Someone to Cherish

by Balogh, Mary

  He had not said a word in condemnation of Isaiah. Nor had he ridiculed her for so meekly accepting her lot during six years of marriage. He had held her instead. Yet rather than assuring her that he would shelter her in his strong, manly arms and protect and care for her for the rest of her life, he had reminded her that she was free now. Then, rather than assure her that she looked none the worse for her crying session, he had admitted she looked a mess and called her beautiful anyway. He had made her laugh. Deliberately.

  He had mentioned trust.

  There will be love, Lydia. And trust. And freedom.

  He had talked more about the effect the discovery of his illegitimacy had had upon his twenty-year-old self. Sometimes what seem to be the worst things that happen in our lives turn out actually to be the best. He had shared something painful from his own life, she guessed, in order to distract her from her own. Or to remind her that everyone suffers in the course of a lifetime. No one is immune. And perhaps to remind her that there is an end to suffering.

  There will be love, Lydia. And trust. And freedom. And surely children. But not yet. Not until you are ready.

  She was terribly, terribly in love with him.

  And trust.

  It was the word that of all others had lodged in her mind. And she understood that it was what everything was all about for her. Trust. Or lack of trust. She had stopped trusting in love when it had prevented her from moving into adulthood as other girls of her social class did. It had wrapped her in a stifling cocoon of male protection instead. It had stopped her from developing any sort of discernment that might have saved her from the marriage she had made. For she could look back now and see that all of Isaiah’s ardor, all the burning passion in his eyes, had been focused upon his faith. Yes, he had told her he loved her, but it was easy now to understand that there had been nothing personal in his protestations. He had loved her as a helpmeet, as a meek, biddable woman who would share his faith and his life of service.

  What had been destroyed in her more than anything else was her ability to trust. And her ability to know what and whom she could trust. It had become safer to trust only herself.

  She did trust herself. That was a start. She had not done so throughout her marriage. She had convinced herself that any disappointment she felt, any unhappiness, any stirring of rebellion, was wrong, even sinful, because Isaiah said so and he was both her husband and her pastor. She had put her trust in obedience, one of her marriage vows, and in her husband instead of in herself. She could trust in herself now, though. In her real self, that was, the self that was deep down inside her where she knew what was right for her and from which well of knowledge and strength she could withstand any outer force that might try to destroy her or make her doubt herself.

  She was the social equal of anyone. She was the daughter of a gentleman of birth and property and means, and she was the sister-in-law of an earl. She was the widow of the late vicar of Fairfield. But over and above those connections, she was herself and did not need to hide or cower from anyone.

  She did not want to go and meet any of Harry’s family, especially the elders, the grandmothers, who would very probably look at her as though she were a scarlet woman who had seduced one of their own. She would much rather go home, preferably alone, shut her door, make herself a cup of tea, and give in to the exhaustion the last few days had loaded upon her like a leaden weight. But she would do it. She could not—would not—hide away. She was probably going to feel obliged to attend Harry’s birthday party— a ball. She would be able to dance again if she wished. And she would wish it whether she wanted to or not—a mildly head-spinning thought. There was no point, then, in not going now to meet some members of the family. All the better that they were to be the two most intimidating ones: Harry’s grandmothers.

  Besides, he wanted her to go, and she owed him something. He had been kind to her. He had listened while she poured out her painful, embarrassing story and had not passed judgment. He had held her while she wept.

  He was, perhaps, a man she could trust.

  There. She had articulated the thought.

  Perhaps she could trust Harry Westcott.

  They came off the path to the east of the house, still among trees, though they were more widely spaced down here. There was a glass summerhouse off to their left—Lydia had seen it from that seat against which she had braced herself while she told Harry her story. Mrs. Bennington was sitting inside with her husband and another couple. Mr. Bennington turned his head, and then they all did and smiled and waved, though they did not come out and Harry did not turn in their direction.

