers. “It was a distressing time.”
“My sister and I would like to call upon you within the next day or two,” Mrs. Bennington continued. “If we may, that is. Will it inconvenience you?”
What could she say? And did she want to say it would? Why should she, after all? If nothing had ever happened between her and Harry—nothing outside her dreams, that was—she would surely be delighted to make the acquaintance of a few members of the Westcott family. She was, after all, the widow of the former vicar here. She was the social equal of any of them. There would be no condescension involved in their visiting her.
“Not at all,” she said. “I will be delighted to see you.”
The little boy was pulling Harry by the hand toward the other end of the pew to greet what must be some of his young cousins. The congregation were beginning to move from their pews. Some of them would hurry outside as quickly as possible to watch the exodus of the Westcotts. And her exit too. She was very far from being invisible this morning.
She smiled at Mrs. Bennington and made her escape while she still could without having to run the gauntlet of her neighbors outside.
Harry had realized two days ago that his family had arrived at quite the worst possible time. For of course they had come not just to celebrate his birthday but also to do some determined matchmaking. They had even brought three possible bridal candidates with them, though he was not sure if those three young ladies knew why they had been invited here. And now, of course, the family would see Lydia in one of two ways—as another possible candidate or as a threat, as someone who must be ousted from any pretension to Harry’s hand with all the power of their influence. Not that the Westcotts always behaved as a cohesive unit, it was true. Opinion might well be divided.
A few of his male relatives had squeezed him reassuringly on the shoulder after he returned from the village with his mother on Saturday morning and reported on the failure of his marriage proposal. As far as they were concerned, that was the end of the matter, though it was possible more than a few of them knew their women well enough to suspect that the end was in fact nowhere in sight. The women seemed generally of the opinion that Mrs. Tavernor had behaved like a woman of principle. One could only admire her for saying no—and do all in one’s power to offer her some support.
It was unclear, of course, in what exactly they intended to support her. In her decision not to have him? In being persuaded to change her mind? The Westcott women were really not to be trusted, and Harry did not trust them to leave well enough alone and mind their own business. In their minds Harry was their business, and since Mrs. Tavernor had got herself into a bit of bother over him, then she became their business too.
The mind boggled.
At dinner on Saturday night, Elizabeth, Lady Hodges, had announced her intention of calling upon Mrs. Tavernor the next morning. She knew from experience just what it felt like to be the target of unkind and unjust gossip, having once upon a time been the victim of a spectacular scene in which her then-fiancé had accused her in the middle of a crowded ballroom in London of flirting outrageously with Colin, the man who was now her husband. Wren, Countess of Riverdale, had promised to accompany her. So had Anna, Cousin Althea, Aunt Mary Kingsley, and Cousin Jessica before Gabriel, Jessica’s husband, had reminded them that the next day was Sunday.
There had followed a discussion upon whether it was more likely that Mrs. Tavernor would go to church and brazen things out or remain at home to hide.
“From what I saw of Mrs. Tavernor earlier today,” Harry’s mother had said, “I would say she will most certainly go.”
“And until fairly recently she was the wife of the vicar here,” Uncle Michael—the Reverend Michael Kingsley— had reminded them. “Going to church is probably a matter of importance to her.”
“Gil and I and the children will sit by her,” Abigail had said with quiet determination. “If there is space beside her, that is.”
Everyone had looked at her without commenting—a rare occurrence with this family.
“We will, my love,” Gil had said.
“And so will I,” Harry had added, trying to picture the scene and wondering if Lydia really would go to church, since she must realize that a large number of his family plus all the gossips and the curious certainly would. He had believed that she would go, however.
“But not right beside her, Harry,” Aunt Louise had said.
“Close by but not next to,” Aunt Mildred had added.
“Close by. Looking amiable.” That contribution to the conversation, spoken with a great sigh of apparent boredom, had come from Avery.
“I cannot imagine Harry ever not looking amiable,” Adrian Sawyer had commented.
“Tell that to a few thousand Frenchmen from Napoleon Bonaparte’s armies,” Gil—the former Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert Bennington, that was—had added. “The ones who are still living, anyway.”
Through Saturday and Sunday, while the drama of Lydia was rumbling along in the family consciousness and in private family consultations, the matter of the three prospective brides somehow resolved itself quickly and painlessly and without embarrassment to any of those most nearly concerned. The Westcotts, in other words, were about as successful this time with their matchmaking schemes as they had ever been.
Sally Underwood was wide-eyed and pretty and shy and a bit blushy and giggly—and all of eighteen years and one month old, as she admitted to Harry when she walked beside him on the way home from church. He had the feeling the pairing had been maneuvered by Aunt Matilda, whose stepniece she was. She talked, after Harry had finally induced her to relax a little, about the balls and routs her mama planned for her to attend after she had returned to London and her come-out Season was properly launched. And then, her tongue having been loosened by what she seemed to consider pleasant prospects, she talked about all the shopping and fittings and dancing lessons that must be got through first and about the beaux her mama had promised she would attract, what with all her new finery and the dowry her papa had to offer with her, which was more than respectable, for Papa was a wealthy man.
