by Mary Balogh
“We must indeed go to Alvesley, then,” she said.
There was a twinkle in his eye suddenly and he smiled his lopsided grin.
“You sound as if you are agreeing to attend your own execution,” he said. “You will like them, Anne, and they will love you.”
She doubted that very much indeed. Even though she might continue to reassure herself with the knowledge that they were equally responsible for having conceived a child and thus having been precipitated into an unplanned marriage, she did not doubt that his family would see matters quite otherwise.
“Will we tell them…everything?” she asked.
He set down his glass, though his fingers played with the stem.
“I want them to know,” he said, smiling again, “that I am to be a father. But for your sake we will say nothing at present. I will let them know in a letter after we have gone home to Ty Gwyn, and they may draw whatever conclusions they wish when the child is born sooner than expected.”
His gaze slipped downward to her abdomen, and Anne resisted the urge to spread her hand there. It seemed strangely unreal that they had created life together in her womb. She felt an unexpected but very welcome surge of desire between her thighs and in the passage within.
“Kit and Lauren have three children,” he said. “They are all considerably younger than David, but even so he may enjoy having some cousins to meet.”
“He loves playing with young children,” she said. “I think it is a natural reaction to having spent the last few years with older girls. Young children make him feel important.”
“We will leave for Alvesley in the morning, then,” he said.
They fell into a short silence that might have been comfortable if it had not been so charged with sexual tension. But the discomfort, Anne thought, feeling her breath quicken and her nipples harden, was very pleasurable. They were man and wife, and tonight and for the rest of their lives they would share a marital bed, and they would make love whenever they wished.
Dread receded to be replaced by hope. She remembered the desire, the need, the pleasure with which she had approached their lovemaking last time. It had all been perfectly wonderful until the moment when he came inside her. But the memory of him there had surely replaced the other memory. All would be well. They had not married under the best of circumstances, it was true-she knew that he had not really wanted her as his wife-but she knew equally that he would make the best of those circumstances just as she would.
“Anne,” he said, “after going to Alvesley we ought to go into Gloucestershire so that I may meet your family.”
“No!” she exclaimed.
“It would be a fitting time to do it,” he said. “Any embarrassment they may have felt over your unmarried state while you had a child will be soothed by the knowledge of your recent marriage. And we will be able to assure them that I look upon David as my son just as if he had been born of my seed. It is time-”
“It is not time,” she cried, getting to her feet and crossing to the fireplace, where she stood with her back to him, looking into the glowing coals, “and never will be. I have no family.”
“You do,” he said with quiet persistence. “You have a husband and son. You have in-laws and nephews and a niece at Alvesley. And you have parents and siblings in Gloucestershire-my in-laws and David’s grandparents and aunts and uncles. Perhaps cousins too. You have never given me full details.”
“Deliberately so,” she told him, “because I do not know the details myself. My family was not there to comfort and support me when I needed comfort and support, and so I managed without them and discovered that in fact I did not need them at all and would never need them again.”
“We always need family,” he said. “Some poor souls literally have none, and they are much to be pitied. Other people turn away from the family they do have and are perhaps more to be pitied. But at least they always have the chance to turn back again.”
“I was not the one who turned away,” she told him, angry and upset that he should bring up this topic now when she had told him her feelings on it while they were in Wales. “I have no turning back to do.”
“I disagree with you, Anne,” he said. “I know you are not a happy person. I do not believe you ever will be happy until you have at least tried to reconcile with your family and to make your son-and your husband-known to them.”
“And I suppose,” she said, turning on him, “my new child too, who will be very legitimate indeed and very respectable-the grandson or granddaughter of the Earl of Redfield no less. And then there will be David Jewell, still illegitimate, still a bastard.”
She had never seen him angry before. The left side of his face looked pale and chiseled and more handsome than ever. The right side of his face looked more immobile in contrast, the black eye patch almost sinister.
“That is an ugly word,” he said, “and unworthy of you, Anne. David is my stepson. I intend to take measures to adopt him fully. I will even give him my name if he can be persuaded to take it.”
“David is my son.” She glared back at him, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “He is not yours or anyone else’s. He is David Jewell. And he does not need anyone but me.”
They stared tensely at each other for several moments until he looked away and pushed his empty wineglass farther to the center of the table.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I wanted to avoid being the autocrat, the domineering partner in our marriage, the sort of husband who either demands obedience of his wife or expects it as his right. I thought to inform you of my wish to take you to Alvesley to introduce you to my family and then give you the equal chance to take me to your own family. But I have only succeeded in hurting and angering you. I am sorry.”
The anger drained out of her, leaving her shaken. She was not often given to anger. And she had liked Sydnam-she still did, she hoped. But here they were on their wedding day, quarreling quite bitterly. He had all but called her a coward. He had called her unhappy, implying that she was not whole, that she was incapable of wholeness and healing unless she turned back to people who had turned from her and from her son, who was guilty of nothing except being born of the ugliness of rape. He had scolded her for calling David by a name she knew some people used to describe him.