  “The couple you have not met are the Earl and Countess of Lyndale,” he explained. “Gabriel and Jessica. She is our cousin, daughter of my aunt Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, my father’s middle sister. Avery, Duke of Netherby, is her stepson, but he is quite a bit older than Jess. He is married to Anna, my half sister. He was my guardian too after my father died. This is too much information, is it not?” He turned his head and grinned at her, and Lydia laughed.

  “Is there to be a written test?” she asked.

  “And the passing mark is one hundred percent. Ninety-nine will not do,” he said.

  “Ouch,” she said. “I hope spelling does not count. So the little girl who has just lost one of her baby teeth—Rebecca?—is your half sister and the Duke of Netherby’s child? Your niece?”

  “Well done,” he said. “All three of them are my nieces. I have an army of them. Nephews too. All here. And all to be included on that written test. There are cousins and cousins’ children. And spouses, with family names and title names.”

  “That really is too—” she began.

  “Hush!”

  He slowed their steps suddenly and clamped her hand more tightly to his side while Lydia stopped talking and looked at him in surprise. He had not stopped walking altogether, but he seemed to be listening intently. She listened too. She could hear the faint murmur of voices coming from the summerhouse, the distant crack of a cricket bat followed by a cheer, Snowball yipping at something in the trees that offended her.

  Lydia drew breath to ask what he had heard.

  “Shh.”

  And then he moved his head a little closer to hers. “You will like everyone, Lydia,” he said in normal tones before jerking his arm free of hers, whirling about, and dashing off into the thicker trees from which they had just emerged. Almost before Lydia had stopped gaping, he came back out with Jeremy Piper almost literally dangling from his shirt collar, which was in Harry’s firm grip.

  “Ow!” the boy yelled, both hands clawing at his collar. “Put me down. I’m choking.”

  “Obviously not too badly if you can still talk,” Harry said, jerking his hand higher until Jeremy was running along at his side on the toes of his boots.

  Lydia held on to Snowball’s lead. Her dog was barking and bouncing.

  “I wasn’t doing nothing. Put me down,” Jeremy cried, his voice strained.

  “Apart from trespassing?” Harry halted when they were several feet away from Lydia.

  “I didn’t mean nothing by it,” the boy protested. “You’re choking me. Let go.”

  Harry did let go suddenly, and the boy staggered and darted a look off toward the denser growth of trees.

  “On your knees,” Harry said.

  “What?” Jeremy took one half step away.

  Harry took a full step after him. And Lydia’s eyes widened as he was transformed before her eyes into a very menacing military officer despite the absence of a uniform.

  “On. Your. Knees,” he repeated in a voice that turned Lydia’s own knees a bit liquid.

  Jeremy plopped down.

  “Ow,” he protested. “There’s stones and roots digging in my knees. And what’s this all about anyway? I didn’t do nothing. I’ll tell my—”

  “Silence. Arms at your sides. At. Your. Sides.”

  “There’s a stone—”

  “Silence.”


  Jeremy fell silent and held his arms to his sides. His eyes were still darting frantic glances at the trees.

  “Straighten your back,” Harry said. “Drop your shoulders. Raise your chin.” All of which Jeremy did.

  The occupants of the summerhouse were all standing and gazing this way, Lydia could see. Mr. Bennington was outside the door, one hand holding it open. And if that was not enough, there was a group of riders approaching from the east, weaving their way through the trees. They must have realized something untoward was happening ahead of them, however, and stopped when they were still some distance away.

  “You have something to say to Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry said.

  “I don’t have nothing—”

  “Silence,” Harry said. “You will speak when you are told to speak. To Mrs. Tavernor. Whom you will address as ma’am. Do you understand that? You may answer.”

  “I don’t have—”

  “Do. You. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I understand. But—”

  “Yes, what?” Harry said again.

  “Yes, sir,” Jeremy said.

  “You have something to say to Mrs. Tavernor, Jeremy,” Harry said. “Say it. Address her as ma’am. Raise. Your. Chin. Look at her.”