It had become apparent to Harry as they walked that she saw him as a sort of elderly uncle figure. All the time she was prattling—after she had recovered from her early awe of him, that was—she was eyeing Ivan Wayne and Gordon Monteith, the good-natured, freckled, slightly pimply, and very youthful nephew of Great-aunt Edith. If Aunt Matilda seriously expected that he and Miss Underwood would make a match of it, she must have windmills in her head. Or perhaps she had just not known the girl well when she chose her.
Miranda Monteith, Great-aunt Edith’s niece on her late husband’s side, had never lived in Scotland and appeared to have no connection to the country apart from her name and probably a few long-forgotten ancestors. She was, however, obsessed with all things Scottish, including its complex and gory history, as Harry discovered when he sat beside her at luncheon after church. She was serious-minded and intense and forthright in manner, and seemed quite unaware of him either as a man or as a prospective husband.
“I intend to stride about the park and countryside while I am here,” she said. “With your permission, that is, Mr. Westcott. It is unfortunate that you do not have any of the mountains and rugged scenery around here that I most admire, but the landscape seems pretty enough. Mother insisted that I come to London this year, though I abhor cities and large towns. I was very happy to accompany Aunt Edith here for a week or so as soon as I knew that Hinsford Manor was in the country. Mother was not pleased, but she did agree to my coming with Gordon after Aunt Edith had had a private word with her, though I have no idea what she said.”
If he should ever get into the business of predicting the future, Harry thought, he would say with some confidence that Miss Monteith was headed for the ranks of happily confirmed spinsters.
Miss Fanny Leeson might have been a bit of a problem, since it was
obvious to Harry almost from the moment of her arrival that she was very well aware of why she had been brought to Hinsford. She had come with her mother and her sister, a vibrantly beautiful young lady who was happily engaged to an equally happy Boris Wayne. The younger sister was just as lovely, if a little less vibrant. She seemed to be a sensible young woman, however, who spoke little but usually had something decent to say when she did speak. It might be difficult, Harry thought with unkind feelings for the Westcott ladies who had trapped him in this situation, to depress her expectations without either hurting or humiliating her. However, it was to prove far easier than he feared.
She addressed the main issue with him after luncheon on Sunday when she approached him out on the terrace as he waited for several others to join him for a walk down to the lake he had suggested when they rose from the table.
“I think it only fair that you should know, Mr. Westcott,” she said, keeping her voice low as she glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed close behind her, “that my heart belongs to another.”
Harry looked at her in some surprise. With almost any other young lady, some of those words would have sounded as if they must be capitalized—“My Heart Belongs to Another.” With Miss Fanny Leeson they sounded like simple fact. She was looking very pretty and very self-contained. Her cheeks were only slightly flushed.
“We are not betrothed,” she went on to explain. “He has not yet spoken to Papa because I did not want to take attention away from Audrey, who has only very recently become betrothed to your cousin and is very happy about it. But we have a secret agreement.”
“I must wish you every happiness, then,” Harry said. He looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. “And I think it only fair that you know, Miss Leeson, that I am not really in search of a wife. I do believe, however, that my female relatives are in relentless search of one for me. They are very determined to force me into being happy.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling at last and looking even prettier than before, “I know what that feels like, Mr. Westcott. Are not relatives an abomination?”
They shared a private moment of guilty amusement before Bertrand and Elizabeth and Charles, Viscount Dirkson, stepped out onto the terrace.
Seventeen
Camille informed everyone at breakfast the following morning that she was going with Abby to deliver Mrs. Tavernor’s written invitation to Harry’s birthday ball.
“And Harry ought to go with you,” Grandmama Kingsley suggested. “It would be very fitting, since the three of you practically grew up here at Hinsford and Mrs. Tavernor was once the vicar’s wife.”
“Of course,” Harry said when all eyes turned his way.
Apparently Abigail had asked Lydia at church yesterday morning if she might call upon her today with Camille, and Lydia had given her permission. But how would she react when he turned up with them? It might seem like harassment since she had said a firm no to him just two days ago. But he wanted very badly to see her, to judge for himself whether she was coping with the disruption to her life.
She was at home when Harry arrived with his sisters. Not alone, however. Mrs. Bailey was with her, and the first few minutes were taken up with a flurry of introductions and hearty greetings and assurances by Lydia that no, their calling was not an inconvenience to her, and assurances by Camille that no, Mrs. Bailey must not feel obliged to leave on their account.
“We have come because I asked at church yesterday if we might,” Abby explained after the ladies were all seated in the living room.
“Our mother has told us about her friendship with your mama when they were both young, Mrs. Tavernor,” Camille said. “She was delighted to discover that her friend’s daughter was living right here. Sometimes happy coincidences really do occur.”
“Is this true?” Mrs. Bailey beamed her pleasure from one to the other of the ladies. “Do tell us more, Mrs. Cunningham.”
