The Queen's Ball

by Anthea Lawson

  Matthew glanced at her almost ruefully. “You forget the partnership they were planning. Individually, neither of our families were particularly impressive, but together?” He shook his head, returning his focus across the stream. “In any case, I did as I was bid, and both of our families succeeded in their aims. Both families became wealthier and more influential than before, and everyone was happy.”

  “Except you,” Abigail stated without much emotion, though her tone was oddly comforting.

  He swallowed once. “I wasn’t miserable. The marriage wasn’t an unhappy one. We both dedicated ourselves to it, working day in and day out to create a successful relationship. After all, we had years of friendship between our two families, so how difficult could it be?” He snorted and wrenched his gaze away from the distance and looked away from Abigail. “As it turns out, incredibly so.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” He half-heartedly shrugged. “Nothing specific, anyway. But it turned out that Eliza and I had almost nothing in common and did not agree on much at all. We never fought, but neither did we see eye to eye. It was a struggle for the first several months, right when we should have been our happiest.”

  Abigail didn’t say anything to this, and he was grateful for it. This would have been the time to crow over him or tell him he deserved it, or something of the sort. The lack of such comments came as a small comfort.

  “It was her idea,” he went on, “to be friends rather than lovers, as we were forcing the whole thing, which only built resentment and strain. Only weeks later we discovered she was with child, and the direction of our lives shifted measurably.”

  He turned back to look at Abigail, his chest tightening with the memories of those days upon him. “I had always wanted children, you know this, and I thought that perhaps this could be what brought us together and made us more functional as a couple and as a family. Despite our arrangement, I was pleased with the news, and so was Eliza. It should have been a wonderful solution to our problem.”

  Abigail gave him a small nod of understanding but still said nothing.

  “But it wasn’t,” he admitted, turning back to the stream once more. “Again, we disagreed on everything, including how we wanted to raise our child and how to order the house when the child was born. Eliza became more opinionated, more severe, more eager to turn disagreement into full argument. I knew the child must have been paining her, so I never took offense at what was said or how it was said. And it wasn’t like that all the time. Eliza was a good soul, you must remember that, at least.”

  “I never had any complaint against her,” Abigail agreed, her voice low. “She seemed to be almost perfection.”

  Matthew smiled to himself at her statement. “Almost.” His smile faded, and he cleared his throat, rising to his feet and moving to the edge of the stream, the memories and discomfort getting to be too much. “At any rate, the child and her behavior put a new strain on our relationship that hadn’t afflicted it before. She had a difficult labor, I was told, and Eliza insisted someone tell me how sorry she was, but she adamantly refused to let me up there with her.”

  He shook his head and looked down at the water, listening to its faint rippling against the banks and the rocks. “I paced in the drawing room below, hearing everything in a muted, distant way, and then suddenly there was nothing. No sound, no cries, and no footsteps. Not a single noise.” His voice faded suddenly, and he cleared his throat, surprised by the emotion. “For some reason that nothing was louder and far clearer than any sound I have heard before or since. And I knew.”

  “And the child?”

  “A daughter,” he managed. “Dead before she was delivered. I had them buried together at Chisolm and gave the child the name Beatrix, which was what Eliza had wanted all along. She would be almost two years of age now.”

  Abigail shifted again on the rock, and he looked back at her, seeing that now she was turned fully toward him, expression pained and sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, Matthew.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then exhaled and returned to the rock, sitting beside her. “Do you know what the worst part of it was? More than my grief for Eliza, there was a strange sense of . . . not relief, exactly, but respite.” He shook his head almost frantically, still unable to fully comprehend or express what he had felt. “I did not mourn her the way I should have, though I did mourn. I felt the loss of our child more than the loss of my wife. I’ve often wondered if I am to be damned for such feelings, which led me to guilt for putting Eliza through a marriage and ordeal that perhaps never should have been.”

  His words hung in the air between them for a long moment, the tension and emotion of them fading into the silence as if on a breeze.

  “You think too much, Matthew,” Abigail eventually told him.

  He chuckled to himself. “Can you blame me?”

  She pretended to consider that. “No, I suppose not. You always were lost in thought about something or other.”

  It was true, and he knew it well. But if Abigail knew just what topic had occupied his thoughts much of that time, she would have protested on the grounds of her one condition.

  No matter.

  A thought prodded at his mind, and he found himself speaking it before he could stop himself. “Abigail, how did you not know about Eliza’s and my child? It is fairly well known about the county, and Chisolm is less than three miles from Hazelwood.”

  The first real sign of strain appeared in Abigail’s features, but it also vanished on a rush of breath. “I haven’t been at Hazelwood in three years.”

  That was a bewildering thought, and he stared at her with the full brunt of his surprise. “You haven’t?”

  She shook her head slowly, not meeting his eyes. “It was easier. I spent several months with my uncle Benedict at first.”

  “The physician?” he recollected from some vague recess in his mind. “In . . . Devon?”

