by Balogh, Mary
There was more singing and dancing. The show ended with the littlest children—except those who could not yet walk—playing three rounds of ring a ring o’ roses, shrieking with glee every time they all fell down, and looking to parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents for approval.
Despite the early dinner, the children were late to bed.
“And very much too overexcited to settle easily,” Anna said when she came into the drawing room after helping settle her own four. “Jonah wants to do it all again tomorrow. I suspect he wants Avery to show him how to be a bit flashier with his swordplay.”
“But I cannot have my son outshining me,” Avery protested. “Not when he is only five years old.”
“Come back to the music room with me, Anna?” Harry said, getting to his feet. “I want to have a closer look at Andrew’s cat if it is still there.”
“It is,” Joel said while Anna looked at Harry in some surprise. “It is on the pianoforte. It is a lazy cat and not likely to have moved from there.”
Anna preceded Harry from the room while he held the door open, and then took his arm as they made their way back down to the music room. Fortunately it was empty. Harry took a candle in with him from one of the wall sconces outside and lit the candles on the mantel.
“I can remember the concerts we used to put on as children,” he said. “Some of them right here. We were always so proud of ourselves.”
He wished he had not said it then, when he turned to look at her. She had not been there to be part of those concerts. She had been at the orphanage in Bath.
“All children love to perform,” she said. “We did too when I was growing up at the orphanage. This concert tonight was a lovely idea. I believe it was Winifred’s. She has changed so much in the ten years since I taught her in the orphanage school. In what seems like another lifetime. She has grown up, of course. But more than that—she is becoming the person she was always meant to be. And I have to give so much credit to Camille and Joel, who took her from the orphanage, adopted her, and just loved her.”
The door clicked open, and Harry turned his head in some annoyance to see who it was. Avery stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He looked with raised eyebrows from Harry by the fireplace to Anna closer to the pianoforte and strolled toward the chairs, which were still in rows. He sat down on one at the back.
“Do not mind me,” he said, and waved one beringed hand as though permitting them to proceed.
It was too late not to proceed now, Harry thought.
“Anna,” he said, “I have not been kind to you in the past ten years.”
She ran one hand along the top of the pianoforte before lifting her head to look at him. “You have not been unkind, Harry,” she said. “I have tried to imagine what it must have felt like for you and Camille and Abigail and Aunt Viola when the whole family—and I—were sitting in that salon at Archer House listening to your solicitor telling us what he had discovered from the inquiries he had made in Bath about the supposedly bastard daughter our father had supported at the orphanage there. I am not sure I have ever succeeded. My life was turned upside down and inside out as a result. But yours was … shattered. It was not to be expected that any of you would welcome me with open arms.”
“I did,” Avery said.
“Oh, not at first, Avery,” she said crossly, turning her head toward him. “You were horrid.”
“Was I, my love?” he asked her. “But it was your shoes, you see. They were so …” He circled one beringed hand in the air.
“Ugly?” she suggested.
“The very word,” he said. “Thank you.”
“They were my Sunday best,” she protested.
He smiled at her. One did not often see Avery smile.
“I think,” Harry said, “you were hurt when none of us would accept your offer to share your fortune four ways.”
“Ah,” she said, returning her attention to him. “I was. But I approached the matter far too soon and without any tact at all. I was so happy at the thought of our all sharing the great bounty our father had left that it did not occur to me that I would appear condescending, even insulting. And quite insensitive.”
“No,” Harry said. “You must not take any of the blame upon yourself, Anna. You did absolutely no wrong. Neither did we except to lash out in our pain at a living target rather than a dead one. We could no longer hurt our father. So we hurt you instead. And felt not one whit the better for it. At least I did not. And never have. Will you forgive me?”
“Harry,” she said, “there is nothing to forgive. Except that your continued stubbornness sometimes drives me to distraction.”
“Hinsford?” he said.
“It will be yours eventually,” she said. “Or your children’s, if you should happen to predecease me. Just as the one quarter of our father’s fortune will be yours—with the interest it is gathering.”
“Will it please you if I take the money now?” he asked.
Her eyes brightened. “Will you, Harry?” she asked. “Oh, please. Will you?”
“I will,” he said. “And with it I will purchase Hinsford.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “I must,” he said. “There are four of us, Anna. There would be no fairness about my ending up with more than anyone else just because I am male.”
“But it is—”
“Harry is right,” Avery said, getting to his feet and strolling toward Anna. “It is you, my love, who have always talked of fairness.”
“But I do not—”
“I think you must demand a hundred pounds for the property,” he said.
“One hundred pounds?” Harry said. “That is a joke, Avery.”
“Too much?” Avery said. “Seventy-five pounds, then. No, make that guineas.”
“I am serious about this,” Harry protested. “I wish you had stayed—”
“Sixty guineas,” Anna said loudly and distinctly. “And that is my final word.”
“Anna—”
“My final word,” she said.
Avery tapped her cheek with one finger and strolled back to sit on the same chair in the back row.