  Jeremy looked, winced, and leaned down to adjust the position of his right knee.

  “Attention,” Harry barked.

  Jeremy, obviously close to tears, came up straight, and looked somewhere in the direction of Lydia’s chin. “I am sorry,” he said. “Ma’am,” he added quickly, darting a glance at Harry, who was standing close beside him, his booted feet slightly apart, his hands clasped at his back.

  Lydia drew breath to speak.

  “And for what are you sorry?” Harry asked. “No, do not address me. Address Mrs. Tavernor.”

  “For telling on you,” Jeremy said. “Ma’am.”

  “One tells on someone when that someone has done something wrong, Jeremy,” Lydia said. “What was it, if you please, that I did wrong?”

  “Back straight. Arms at your sides,” Harry said.

  Jeremy jerked to attention. “You was carrying on with ’im,” he said, indicating Harry with a slight sideways motion of his head. “Ma’am. But I got nothing but grief when the reverend jumped in the river and killed ’imself thinking ’e was saving me. I was about to get out on my own when ’e jumped in and almost drowneded me. He just made an idiot of himself. And then everyone thought ’e was such a saint and you was such an angel.”

  Lydia held up a staying hand to stop Harry from speaking. “Destroying someone else’s life, or at least her reputation, has soothed your feelings for what you perceive as an injustice to yourself, Jeremy?” she asked him. “You feel better about yourself now that you have toppled me from my pedestal in the eyes of your mother and other people in the village?”

  “Mrs. Tavernor is awaiting your answer,” Harry said when the boy did not immediately reply. “No. Stay as you are.”

  “Jeremy?” Lydia said as the boy snapped back to attention. “Do you feel better about yourself?”

  “No,” he said at last. “Ma’am.”

  “Are you happy,” she asked him, “that you have made me the victim of malicious gossip?”

  “You was kissing ’im,” he said sullenly.

  “Are you happy?” she asked again.

  “No,” he said.

  “You have something more to say to Mrs. Tavernor, then,” Harry said. “Do not forget how to address her.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Jeremy cried. “I didn’t ought to’ve done it, and I won’t do it no more. I was just sick of everything, and I wished you would’ve left ’ere after ’e died so everyone would forget. My ma wished the same thing. But I shouldn’t ought to’ve watched you till you done things I could tell ’er about. I’m sorry and I won’t do it no more.”

  “Then I accept your apology,” Lydia said.

  “On your feet,” Harry said. When the boy had scrambled up, wincing and staggering, Harry took one step closer to him so they were almost toe to toe. “Whatever you saw or heard here today, you have forgotten. Not one word of it will pass your lips. The penalty for trespass on my land is a thorough thrashing, the sort that makes it impossible for a boy to sit down for a week. It is normally administered by my head groom. With a whip he keeps especially for the purpose. I will waive that punishment for now. However, if I hear, or if Mrs. Tavernor hears, one whisper of your having been here today or one breath of a whisper of what you may have seen or heard here, then the punishment will be doubled, and it will be administered by me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Jeremy’s voice was close to a squeak.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Starting tomorrow,” Harry said, “you will attend school all day every day. If I hear from Mr. Corning that you have been absent or late, I will wish to know the reason why. Now go.” He pointed in the direction of the back of the house. “I will give you five minutes to remove yourself from Hinsford property.”

  Jeremy took off at a run.

  And Lydia and Harry were left staring at each other while the silent audience looked on from the summerhouse and the trees behind him. It was possible he did not even know the latter group was there and had forgotten the former group.

  “I should have taken more notice of all the rustlings among the trees earlier and of Snowball’s reaction to them,” he said. “I assumed I was hearing rabbits or squirrels. I am sorry, Lydia.”

  “I do not believe he will spy on me again,” she said. “You looked and sounded awfully ferocious.”

  And could she please, please, please wake up now, Lydia thought, and find that the whole of today—and the last three days too for good measure—were one hideous, bizarre dream?