And he had claimed not to wish to be an autocrat, yet he had spoken of adopting David and giving him his name just as if all the care she had given her son in almost ten years and the Jewell name were nothing. Just as if both she and David needed to be saved from something, lifted up to respectability.
She knew she was being unfair to him-and that fact did not help restore her mood to tranquillity.
“I am sorry too,” she said. “I did not mean to quarrel with you today of all days-or any day for that matter. I suppose I am just tired. The last few weeks have been rather stressful.”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “you would like to sleep in the other bed in David’s room tonight.”
The suggestion was so unexpected that all she could do was stare at him, trying not to show the dismay she felt. It was not what she would like at all-she had wanted to take a determined step toward normality tonight. And she did not believe it was what he wanted either-she could not be the only one who had felt the sexual tension all afternoon and evening. But something had been ruined and she found herself answering in kind when she wanted-and perhaps he wanted it too-to deny his suggestion.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Perhaps that would be a good idea. And if David wakes up in a strange place, he will be reassured to find me close by.”
Oh, stupid, stupid, she thought.
“Yes, of course.” He got to his feet and came toward her, reaching out a hand formally for hers and carrying it to his lips. It was her left hand. She could see her new wedding ring gleaming in the candlelight and willed him to lift his head and kiss her on the lips and end this madness so that the night could proceed as they must both have expected it to.
Instead h
e smiled kindly at her.
“Good night, Anne. I hope you both sleep well. Shall we plan to make an early start in the morning?”
“Yes,” she said, sliding her hand from his and smiling back. “Good night, Sydnam.”
Ten minutes later she was lying in the narrow bed close to David, staring up at the canopy over her head and ignoring the hot tears that were trickling diagonally across her cheeks and dripping onto the pillow on either side of her head.
It did not help at all that she recognized the absurdity of the situation-and of both their behavior.
It was her wedding night and a whole private sitting and dining room separated her bedchamber from that of her new husband.
And all because they had quarreled-though they had apologized to each other.
She had desperately hoped that their wedding night would set them on the path to a happy future, even if not a happily-ever-after.
Now she was afraid all might be ruined.
She thought of getting up and going to him after all. But she was the one who had initiated their lovemaking at Ty Gwyn-and then she had let him down. She did not have the courage to do it again, knowing that it was quite possible the same thing would happen.
The carriage turned to pass between two great wrought-iron gates and made its way along a wide graveled driveway, woods on each side, a sure signal that it was traveling through the outer limits of a private park surrounding a great house. Although the scenery was different, Anne was powerfully reminded of her first approach to Glandwr-where all this had started.
She was feeling much as she had felt then.
She was sitting with David on the forward-facing seat while Sydnam sat with his back to the horses. It was impossible to tell if he was excited at the prospect of seeing his family soon or apprehensive at the nature of his return. He sat quietly looking out through the window.
None of them had talked a great deal since leaving Bath, and when they had spoken, it had been about inconsequentials.
What would happen between them tonight? she wondered.
But it struck her as she spotted water and lawns ahead that there was a great deal to be faced between now and tonight.
“Soon you will be able to see the inner park,” Sydnam said. “It always takes my breath away even though I am familiar with it.”
Even as he spoke the carriage drew clear of the trees, and the interior was flooded with light. Anne could see that the water was a river. Beyond it were wide lawns dotted with ancient trees sloping up to a mansion, still some distance away. Off to the left-hand side there was a lake, partially surrounded by trees.
Her first sight of Alvesley and the inner park made Anne realize more fully the extent of what she had done. She had married a son of this grand and stately home. She was the daughter-in-law of an earl.
Her stomach performed an uncomfortable flip-flop that reminded her of the morning nausea that had worn off hours ago.
With every turn of the carriage wheels she felt a growing dread. David, apparently feeling a similar apprehension, moved closer to her side and pressed his arm against hers. She smiled reassuringly down at him as the wheels of the carriage rumbled onto a roofed stone Palladian bridge across the river, and then onto the driveway through the park.
“It is all quite magnificent,” she said. “Is it not, David?”
There were people out on the lawn close to the house, she could see as they drew closer-two ladies, one young, the other older, and two children, a boy about four years old and a girl somewhat younger. Both ladies were looking toward the carriage, the older one shading her eyes with her hand.
“My mother,” Sydnam said, leaning closer to the window, “and Lauren. And Andrew. The little girl must be Sophie. She was a baby when I last saw her, but there is another baby in the nursery now. I have not even seen him yet.”
His manner, Anne saw, was animated. He was happy to be home. She felt a surging of tenderness for him-and a stabbing of loneliness for herself.
And then, as the carriage made a great swing onto the terrace before the marble steps and pillared portico that sheltered the double front doors of the house, Anne could see two gentlemen in riding clothes stepping out of the stable block.
“My father,” Sydnam said, “and Kit. It seems that we are arriving at a provident moment. Everyone is here-except the baby.”
