Someone to Cherish

by Balogh, Mary

  And finally—finally!—Harry returned late on Wednesday afternoon, looking weary and travel worn and cheerful. Lydia had been watching for him since before he possibly could be expected. She flung open the door and dashed out to the gate as he drew rein beyond it. She did not even stop to wrap a shawl about her shoulders, though it was a chilly day.

  He swung down from the saddle, leaned across the fence, and kissed her. “Mission completed,” he said. “Two new shirts. Oh, and—” He reached inside his coat and drew out the leather box with her mother’s ring. “Returned safe and sound, as promised, though I had to fight off three sets of highwaymen to guard it.”

  “Thank you.” She laughed as she took it from him and held it for a moment to her lips.

  “Lydia.” His own smile faded. “You have had two days to do nothing but think. Any second thoughts?”

  She laughed. “I have had nothing but visitors,” she said. “I have had scarcely a moment to think at all. But no, Harry. No second thoughts. You?”

  “Yes, actually. I ought to have taken you with me and married you in London.” He grinned ruefully at her. “Dash it all, I will not be able to see you tomorrow much either. There is to be a family picnic, weather permitting, in honor of my cousin Boris’s betrothal to Miss Leeson. I will come tomorrow evening, though, to make final plans for Friday. I had better get back to the house and get bathed and changed for dinner.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Do not make yourself late.”

  He kissed her again, mounted his horse, and rode off up the drive, turning to wave before he rode out of sight.

  Perhaps tomorrow she would have a quiet day, Lydia thought. To think at last. To prepare herself.

  She was not to have it, however, for it was on Thursday that her father and two elder brothers arrived on her doorstep.

  Harry was feeling unaccountably melancholy. He was out on the lawn south of the house, surrounded by his family and other house guests, celebrating Boris and Audrey’s betrothal. A happy occasion. Chairs had been set out for the older people, while blankets had been spread for everyone else. The sun was shining again. The wind that had gusted this morning had died down. They had just feasted upon sumptuous picnic fare. Alexander in his role as head of the Westcott family had toasted the couple with champagne. It was a dizzying thought that Boris, who seemingly just yesterday had been giving Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas fits of alarm and outrage with one mischievous boyish prank after another, along with brothers Peter and Ivan, was now twenty-five years old and a mature, responsible young man and obviously deeply in love with his bride-to-be.

  They would all be together again tomorrow—along with numerous outside guests—to celebrate his birthday. It would be the culmination of this house party, which had been arranged for him by his family out of the depths of their love for him.

  None of them would be at his wedding.

  Except for Gil, that was, who had agreed to come as a witness and as Harry’s best man, though he had been a bit long-faced when Harry had made it clear that he did not want Abby to come too and would be obliged if Gil did not even tell her.

  “I say, Harry,” he had said. “It is not so easy to keep secrets from one’s spouse, you know. And not terribly honorable either.”

  Gil and Abby’s wedding at the village church four years ago with only the vicar and his wife and Harry present had seemed perfect. His and Lydia’s wedding tomorrow morning would be equally so, Harry told himself.

  Except that the circumstances would be different.

  His family—the whole of it—would be here, busily preparing for the party in the evening, perhaps wondering where he had gone, unaware that he was at the church nearby marrying Lydia.

  He should be over the moon with excitement today. He was getting married tomorrow.

  But he could not shake off the feeling that it was somehow not right. He looked at his mother, whose arm was drawn through Marcel’s as they talked with Aunt Matilda and Dirkson. And at Camille, who was sitting on one of the blankets repairing Alice’s braid while Joel beside her had one twin standing and bouncing on fat little legs between his thighs while the other twin was against his shoulder, having her back patted. And at Abby, who was almost forehead to forehead with Jessica on another blanket, the two of them giggling like girls. And at Anna, who was holding Beatrice, her youngest, and smiling while she conversed with Adrian Sawyer and Sally Underwood and Gordon Monteith.

  The inner circle of his family.

  Who did not know that tomorrow was his wedding day.

  Dash it all, it did not feel right.

  “Harry.” Alexander, still holding his champagne glass, set a hand on his shoulder. “Is this all a bit much for you, as it was four years ago, as I recall? Are you wishing us all a thousand miles away, as you were then?”

  “No,” Harry said. “Quite the contrary, in fact. I am so extraordinarily well blessed, Alex, that I will make an idiot of myself if I try to put it into words.”

  Alexander squeezed his shoulder. “None of us felt well blessed ten years ago,” he said. “Or six years ago after Waterloo. Or four years ago, when Avery and Gil and I brought you home from Paris.”

  “Do you feel well blessed now?” Harry asked.

  His cousin hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “I must confess I do, Harry. Though you must know that I really did not want—”

  “I do know,” Harry said. “You need not be apologetic about being happy. I am a happy man too.”

  “You did not look happy a moment ago,” Alexander said.

  “The natural expression of my face in repose,” Harry said with a grin.

  Ah, they were about to be disturbed. Someone had come up the drive—two people, actually, two men—and paused to look at the crowd gathered on the lawn. They were not any of the neighbors. They were strangers, in fact. Harry hoped they would proceed to the main doors so that Brown could deal with whatever their business was.