  “Dorset,” she corrected. “He and my aunt were most accommodating, and I enjoyed time with my cousins and the lovely people in their village and the surrounding areas. Then I went to London for part of the Season, more for show than anything else, and when that ended, I spent the autumn and winter with Miranda.”

  “I’d wager you loved being with Miranda for so long,” Matthew prodded, nudging Abigail’s shoulder with his own.

  Abigail scrunched up her nose, then nodded, snickering. “I did! Papa couldn’t believe it, but I did enjoy it very much.” Then she seemed to recollect what they had originally been talking about, and her amusement faded. “So, no, I heard nothing of you, let alone that your wife had died. And no one in my family informed me of it either. I suppose they wanted to spare me any pain by the mentioning of it.”

  “Would it have pained you?” he inquired without any tact. “Just as the engagement had?”

  She bit her lip, her brow furrowing. “I really couldn’t say. I doubt it would have affected me the same way. I had resigned myself to it by then, so it may have simply been something to acknowledge. I’m sure I would have felt sad for you, as I do now, but pain me?” One shoulder lifted briefly. “Who knows?”

  “Does it pain you to see me now?” The words escaped him before they had even formed coherent thought, and he immediately wished them back.

  She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed across the stream. “I thought it would. But no, it doesn’t. Not now. Not anymore.”

  Matthew winced, knowing now he had to proceed with penance, if nothing else. She deserved that much at the very least.

  “Abigail,” he began with his voice turning rough, “I am so very sorry for all the pain that I caused you. There are not words enough in any language to convey the pain I’ve felt over wounding you, and to now understand that my actions drove you away from your home and your family . . . I’m so sorry.”

  She had stiffened beside him, and he waited with bated breath for any sort of response, even a cold one. Then, miraculously, her shoulders relaxed on an exhale,
and her hand slid over to cover his gently.

  Lord, the touch of her, even like this . . .

  “I know you are, Matthew,” she murmured, her voice distant. “I know you didn’t set out to hurt me, and I know this wasn’t any easier for you than for me. I’ll be very honest, though . . .”

  A cold jolt raced down his spine to his toes, and it was all he could to do stay upright in his apprehension.

  She turned her eyes to him with a measure of wariness. “I don’t think I’m able to fully forgive you yet. Not at this moment, anyway. I don’t hate you for it, and I’m almost certain that time and consideration will settle forgiveness for you in my heart. But I would be very much false if I told you that all was well and forgotten, and you deserve the truth from me.”

  He didn’t deserve anything from her, much less her forgiveness or any particular level of consideration or honesty. The fact that she thought so seemed monumental in his eyes, and his gratitude overwhelmed him.

  He nodded at her words, hoping his smile didn’t appear in any way forced. “I understand, and I accept it. More than that, I appreciate your generosity. I didn’t even expect this much.”

  “Oh, come now,” she scolded, her fingers drumming against his hand. “We were friends first, remember? Surely you can’t forget the number of times you snuck into Hazelwood the way I’d taught you, showing up for our family dinners without any sort of invitation. I’d be grateful to recover some of that part of our past. I’ve little enough of friends in every other regard.”

  “No . . .”

  Abigail threw a sardonic look in his direction, which was no less the perfection it had been when he had known her last. “Time away from London and Society without excuse, and you think the fickle females would remember me? I never took you for an idiot before this.”

  He barked a laugh, his thumb grazing the edge of her hand on the rock. “Of course you did. You called me an idiot on a very regular basis. I could almost tell the days of the week from it.”

  “I did not!”

  “You did.”

  “You can’t contradict a lady!”

  “It’s not contradiction; it’s correction.”

  “Because that is so much better,” she scoffed. Then she paused, her eyes widening and looking down at their hands.

  Damn.

  She scurried from the rock quickly, pushing her loose tendrils of hair behind her ears. “Right. Well, that’s enough conversing for one morning, I think. We don’t want to give rise to comment. Thank you for meeting me and explaining. I shall keep your confidence. Good day.”

  She turned to go, cheeks flushing, steps quick.

  Matthew smiled at the sight. “Abigail?”

  She turned back, wary and rubbing her fingers together. “What?”

  His smile deepened. “Do you think your family would hang me if I were to call at the house?”

  Abigail immediately relaxed and tucked a smile against her still-flushed cheeks. “Not if I insist they don’t.”

  “And would you?” he queried suspiciously.

  An impish light appeared in her eyes and her smile. “Not today. But possibly tomorrow.” She quirked her brows and dashed out of his sight.

  His heart lurched with that smile, and he had to swallow hard.

  Claimed.

  He certainly was. And that would do well enough, wouldn’t it?

  Chapter Five

  Abigail rushed to the parlor with a wild, breathless grin, looking around before she entered to be sure that no parent or sibling was in the immediate vicinity. That would be the last thing she needed at this moment.

  She dropped down on the divan and swung her legs up, grateful her laces were not especially tight this afternoon. Her fingers were nearly damp with an excited perspiration as they clenched the freshly delivered letter in their hold.

  This was the third in a week, and the fifth total that she had received. Each one had intrigued her, and with each new writing, her attraction grew.