“Anna.” Harry drew a deep breath and let it go on a sigh. “This is really not about money at all, you know. I live very well as I am and can continue to do so even wh— Even if I marry. It is just that I want to set things right with you. You are my sister. Just as Cam is and Abby. I want to be your brother. I mean … I always have been. But …”
She came hurrying across the distance between them then and walked into the arms he held open. They closed about her, and he shut his eyes.
They stood thus for a silent minute or two.
“If only Cam and Abby would—” he began, but she raised her head from his shoulder and pressed two fingers to his lips.
“They both have,” she said. “They came to me separately. And now you. And Aunt Viola has had her dowry back with all the interest that would have accrued on it in the years of her supposed marriage to our father.”
Harry had not known any of that.
“And now I am complete,” Anna said, her head still tipped back to look into his face. It beamed with what looked to Harry like real happiness. “My family is whole. And is about …” She turned her head to look back at Avery. “May I tell him?”
“I would imagine, my love,” he said, “that soon the whole world will know without having to be told.”
“We are expecting another child,” she told Harry. “Perhaps this time Avery will get his spare to go with Jonah.”
Avery was strolling toward them.
“I already have a trio of girls to torment my every waking moment,” he said with a sigh. “If I have to suffer a quartet, I shall probably do it with my usual cheerful acceptance of what cannot be changed.”
Harry hugged his sister with one arm and laughed as he held out a hand to shake his brother-in-law’s. “Congratulations,” he said. “I shall hope for another nephew, then, but
be prepared to welcome another niece if I must.”
“Must you really go to London tomorrow, Harry?” Anna asked. He had mentioned at dinner that he was going, to a great deal of puzzled protest. His grandmother Westcott had commented rather caustically that it was deliberately contrary of him to go there now when they were all here— and all for the sake of buying a new shirt. He had merely smiled and assured her that he would be back before dinner on Wednesday evening.
Avery was looking keenly at him from beneath his usual lazy eyelids. “You cannot find any decent shirts in Eastend, Harry?” he asked.
“Oh, good Lord, no,” Harry said. “Not for evening wear, anyway. Not for my birthday ball, perish the thought, with all the family present and other guests too.”
“Quite so,” Avery said. “And I suppose there are one or two other items you need that can be purchased only in London.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “It is a bit of a nuisance to have to dash up there when the house is full of guests. But it should not take me long. I will leave early in the morning and be away just one night.”
“Well, I wish you did not have to go,” Anna said. “I daresay you have several shirts right here that would be perfectly suitable for your ball.”
“But, my love,” Avery said, sounding pained, “a man cannot be expected to wear a shirt he has worn before when he is celebrating a birthday as significant in the grand scheme of things as his thirtieth. Or a shirt of possibly inferior workmanship, which is all one might expect to find in a provincial town. It is perfectly understandable that Harry would wish to toddle up to London to see his tailor.”
“How absurd you both are,” Anna said.
Avery knows, Harry thought. Was there anything in this world he did not know?
Twenty-two
Lydia had expected the days between Monday and Friday to be quiet ones. They were not to be, however.
On Tuesday morning, when she was out of bed but only just—she had let Snowball outside and was getting the stove heated up in the kitchen to make her morning porridge and tea, but she was still in her nightgown, with bare feet and her hair in a braid down her back—the yapping of her dog preceded a knock upon her front door.
“I am on my way,” Harry said when she opened the door a crack and peered about it. “I thought you must be up when I saw Snowball outside. Just listen to her, Lydia. She is putting the fear of God into my poor horse.” Lydia opened the door wider. “And I hoped you would be up. I forgot to ask you for the loan of a ring, if you have one. You look rather gorgeous.” He grinned appreciatively.
She looked dubiously at her wedding ring, which she was planning to take off today and put away.
“No,” he said. “Not that one.”
“There is my mother’s ring,” she said, “which I rarely wear.”
“Does it fit your ring finger?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I will go and fetch it.”
She handed it to him a few moments later in its leather box.
“I will guard it with my life,” he said in all seriousness, “and return it tomorrow.”
“I trust you,” she said.
“Thank you.” He put the box into an inner pocket of his long drab riding coat. “I also wanted an excuse to give you an early morning kiss.”
She stepped right into the doorway and set her hands on his shoulders. He grasped her waist and kissed her.
“Ride carefully, Harry,” she said.
“I will,” he promised, grinning at her again. “I have much to return for.”
“Your birthday party?”
He laughed. “That too. Stay safe.”
“I will,” she said.
She stood in the doorway without even a dressing gown to lend decency to her appearance until he had ridden out of sight; then she waited for Snowball to trot inside, and she shut the door with a sigh. The next few days were going to seem endless.
The Earl and Countess of Riverdale and Baron and Lady Hodges called upon her before the morning was out. At least by then she was dressed, with her hair coiled neatly at her neck and her apron on. She had a batch of fruit scones almost ready to come out of the oven.
“Do come in,” she said. “I hope I do not have flour on the end of my nose or something embarrassing like that to see in the mirror after you have gone.”
“Not a speck,” Lord Hodges said. “Let me have a closer look, though. A dab on your left cheek, actually.”
“Oh.” She dashed a hand across her cheek.
