by Mary Balogh
Dusk really was gathering about them now. Compounded by the shade of the old tree, it made any clear sight of her face difficult. But every line of her body suggested outrage.
“You arrogant—” She could not seem to find a cutting enough noun to slap up against the adjective.
“Bastard?” he suggested.
“Yes,” she said, her voice colder than the air was getting to be. “You arrogant bastard.”
He wondered if that word had ever passed her lips before.
“For wanting to marry you?” he asked. “Am I so inferior to you, then, Viola, that I cannot aspire to your hand?”
She stared long and hard at him and then turned back to the house in obvious exasperation. But before she could take more than one step, he reached across her to grasp her arm.
“Am I?” he asked her again, and he could feel her fury recede.
“Marcel,” she said, “it is impossible. You saw the reaction of your own family toward me—not to mention Abigail—in the drawing room. Can you imagine taking me to London? During the Season? It cannot be allowed to happen. And for more personal reasons it cannot be allowed to proceed. We are going to have to think of some way out, and it is not going to be easy, especially now. We both need to think. I am perfectly well aware that you do not want this marriage any more than I do.”
“I can think of one reason why I might find it very tolerable,” he said.
“Oh, life is not all about . . . that,” she snapped.
“Sex?”
“Yes,” she said. “Life is not all about sex.”
“But an important part of it is,” he said.
“Monogamous sex?” she asked him, and even in the half light he could see that her eyes were looking very directly into his.
It was something he had committed himself to once upon a time. Once upon a long time ago. It was something he had assiduously avoided since Adeline’s death. It was something—
“I thought not,” she said curtly, and this time when she moved off in the direction of the house, he did not try to stop her. He fell into step beside her after he had caught up, but they did not speak another word.
* * *
• • •
The next morning after breakfast, Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, offered to show Viola and Abigail the lake, which he explained was among the trees to the east of the house. His manner was stiff and formal, and Viola suspected he made the offer out of duty rather than inclination. But appearances must be preserved, at least for now. She said she would be delighted. His father, he told her, would be busy for an hour or so with his steward. Lady Estelle decided to come too, as none of the guests could be expected to arrive until the middle of the afternoon at the earliest.
The two young ladies walked ahead, arm in arm. It looked as if Estelle was doing most of the talking, though Abigail was smiling. Viola did not really know how her daughter felt about this whole situation. Strange as it might seem, they had somehow avoided the topic of Viola’s betrothal and what had led up to it during the three weeks prior to their coming here. Outwardly their relationship had not changed, but there had been a certain constraint between them.
Bertrand and Viola followed behind. He did not offer his arm but held his hands behind him. He walked close beside her, however, matching his stride to hers and bending his head politely toward her when she was speaking. And he had conversation at the ready—some details about the park, questions about Hinsford, a hope that she found her accommodations here satisfactory. He was perfectly willing to answer her questions. They had lived at Elm Court in East Sussex until two years ago, when they had moved here. He had had a tutor there, a retired scholar who had lived close by and given him excellent instruction in all subjects, particularly in the classics and classical history. Having to leave his tutor behind was what he had most regretted about coming here. Since then he had shared his sister’s governess, a worthy lady who had forced him to spend more time and effort on his least favorite subject, mathematics.
“I will be forever grateful to her for that,” he added in all seriousness. “Children, and adults too, I believe, should always be willing and eager to stretch the limits of their minds in uncomfortable directions as well as in comfortable ones.”
“Most people,” Viola said with a twinkle in her eye, “are not comfortable with any stretching of the mind, Lord Watley.”
“Oh please,” he said, “call me Bertrand.”
They walked past the beech tree where she had quarreled with Marcel last evening, and on toward the woods and then among them. The path was wide, though at present it was almost obliterated by fallen leaves, which crunched underfoot. There was a lovely feeling of seclusion.
Bertrand was going up to Oxford next year and was looking forward to it immensely even though he had never been away to school and would doubtless be quite nervous at first. And it would mean leaving Estelle behind.
“You are very close to your sister?” Viola asked.
“We have been constant companions all our lives,” he explained. “There have always been our cousins, of course, but they are older than we are. Not by many years, it is true, but I have been told an age gap seems far wider to children than it does to adults. Estelle and I are the same age. We are twins.”
“Which of you is the elder?” she asked.
“Estelle, by thirty-five minutes,” he said. “I have never been allowed to forget that fact and never will be, I daresay.” He flashed her a grin, and for a moment he looked the handsome boy he was. And very, very much like his father. Was she seeing Marcel as he had been at the age of seventeen? But no father was quite replicated in his son, and she doubted Marcel had ever had the gravity of mind and manner that his son had. He had gone to Oxford University, but he seemed to have used his time there just to get into trouble, or rather to avoid the trouble his wild exploits ought to have brought him. She doubted he had ever taken his studies seriously. Though he was a reader, she remembered.