  They were not proceeding to the door, however. They were striding across the grass, two men on some important mission and apparently unembarrassed at intruding upon a private event.

  Most of the children were still roaring about the grass and among the trees, intent upon their noisy games. Almost everyone else turned to watch the men. The taller of the two, who walked slightly ahead of the other, stopped when he was close enough to be heard—most conversation had died away anyway.

  “Which one of you is Westcott?” he asked.

  “A large number of us are,” Harry said, stepping forward with a smile on his face. “Which Westcott were you looking for in particular?”

  “Major Harry Westcott,” the man said.

  “That would be me,” Harry said, taking another step toward his visitor. “What may I—”

  His visitor had taken more than one step toward him. He put an abrupt end to the sentence with a fist that collided with Harry’s chin and mouth with such force that Harry, taken completely by surprise, found himself measuring his length on the grass, gazing up at stars in the middle of the afternoon.

  He became fuzzily aware of uproar. Voices, both male and female, all talking at once. A few screams. A demand to be let go. A command to stop struggling before an arm got broken. A contemptuous demand to get up and fight like a man. That one got Harry’s attention. Since he was probably the only one down, the invitation to get up was probably being directed at him.

  No teeth—Harry did a quick check with his tongue— appeared to be missing or broken. His chin felt as if it might have been punched all the way through to the back of his head, but when he moved his jaw the chin seemed still to be attached to it. He shook his head—big mistake— and sat up. He shook his head more gently at the hand that was being offered him—Boris’s—and got to his feet.

  Everyone was standing, including the elderly ladies. The children had abandoned their games for the greater excitement of seeing what was about to happen. The first man had Alexander’s hand clamped on his shoulder. The second man had his arms be
hind him, held there by Gil. Both men were frowning ferociously and breathing fire and brimstone—or so it seemed to Harry’s still-fuzzy brain.

  “Fight, you coward,” the first man said from between his teeth. “Put your fists up, or are you going to hide behind all the skirts here and allow other men to protect you?”

  Harry had a horrid premonition. And good God, yes. This was just how he would expect them to behave.

  “I am not going to fight either one of you,” he said. “Alex, you can step aside. Gil, you would probably be sorry if you really did break his arm. Let go, there’s a good fellow. Is either one of you by any chance a Winterbourne? Or both of you?”

  “You will name your time and place, Westcott,” man number one said curtly. “Your weapons too if you wish. And you will fight or be exposed to the world as a debaucher and a coward. I am James Winterbourne.”

  “Oh, I say,” Uncle Thomas said above the swell of sound that succeeded Winterbourne’s words.

  Harry held up a staying hand. “Have you spoken with your sister?” he asked.

  “My sister’s name will not pass your lips,” Winterbourne said. “We will take care of her from this moment on, you may be assured. She will come home, where she belongs, and where we can keep her safe from the likes of you.”

  “Well,” Harry said. “She may have something to say about that, you know. And if you have not had a word with her, perhaps you ought. In fact, maybe the three of us should. This is your brother, I assume?”

  How the devil had they found out? Gossip had wings indeed, it seemed.

  “William Winterbourne,” the brother confirmed, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “And you will get within a mile of our sister again over my dead body.”

  “A rather suicidal threat,” Avery said, his voice languid, as he strolled into sight from somewhere to Harry’s left. “I believe Mrs. Tavernor’s cottage is within half a mile of where we stand. In my experience, it is always a mistake of colossal proportions for men to flex their muscles instead of recognizing that women have voices—and often surprisingly sensible minds behind those voices.”

  “I shall go and have a word with Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry’s mother said, stepping up beside him and within range of the iron fist that had collided with Harry’s chin not so long ago. “She is very fortunate to have two brothers who care so deeply for her. I am the Marchioness of Dorchester, Harry’s mother. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Winterbourne.” And she extended her right hand to the elder brother, who still looked as though fumes might blow out his ears at any moment.

  Bizarrely, he took her hand and even bowed over it, murmuring something unintelligible.

  “Harry will accompany me,” his mother continued. “I shall certainly see to it that he offers no sort of insult to Mrs. Tavernor, whom I have found to be a woman of dignity and integrity. Will you accompany us, Mr. Winterbourne? And your brother?”

  The Westcott family, Harry thought, might never have been more silent. Even the children were unnaturally quiet.

  The brothers exchanged glances.

  “I will not allow my sister to be bullied, ma’am,” William Winterbourne said.

  “Good gracious,” Harry’s mother said. “Nor will I. More to the point, from what I know of Mrs. Tavernor, nor will she. Harry? Your arm, please.”

  Two minutes later they were making their way down the drive, the four of them, Harry’s mother—bonnetless—on his arm, the two Winterbourne men coming along behind. Harry did not turn his head to look at them, but he would wager they both looked pretty sheepish.

  “The power of women,” Harry’s mother murmured.

  Twenty-three

  Lydia was feeling a bit melancholy and was trying desperately to shake off the feeling. Tomorrow was her wedding day! And she was excited about it. She loved Harry. She could not be happier.