  “For a few moments,” a new voice said, “I thought I was back with the regiment, Harry. I was in fear and trembling and about to snap to attention when I recalled that I was actually your superior officer. How do you do, Mrs. Tavernor? You handled that lad very well. My congratulations, ma’am.”

  Mr. Bennington was striding toward them from the summerhouse, looking more formidable than he had at church yesterday. He was frowning, and his facial scar was very noticeable. He was also quite tall and well built. She noticed again that his hair was almost black.

  “If I had remembered I had an audience of more than Lydia,” Harry said, looking over his shoulder toward the summerhouse and then spotting the riders, who were coming nearer, “I would have taken the boy over my knee and given him a good walloping. The humiliation would perhaps have done him some good.”

  “I remember Piper senior—probably this lad’s father— as one of the crowd of regulars in the taproom at the inn when I lived here with you for a while, Harry,” Mr. Bennington said. “I believe it may be time I renewed my acquaintance with him. You must come with me.”

  One of the riders spoke up, a dark-haired lady in a smart riding habit. “Since Harry has steadfastly refused to allow me to transfer ownership of Hinsford to him, Gil,” she said, addressing Mr. Bennington, “I would feel quite justified in asserting my right of ownership. A slur has been cast upon my brother’s good name and therefore, by association, upon mine. I shall go with you to make that call—though I would hope to speak to Mrs. Piper rather than her husband. I shall take Avery with us.”

  “Shall you, my love?” one of the other riders said—the slight, blond, very aristocratic man Lydia had noticed at church yesterday. He must be the Duke of Netherby. The woman must be Anna, Harry’s half sister. “And shall I allow you to do all the talking?”

  “Oh, Avery,” the lady from the summerhouse whom Harry had identified as the Countess of Lyndale said. “You know your silence speaks volumes. You must let Anna talk while you look at Mrs. Piper through your quizzing glass. I just wish I could be there to see it.”

  “Quite so,” he said. “Harry, you may wish to present the lady. M
rs. Tavernor, I presume?”

  There followed a flurry of introductions while Lydia tried to memorize faces and names.

  “If you please,” she said, looking from Mr. Bennington to the duke and duchess, “I would rather you did not call upon the Pipers. What has happened is a matter that concerns Major Westcott very little if at all. I am the one who stands accused of being a woman of loose morals. I would prefer to handle the matter in my own way.”

  “Lydia values her independence,” Harry explained.

  “How admirable of you, Mrs. Tavernor,” the Countess of Riverdale said.

  She was the one, Lydia remembered, who ran a business of her own. She had purple marks—a birthmark?—all down one side of an otherwise beautiful face.

  The duchess was smiling at Lydia. “It would have been such fun,” she said. “But I agree with Wren. You are greatly to be admired, Mrs. Tavernor.”

  The summerhouse group was already retreating back inside, and the riders continued without further delay in the direction of the stables.

  “Nicely done, Harry,” His Grace said as he passed them. “And superbly done, Mrs. Tavernor.”

  “I think, Lydia,” Harry said ruefully when they had all moved out of earshot, “you must be on the verge of collapse. Do you find yourself wondering, as I do, what on earth happened to your life of quiet, rather dull but perfectly happy routine? If the last few days have proved anything about life, it is that the only certainty upon which we can rely is its uncertainty.”

  Lydia bit down hard upon her upper lip. But she could not stop it, much as she tried because it seemed so inappropriate. Laughter bubbled up inside her and then spilled out. She spread her hands over her face and laughed until her sides hurt. When she looked up finally, it was to see Harry with his head tipped to one side, regarding her closely, his eyes smiling though he was not laughing.

  “You are quite right,” he said. “Sometimes the only answer to its uncertainty is laughter. I do not suppose you still want to meet my grandmothers, do you?”

  “Oh,” she said, and she could feel another gust of possibly hysterical laughter coming on. “Whyever not?”