  Yes, attraction, she freely admitted it. However simple and straightforward the first had been, the following ones had taken a more romantic turn until she had felt an intimacy in every line. Still no excesses in flattery and no overwhelming declarations, but a real, raw honesty and depth that had begun to steal her breath. This man, whoever he was, saw her for what she was, and his praise of her person and her mind and her behavior had become addicting.

  For all his claims of reserve and not being a man of words, his prose was glorious. Thoughtful and pure, masterful regarding the English language, and poetic in its patterns, though without the sentimentality so prevalent in the actual poetry of the day. And he focused all of that talent and passion into words for her.

  She’d never been a sighing and swooning sort of woman, but this man was pushing her very much in that direction.

  The last letter still sat in the desk behind her, tucked behind an old journal that hadn’t been written in for two years. She had read it over and over again until the words had begun to live in her memory.

  The sound of your voice has become the music of my heart, and there surely has been no such heavenly singing in any angelic appearance in any scripture. The sweetness, the softness, the tender edges of every word from your incandescent lips pulls at my hearing, draws me in, clings to every fiber of me, and it sings brilliantly into the very blood of my body, vibrant and sustaining as life itself. I smile at hearing it, regardless of the content or context, yearning to catch every witty and intelligent word, straining for any hint of your feelings. Can you know me? Can you see me? I know not whether to hope or fear, my dear one, for both are rife within me concerning you.

  She caught herself sighing then and cleared her throat, focusing on the new letter. She broke the nondescript seal and began to unfold it.

  “What is that you have there?” Maren’s voice suddenly asked from the door to the parlor. “A note from Matthew?”

  Abigail leaped to her feet, clutching the letter tightly. “What? No, it’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Her sister lifted a dubious brow. “Convincing, Abs. I didn’t ask to see it, only what it was. So, is it from Matthew?”

  The frantic pace of her heart began to slow, though her lungs still ached on every breath. “No. No, it’s not from Matthew. You know him, he would write one line, perhaps two, and that would be the end of it.”

  “True. The man has no patience for the pen in his own hand.” Maren scoffed, looking far too interested. “So, who is it from, then?”

  A thousand different excuses and responses flashed through her mind, defenses suddenly rising, but nothing seemed quite good enough to express aloud. But how to properly define what exactly this was without seeming like a fool? “It’s a surprise,” she settled on. “And one that requires privacy, so...?”

  Maren gave her a curious look but for once did not press further and left the room with a shrug.

  Why in the world would she think it from Matthew?

  It was a miracle that her family had accepted Matthew back with only slight trepidation the first night and none at all the second. They had all fallen back into their former rhythm of comfortable joviality with him, and as she had retreated to her bedchamber, it had occurred to her that the unimaginable had occurred.

  She forgave him. She forgave Matthew. She hadn’t forgotten it, not in the least, but she didn’t resent him any longer. She could smile and joke with him without thinking about how he had hurt her.

  They truly could be friends once more.

  But nothing more.

  Her heart could not take that again.

  It wasn’t even in danger of such things anyway. It had learned from experience, and it was hardened now.

  And yet these letters . . .

  This was madness. This was absolute madness to be letting herself get so tangled up in the contents of anonymous letters. It was also absolute madness for her siblings to stick their noses into her affairs, but they had always had trouble remembering the c
oncept of the personal and private.

  At least she knew that she could trust them not to tell their parents about all of this. They were far too intelligent to let Mama and Papa become involved, knowing the chaos that would bring about. Her mother would have some very strong opinions on the subject, and her father would immediately become suspicious of everyone and everything. She would not have a moment’s peace ever again once that bridge was crossed.

  But for the moment, she did not have to worry about any of that. She had a letter that she could read to escape from all of this for a time. A letter that would brighten her spirits and make her heart smile, if hearts could do such an impractical thing. It felt like her heart was smiling when she read his letters.

  Then again, that could just be her newly discovered fanciful side overreacting.

  She inhaled deeply, then exhaled in a slow, steady breath. Then she went to work on unfolding the letter once more, suddenly anxious for its contents.

  “Someone is excited to read their post.”

  Abigail jerked up, refolding the letter once more, eyes wide. Then she relaxed and made a face of discontent. “Oh. It’s you.”

  Matthew’s brows rose and he put a hand to his chest. “I have never heard more disappointment about my presence in my entire life. I’m feeling quite insulted at the moment.”

  “I’m sure you will overcome the sensation.” She swung her legs to the floor and waved him in with a disappointed sigh. “You might as well come on in. Everyone else has gotten in the way of this letter, why not one more?”

  “I’m not sure I want to be lumped in with others that have ruined something for you,” he commented even as he stepped in. “I’ve rather done that enough for one lifetime, no?”

  She looked at him in surprise, stunned that he would reference it so carelessly. But then she found herself giving him a smile, the tension in her chest easing considerably. “Yes, as a matter of fact, you have. But at least you won’t be annoyingly prying like my siblings, so it is not as ruinous to my plans as all that.”