  So why did happiness feel so … flat?

  She had decided to spend the day at home alone. She wanted to rest after what had been a busy week. She wanted to get ready for tomorrow. Though there was precious little to do. She had chosen an old dress she had not worn for several years, though she had worn it precisely once. It was too frivolous and too pale a green for a vicar’s wife, Isaiah had said. Lydia had chosen it because it reminded her of springtime and lifted her mood. There were pink rosebuds embroidered about the hem and smaller ones about the edges of the sleeves. It must be woefully out of fashion by now, though Lydia had no idea quite how much.

  It was going to be her wedding dress notwithstanding. She had washed it and hung it to dry and ironed it and … there was no other way to get ready.

  At least today she did not have to fear any visits from the Westcotts. They were having a picnic to celebrate the betrothal of Harry’s cousin. If the weather was kind, Harry had said. The weather was very kind.

  She did not have to fear any visits from her friends either. Mrs. Bailey had invited them and a few other ladies to tea at the vicarage. She had invited Lydia too but had understood when Lydia had refused. Mrs. Bailey knew about the wedding, of course. She was to be one of the witnesses, and the Reverend Bailey was to conduct the service. She was not really happy about it. She had not said so to Lydia, but she had looked troubled when she had agreed to be a witness.

  Since Monday, Lydia thought early in the afternoon as she sat idle on her chair by the fireplace, her heels resting inelegantly on the edge of the seat cushion while her arms hugged her legs to her bosom and she rested her chin on her knees, she had seen Harry precisely twice—for a few minutes when he was leaving for London on Tuesday morning, and for a few minutes yesterday afternoon as he was coming home. She would not see him all day today and would see him probably only briefly this evening while they made final arrangements for tomorrow.

  Had they been unwise to decide upon such a rushed wedding?

  Had they been mad to decide to marry at all?

  And were these last-minute, second-thought wedding nerves she was having?

  She felt so very alone.

  There was only one thing she was sure of. No, two. And they did help calm her as she pulled in her chin and rested her forehead on her knees. She loved Harry Westcott with all her being. More important—oh, by far—she trusted him. Their marriage would be a partnership, a companionship, a friendship, a … romance of equals. It would be, despite what both civil and church law might say to the contrary. Tomorrow she would promise to obey, but Harry would never hold her to that. Not that she could know for absolute certain, of course. One never could of the future. But one could trust, and she trusted Harry. With her life. For that was exactly what she would be doing tomorrow.

  Oh, tomorrow was her wedding day. Why oh why did she feel so flat today? Why did it all seem somehow wrong? Or if not wrong precisely, then not quite right? She had no wish for a grand wedding or crowds of guests. She had no wish—

  Oh, who was coming now? She had heard horses and carriage wheels and had assumed it was someone on the way to Hinsford. There had been much coming and going all week. But the conveyance was unmistakably drawing to a halt outside her gate. She straightened up in some annoyance to see who it was.

  And then she was hurtling out the door, leaving it open behind her, Snowball bouncing along at her side, yipping in a frenzy of excitement. And she was throwing open the garden gate and hurling herself into her father’s arms as he descended from the carriage. And bursting into tears.

  “Papa. Papa!”

  “Lydie. Lydie!”

  That was almost the full extent of the conversation for the next minute or two, though there was a great deal of hugging and kissing and back patting and hiccupping and barking.

  “James. Oh, James.”

  “Lydie. Lydie, Lydie.”

  “William. Oh.”

  “Lydie.”

  “It is all over now, Lydie,” her father said as everyone crowded into the house and seemed to fill it to overflowing. “Lady Hill wrote to me on Sunday as soon as she heard and sent the letter
by special messenger. You have a true friend there. As for all the rest of it, it is nonsense and I would like nothing better than to crack a few heads together. But it is all over now.”

  “It is just what we warned you about, Lydie,” William said. “But we have not come to scold. You must have been suffering enough.”

  “Will and I will go get rooms at the village inn in a short while,” James said. “We cannot stay here with just the one bedchamber. But early tomorrow we will be on our way back home with you, and you can shake the dust of Fairfield off your shoes forever, Lydie.”

  “We will look after you,” her father said. “And if any gossip should follow you home, well, we will know how to deal with it. You will not have to worry about a thing.”

  It was hard to get a word in edgewise, but Lydia did eventually after drying her eyes and blowing her nose and smiling fondly from one to the other of them. “But I am not leaving here,” she said. “I—”

  “Now, Lydie,” James said.

  And they were off again, and all she had to do for the rest of her life, Lydia understood, was relax into their love and strength and protection. They were precious indeed. She was almost overflowing with love for them. And for a while there was no point in arguing. She had no wish to argue. She had not fully realized until she had seen whose carriage was drawn up outside her gate how very much she wanted to see them all. She went into the kitchen, filled the kettle, and put it on to boil.

  “Now, Lydie,” James said, coming to stand in the archway. “This is not right, you being in the kitchen making the tea yourself. But today will be the last day. From tomorrow on you will be properly looked after. We will see to it.”