Anne leaned back in her seat as if by doing so she could hide forever from the ordeal to come. Sydnam turned his attention to her.
“Your bonnet and your spencer are the exact color of your eyes,” he said. “You look lovely, Anne.”
She was wearing one of her new outfits. Her dress was a shade paler than the spencer. She remembered the pleasure of their shopping expedition in Bath and smiled at him.
The carriage drew to a halt, and as soon as the steps were put down Sydnam descended. But he was given no chance to turn to hand Anne down. His brother must have seen him through the window and had already stridden across the terrace to catch him up in his arms.
“Syd, you old devil!” he exclaimed, laughing. “What is this?”
He was not as tall as Sydnam, and his hair was fairer. He was not quite as handsome either, in Anne’s opinion, though he looked fit and lithe and had a good-humored face.
But before Sydnam could answer, his mother came hurrying up and took him from his brother’s arms into her own.
“Sydnam,” she said, her voice bright and glad. “Sydnam, Sydnam.”
“Mama.” He patted her back with his one hand.
David hid his face against Anne’s arm.
Sydnam’s father stood in the background, beaming genially, and his sister-in-law came into view, the curly-haired little girl astride her hip, the young boy holding her hand, the wide brim of her straw hat flapping in the breeze-a beautiful dark-haired violet-eyed lady.
“Sydnam,” she cried, “what an absolutely wonderful surprise!”
Ah, yes, indeed, they were a close and happy family.
None of them seemed aware of her presence or David’s inside the carriage. But Sydnam soon extricated himself from his mother’s embrace and turned to smile up at Anne.
“There are two people here I want you all to meet,” he said, reaching out his hand to help her down. It closed warmly about hers, and everyone turned to look at her with surprise and curiosity. “May I present Anne, my wife, and David Jewell, her son? Anne, David, I wish you to meet the Earl and Countess of Redfield, my father and mother, and Kit and Lauren, Viscount and Lady Ravensberg, my brother and sister-in-law. And Andrew and Sophia Butler, their children, I assume.”
Anne curtsied. David, who had scrambled down the carriage steps on his own, bobbed his head in a jerky bow and moved closer to her until the side of his body was pressed to hers.
“Your wife?”
“You devil, you, Syd.”
“You are married, Sydnam?”
“Oh, Sydnam, how wonderful!”
They all spoke at once. But surprised, even shocked, as they undoubtedly were, they did not look horrified. Not yet.
The little boy stared at Sydnam and then patted his father’s leg insistently until Viscount Ravensberg swung him up into his arms. The little girl hid her face on the viscountess’s shoulder.
The countess, regal and handsome, turned her full attention on her new daughter-in-law and smiled.
“Anne, my dear,” she said, taking both of Anne’s hands in her own and squeezing them tightly, “my son has married you and did not even inform us? How could he have been so remiss? We would have arranged a grand wedding for you. Oh, how provoking of you, Sydnam.”
“Ramshackle doings, Syd, old chap,” the viscount said. “Anne-may we call you that? I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He smiled at her too so that his eyes crinkled attractively in the corners, and held out his free hand to shake hers.
“And I yours,” Anne said, taking it.
“Do you not remember Uncle Syd, Andrew?” he said, looking down at his son.<
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“The army surgeon chopped your arm off with a big knife,” the boy said, peeping at Sydnam and making a slashing motion with the side of one hand. “Papa told me.”
“And I am delighted too,” the viscountess said warmly, stepping forward to hug Anne and set one cheek against hers while she still held Sophia. “More than delighted. And how do we know, Mother, that Anne and Sydnam did not have a grand wedding? Or an equally beautiful small wedding? Either way I am sorry in my heart that we missed it. And David.” She turned her full attention on him and stooped slightly to hug him too. “How lovely to have a new nephew and an older cousin for Andrew and Sophie and Geoffrey, who is missing all the excitement while he enjoys his afternoon nap in the nursery.”
“You are very welcome indeed to this family, Anne,” the earl said, stepping forward and offering her a large hand. “But Sydnam has some explaining to do to his mother. Why have we known nothing at all of you until this moment?”
“We were married quietly in Bath yesterday by special license, my lord,” she said.
“By special license?” The earl frowned at Sydnam. “But why the great hurry, son? And why Bath of all places?”
“I was teaching at a girls’ school there until two days ago,” Anne explained, relaxing just a little. It looked as if after all his family was prepared to take her to its bosom. “Sydnam did not want to delay the wedding.”
“I did not,” he agreed, laughing. “I am s-”
“My mother is going to have a baby,” David said quite distinctly in his treble voice, drawing everyone’s shocked attention his way.
There was a very brief silence, during which Anne closed her eyes and then opened them again to find David looking uncertainly up at her. She tried to smile at him.
“In a little more than six months’ time,” Sydnam told his family. “We are enormously happy about it, are we not, Anne? I am going to be a father.”
The atmosphere had undergone a distinct change in less than a minute. The chill of autumn seemed to have sliced through the unseasonable warmth of the day.