They came upon the lake suddenly and unexpectedly. It was surrounded by woodland, a large kidney-shaped body of water, very calm today, its still surface reflecting the myriad colors of the leaves on the trees. There was a sloping stretch of sandy soil ahead of them, which was probably used as a beach during the summer, and a boathouse off to their right. The woodland did not completely surround the lake, however. On the far side some of it had been cleared for a house with large windows and a garden that sloped down to the water. It was not at all like the cottage in Devonshire, but something about it was similar. Its size, perhaps. Its secluded location, perhaps. There was no other building in sight apart from the boathouse.
“The dower house,” Bertrand said. “I love it. It always makes me feel a bit homesick.”
“For Elm Court?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Aunt Jane believes Great-Aunt Olwen ought to move here and drops frequent hints to that effect. That is what it was built for, you see—as a dower house for older members of the family after a new marquess moves into Redcliffe.”
“But she does not want to live here?” Viola asked.
“No,” he said. “But I think perhaps it is more that Cousin Isabelle does not want to move here. Perhaps she will feel differently after Margaret marries and moves away with her husband. I am not sure her feelings are going to matter, however. They really must move here after Father’s wedding.”
They stood looking at the lake and the house beyond it while Estelle and Abigail made their way toward it. And Viola broached the topic she had been avoiding with her own daughter.
“How do you feel about that, Bertrand?” she asked. “About your father’s marriage to me, I mean. And please be honest.”
“Oh,” he said, “how can I be?”
Viola winced inwardly, but it was honesty she needed. She wanted to be armed with ammunition the next time she tackled Marcel. “By simpl
y doing it,” she said.
“I am furious with him,” he said after a short silence, his voice quietly intense. “Everything has always been just about him. He was supposedly too grief-stricken over our mother’s death to spend any time with us when we were children. He was still too grief-stricken when we were older. But we heard things. Children do, you know, no matter how well shielded they are—and we were very well shielded. We heard things that did not make him sound very grief-stricken. Estelle had her heart set on giving him a fortieth birthday party this year. I tried to warn her. So did Aunt Jane. But she would not listen. And then she chose to be delighted when we found him and he announced his betrothal. She is still delighted. I have never seen her this . . . ebullient. She has always been quiet and docile except sometimes when we are alone together. She thinks all will be well now even though our childhood is over. She will probably be married herself within the next year or so and I will be gone. But she still believes in happily-ever-after. She still believes in him. He had no intention of marrying you, did he?”
Well. When one asked for honesty, one had better be prepared for just that. Viola tried to frame a suitable answer but could not think of anything to say.
“Please be honest,” he said, echoing what she had said to him.
“No,” she said. “What we did was very selfish, Bertrand. I will not try to explain to you why I felt the overwhelming need to escape for a short while and why I took the opportunity when it presented itself. There is no reason why you would care. I did not know that you were waiting so eagerly for your father’s return home—I believe you were waiting just as eagerly as your sister was. It seemed harmless, that escape, of no concern to anyone but the two of us. I ought to have known better. I have thought recently about something John Donne wrote in one of his essays.”
“No man is an island?” he asked, surprising her.
“Yes,” she said. “I ended up hurting my family, and your father ended up hurting his. He is not entirely selfish, Bertrand. As soon as he saw Abigail outside that cottage, he believed he must make reparation. And as soon as he saw you and your sister, his resolve was hardened. It was not for himself he made that announcement and not for me. I thought at first it was for me, to protect my reputation. But I do not believe he would have said it if Abigail had not come with my son-in-law and the others. He did it for your sake and your sister’s and Abigail’s. I am sorry. No, that is too easy to say. Apologies usually are.”
“He said that you fell in love with each other years ago,” he said. “Was that true?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “But I was married then—or thought I was—and we both respected that marriage bond. Both of us. There was nothing between us then, except those feelings, which we resisted by avoiding each other.”
“Thank you,” he said after a short silence. “Would you like to walk around to the dower house?”
Abigail and Estelle were wandering about the outside of it.
Should she tell him, Viola wondered, that she was not going to marry his father? Or would that be unfair to Marcel before they had worked out how it was to be done?
“Yes,” she said, but before they could resume their walk they both turned at the sound of footsteps crunching on the leaves behind them. It was Marcel.
She had avoided him last evening after they had returned to the house. She had not seen him this morning. He had already been shut up with his steward when she came downstairs to breakfast with Abigail, dreading seeing him again.
He looked as he had in Devonshire, dressed warmly in his many-caped greatcoat and top boots, his tall hat pulled firmly onto his head. And her insides turned over even as she despised herself for the pleasurable awareness the mere sight of him aroused in her. No, it was not pleasurable. Not when it was something that involved only her body while her mind and her very being told her otherwise. If she was in love with him, then being in love was mindless and not at all something to be desired and reveled in.