Which Camille proceeded to do, with embellishments of the already embellished story their mother had told. The conversation moved by natural progression to London and Seasons past. Mrs. Bailey reminisced about her own courtship, which had come about because her mama had once enjoyed a friendship with her husband’s mama.
“Not that he was my husband when we first met, of course,” she added.
Harry was standing with his back to the room, looking through the window while Snowball, who appeared to have accepted him as a friend of long standing, settled across one of his boots. After a while, when it became apparent that Lydia was not participating in the conversation, he went to draw up a stool beside her chair, and she leaned down to lift the dog onto her lap.
“Is it very bad?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“It will blow over as such things inevitably do,” she told him. “I am grateful for what your mother did on Saturday and for what you and Mr. and Mrs. Bennington did at church yesterday. I am grateful too for this morning’s call. I do not doubt they will all sway public opinion, if not quite in my favor, at least no further away from it. But this is enough now, Harry. I am quite capable of living my own life. I do not need any further assistance.”
“I do not doubt it,” he told her. “But Lydia, I—”
He got no further.
“We have brought your official invitation to Harry’s birthday party, Mrs. Tavernor,” Camille said, raising her voice. “It is to be a ball. I wish we had known we would meet you here, Mrs. Bailey. We would have brought yours too. I believe my mother intends to deliver it to the vicarage this morning. We want as many of Harry’s neighbors as possible to help us celebrate. My brother will turn thirty only once.”
“For which fact I am fervently thankful,” he said.
Mrs. Bailey laughed heartily.
“Thank you,” Lydia said, taking the card when Camille got to her feet to hand it to her. “I will consider it.”
Abigail stood too and pulled on her gloves. “Wonderful,” she said, smiling warmly. “We brought Mrs. Bartlett’s invitation card with us too since she lives just next door. We must be on our way to deliver it.”
“Lydia,” Harry said, getting to his feet too and putting the stool back where he had found it, “after we have made that delivery—in about half an hour, I suppose—will you come with us and perhaps take a stroll in the park? With me? It is such a beautiful day.”
He had not planned the invitation until the words were coming out of his mouth. And she was bound to say no. But dash it all, why should they deny themselves any sort of friendship when they had clearly grown to like each other? And all because of the risk of the very stupidity that was now happening anyway? Why not be bold and open about it and to hell with anyone who wanted to make scandal of it? Not that she was going to see it that way, of course. And now he had probably embarrassed her in front of the vicar’s wife and his sisters.
“That would be just the thing for you, dear,” Mrs. Bailey said with a comfortable smile.
“Please do come,” Abby said. “Your little dog looks eager for some exercise.”
Snowball was standing on Lydia’s lap, facing away from her, her fluff of a tail brushing across her bosom.
Lydia’s chin had risen in a stubborn gesture Harry was beginning to recognize. “I shall be ready in half an hour,” she surprised him by saying.
“Why not?” Lydia had thought when he asked. Why not? What had a more or less careful adherence to propriety and common sense achieved? And that was not a question that needed answering.
So here she was, doing what she had never done in four years of living in Fairfield and well over a year of being in her cottage right opposite the drive to the manor. She was on Hinsford property, walking through a park in which she had never before set foot toward a house she had never seen. The drive wound between large, ancient trees, giving the impression that one was moving into an enchanted place, a land apart.
She was with Major Harry Westcott, whom she had very sensibly and very firmly renounced—if that was not too strong a
word—almost a month ago. She was not walking beside him, however. It was actually worse than that, for she was walking arm in arm with Mrs. Camille Cunningham, his elder sister. Just as she had walked a couple of days ago with his mother along the village street.
There was very little from the last few days that made any sense to her, either in what was happening beyond her doors or in what she herself was doing in reaction to it all.
What was it about Harry?
She was not in love with him, was she? Well, she supposed she was and had been for a long time, but in her dreams, not in reality. There was or ought to be a vast difference between the two—and it was entirely her own fault that there was not. She did not want to be in love with any man in this real world. She had made the deliberate choice to be alone and independent. And heart-whole.
She just wished someone would tell her heart that. It was not good when head and heart were divorced from each other and not on speaking terms. Of course, she had not done herself any favors by taking him as a lover one memorable night—and she tried very hard not to remember. An impossibility when he was within her sight, of course. Or when he was not, for that matter.
Snowball, on a long lead, was trotting happily at her side.
Mrs. Cunningham was telling her about the grand adventure of transporting herself and her husband with nine children, two dogs, and two nurses, plus her grandmother and her grandmother’s personal maid—“not to mention all our baggage, Mrs. Tavernor”—from Bath to Hinsford while also preserving her sanity. Lydia surprised herself by becoming helpless with laughter more than once. Harry, meanwhile, was walking ahead of them with his younger sister. They were conversing quietly together, but both looked back more than once to smile at something their sister said.
No, there was absolutely no point in denying to herself that she was in love with him, Lydia thought when her eyes met his on one such occasion. He was smiling while she was laughing, and it seemed to her it was a shared moment of pure joy. Her stomach was even dancing, though not necessarily with joy.