“Got it,” he said. “Something smells good.”
“Scones,” Lydia said. “They will be ready in five minutes. Will you have some with a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, we will not bother you, Mrs. Tavernor,” the countess said. “We came—”
“Speak for yourself, Wren,” Lord Hodges said. “Coffee and a scone sound lovely to me.”
“Agreed,” the earl said. “Thank you, Mrs. Tavernor.”
“All we came for,” the countess said, laughing as Lydia directed them all to seats in the living room, “was to see that you had recovered from that nasty incident yesterday. The way you handled that boy was quite admirable, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said. “Jeremy Piper has caused a great deal of trouble in his short life, poor boy.”
“Poor boy?” The earl raised his eyebrows. “I cannot help but feel a bit sorry for him, you see,” Lydia said.
“Even though he was responsible for your husband’s death?” he asked.
Lydia had to excuse herself to take the scones out of the oven and brew a pot of coffee.
“Those scones really do smell heavenly. May I butter them for you while you make the coffee?” Lady Hodges had followed her to the kitchen. She had an open, kindly face and a warm manner seemingly designed to set other people at their ease. And she was the “Cousin Elizabeth” Harry had spoken of, the one who had once escaped a violently abusive marriage.
“That would be good of you,” Lydia said.
“Harry went to London this morning—at some deadly hour, before anyone else was up,” Lady Hodges told her. “To buy a shirt suitable to wear at his birthday ball, if you please. Have you ever heard of anything more absurd? He is abandoning his house guests for two whole days for the sake of a shirt.”
“Oh,” Lydia said.
“Alexander suspects a less trivial reason for his going,” Lady Hodges added as she sliced a few scones and set a pat of butter on each to melt into them.
“Oh?” Lydia said again.
“But Harry was not saying, and we—the four of us—are not going to spread any unfounded rumors,” Lady Hodges said, a thread of laughter in her voice. “There. Two scones each for the men and one each for the women.”
“The coffee is ready,” Lydia said.
Her visitors sat with her for half an hour before taking their leave. Lydia walked with them to the gate. The earl turned back to her as the others walked away.
“It is of some importance to my wife and the other ladies of the family who have been diligently planning a party for Harry since Christmastime that as many people as possible from the neighborhood attend,” he said. “Will you come, Mrs. Tavernor?”
He must know, Lydia thought, or at least suspect. His sister’s words earlier had suggested it.
“I will,” she said. “I am honored to have been invited.”
He smiled—a very handsome man indeed—and held her gaze for a moment before turning to catch up with the others.
And that was just the beginning. Denise called and helped her eat a few more scones. “Are you going to the ball?” she asked. “You really must. I shall come and drag you there myself if necessary.”
Hannah called a little later, and both Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Bailey came while she was still there. Mirabel Hill and her cousin Miss Ardreigh arrived on her doorstep a mere five minutes after they had all left, claiming to be feeling footsore after an outing during which they had been talking so much they had not realiz
ed how far they had walked.
All of them wanted to know if Lydia was going to the ball.
And no sooner had they taken their leave than the Reverend and Mrs. Kingsley came from Hinsford to introduce themselves since they understood Mrs. Tavernor was the widow of the former vicar of Fairfield. The Reverend Kingsley was the Marchioness of Dorchester’s brother and therefore Harry’s uncle. They stayed for half an hour, though they would not take refreshments, a pleasant couple who were easy to talk with. The whole time she was there, Mrs. Kingsley had Snowball on her lap, patting and petting her and threatening to kidnap her and take her back to Dorsetshire.
On Wednesday afternoon, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale came in person with Viscount and Viscountess Dirkson and accepted the offer of tea and cake.
“You have a pretty place here, Mrs. Tavernor,” the dowager said as she looked around from her chair to one side of the fireplace. “But if you were my granddaughter, I would scold you for disdaining to have even as much as a maid to lend you respectability here.”
“But Mrs. Tavernor is not your granddaughter, Mother,” Lady Dirkson pointed out.
“You have scolded her anyway,” the viscount said, looking at Lydia with twinkling eyes.
“And the only way she ever could be,” his wife added, pursuing her point, “would be if she were Harry’s wife. Or Peter’s or Ivan’s, though they are far too young for her. And she has already refused Harry.”
“But do not let that fact deter you from attending Harry’s birthday ball, Mrs. Tavernor,” the dowager countess said, glaring very directly at her. “I can assure you that none of his family will make any reference at all to his ill-advised proposal and your very proper refusal.”
“But she has already accepted her invitation, Mother,” the viscountess said. “She told Alexander so. We look forward to seeing you on Friday evening, Mrs. Tavernor.”
They left soon afterward. She had the stamp of approval from the family, then, did she? Lydia thought as she watched until the carriage had moved away from her gate. And the head of the family—both heads, the Earl of Riverdale and the dowager countess—had made a point of coming to tell her, if not in so many words. She smiled, though the smile faded when she thought of the trick that was to be played on them on Friday morning. They were trying to ensure that she would attend the ball—with their blessing—but had no idea that by then she and Harry would be married. Somehow it was a bit of an uncomfortable thought.