His eyes held hers before moving to his son. And in that look, unguarded for the first moment, she read something that pulled at her heart and shook her resolve yet again, though she could not put a name to it. Pride? Love? Longing? Did he see something of himself in the boy? Something better than himself?
“Thank you, Bertrand,” he said, “for entertaining our guest.”
His son was stiff and formal again as he inclined his head. “It has been my pleasure, sir,” he said.
Marcel looked across the lake to where his daughter was pointing upward toward the chimney or roof of the dower house, or perhaps an upper window while Abigail looked upward too.
“Would you like to see the dower house?” he asked Viola.
“Bertrand was about to escort me there,” she said.
“Good.” He offered her his arm. “And I have brought the key. It is a pleasant house. Sometimes I think perhaps I should move there if my aunt does not wish to. With my children. And you.” His eyes came to rest on her as she slid her hand through his arm. “What do you think, Bertrand?”
“I think being the Marquess of Dorchester imposes obligations that necessitate your living at the main house, sir,” his son said as they set off along the path about the lake.
“Rather than the dower house or anywhere else,” his father said. “One cannot escape duty, then? Or ought not?”
“I can only speak for myself, sir,” his son said. “Living at the dower house—or anywhere—with you and your wife would be a dream come true for Estelle.”
Viola felt a slight twitch in Marcel’s arm.
“You do not believe in dreams?” he asked his son.
Bertrand did not answer for a few moments. “I believe in dreams, sir,” he said. “I also believe in the reality of the fact that very few come true.”
Marcel’s eyes moved to Viola. “And what do you think, my love?” he asked.
“Dreams cannot come true if the dreamer does not have the resolve to make them reality,” she said.
“The resolve,” Marcel said. “Is it enough?”
No one ventured a reply, and the question hovered like a tangible thing over their heads.
Seventeen
Viola had gone upstairs with the young people to see the bedchambers. Marcel could hear them talking up there—all four of them. He had missed that time when his son’s voice had changed from a boy’s to a young man’s. And he had missed the change in his daughter from demure, rather colorless girl to eager, forceful young lady, though he suspected that change had been far more recent. Indeed, perhaps he had not missed it at all. Perhaps it had begun with her disappointment that he had not come home when he had said he would come, and the resulting anger had propelled her into adulthood.
He had remained downstairs in the drawing room—if the room in which he stood could be dignified with so grand a name. It was a large sitting room but cozy too—or would be if a fire were burning in the hearth. As it was, he was glad he had kept his greatcoat on when he removed his hat and gloves after stepping inside. He stood gazing through the large window upon woodland and the lake and the boathouse and more woodland beyond. Something about it all reminded him of the cottage, where he had been so happy.
Happy?
That was a strange word to use. He had enjoyed himself there. Enormously. He could have stayed for another week at least without being bored or restless—if she had not grown both, and if their families had not descended upon them when they had.
He had also been happy there, damn it all. He pushed his hands into his pockets for warmth and listened to the voices, though he could not hear the actual words, coming from above, and he felt like . . . crying?
What the devil?
What the devil had he done with his life?
He had enjoyed it—that was what.
Living at the dower house—or anywhere—with you and your wife would be a dream come t
rue for Estelle.
I believe in dreams . . . I also believe in the reality of the fact that very few come true.
Dreams cannot come true if the dreamer does not have the resolve to make them reality.
It was strange how one seemingly insignificant decision could cause turmoil and upset the whole course of one’s life. Less than two months ago he had decided quite upon the spur of the moment to send André home with the carriage while he stayed to speak with the former Countess of Riverdale, to persuade her to spend the afternoon with him at the village fair, to coax her into spending the night with him. One small decision, quite in keeping with what his life had been like for the past seventeen years.
It had led to this.
If he had decided differently and been content merely to nod civilly to her across the width of the taproom and dining room before leaving with his brother, he would have come home, suffered through the unspeakable horror of the birthday party Estelle had planned, and been gone from here already in search of new amusement. He would have been safe.
“I cannot understand why Great-Aunt Olwen does not want to come here to live,” Estelle said from behind him. “I would in her place. I could be very happy here, Papa. It is not really small, is it? There are eight bedchambers. But it is cozy.”
He turned from the window. “And what would you do for amusement?” he asked.
She looked blankly at him before shrugging her shoulders. “What do I do now?” she asked. “I could read and paint and embroider and write in my diary and pay visits and receive visitors just as easily here as I can there. But it would be peaceful here. It would feel more like a home.”
“The dower house is not quite as cut off from civilization as it may appear to be,” Bertrand explained to Viola and her daughter. “Just through the trees behind here there are stables and a carriage house, empty now, of course, but still quite serviceable, and a wide pathway that connects with the main drive.”