by Mary Balogh
“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 behind 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 companionshi
p, 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.”
“How is Esther?” she asked, and he beamed as he told her how his wife was remaining so sweet and cheerful even though he was insisting that she spend most of her days on the chaise in her room or the long couch in the drawing room, with her feet up.
“Though I have insisted that while I am away she remain in her room,” he said. “Until I return to carry her down to the drawing room, that is.”
Lydia smiled and took the leftover scones and cake out of the pantry. Her mind was beginning to race. She and Harry had agreed to keep their betrothal and wedding plans strictly secret from everyone except the vicar and the two witnesses. Their reason had been that it would not seem fair to involve his family when her own was far away. Now suddenly most of her family was here. Only Esther and Anthony were missing. But she could not say anything. Not without consulting Harry first.
James and William would not stay for a cup of tea even though they must be hungry and thirsty after their journey. They insisted upon going without delay to reserve rooms and find stabling for the horses.
So Lydia settled down to a visit with her father while her mind kept on churning over what she could say. It was unlikely Harry would come until much later, and it was important to her that any decision to be made be made together.
She had less time to wait than she had expected. Within an hour after her brothers left, there was a knock upon her door and she opened it to discover on her doorstep two scowling brothers, a smiling, bonnetless, gloveless Marchioness of Dorchester, and a hatless Harry with a bright red chin and an upper lip that looked considerably fatter than it normally did.
What—?
“Lydie, you are not to worry—”
“We will have you away from here, Lydie—”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tavernor.”
“Hello, Lydia.”
They all spoke at the same time.
“What in thunder?” Her father had come up behind her. “Is this the villain? Get him away from here. He is not coming inside this house. I forbid it. Lydie has her father to look after her now.”
“Papa,” Lydia said, “this is my house. Please come in, all of you. Lady Dorchester, this is my father. The Marchioness of Dorchester, Papa. Major Westcott’s mother.”
What on earth had happened? But it was a rhetorical question. Clearly the need to go to the inn in such a hurry to reserve rooms had been merely an excuse on her brothers’ part to go and confront Harry.
“How do you do, Mr. Winterbourne?” the marchioness said. “How reassuring it must be for Mrs. Tavernor to have relatives who care so much for her that they have come a long distance in support of her. You will be returning home with your father, Mrs. Tavernor?”
“I will not,” Lydia said. “Oh, this cottage was not built for so many people looming. Will you all please sit down?”
Amazingly they all did except for Harry, who stood just inside her living room, his hands clasped at his back.
“And I suppose,” Lydia continued, “one of you—James, at a guess—felt that you must defend my honor by finding Harry and hitting him. I suppose Lady Hill in her letter to Papa mentioned the fact that he kissed me when he conveyed me home from a village assembly in his carriage. Perhaps she even mentioned that he kissed me on the forehead. And thus, of course, he became the grand villain of the piece and you must all rush here to haul me home and punish the man who kissed my brow. I see no marks on either James or William. Was Harry too sensible to fight back? And did either of you even think of consulting me first? Of asking me exactly what happened? Of discovering from me if Harry did anything that was remotely either disrespectful or villainous? Has either of you even noticed during the past twenty-eight years that I have a voice? Has either of you even considered the possibility that perhaps I have a mind?”
“Now, Lydie—” her father began.
“And you, Papa,” she said, turning her glare on him. “Were you a party to this? Did you know that the first thing James and William intended to do after they arrived here was to go and mete out punishment without even asking me for my side of the story and my feelings and preferences? No, do not answer. Of course you knew. And you should be ashamed of yourself. All three of you should. You came here to take me home. Can’t you understand I am home? This is where I belong and where I choose to stay. I love you all very dearly, but I want to hear your apology to Harry.”
Oh dear. Where had all that come from?
“Lydia.” Harry’s hands had come to her shoulders from behind. “
Perhaps we should tell your father and brothers? And my mother too?”
“You are not worthy to shine Lydie’s shoes,” her father said. “I do not like to see your hands on her. Or to hear you make free with her name.”
“Yes,” Lydia said, speaking to Harry.
“Lydia and I are betrothed,” Harry said.
His mother got to her feet.
“Because we love each other,” Harry said. “Not because of the very foolish gossip concocted by a Peeping Tom of a boy and his hysterical mother. We will be getting married.”
“Oh,” his mother said, clasping her hands to her bosom and looking at Lydia with glowing eyes.
“May I?” Harry asked Lydia.
“Yes,” she said.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “In the church here in the village. It was to have been a very private ceremony, even though all my family is currently staying at Hinsford Manor to celebrate my birthday, also tomorrow. We did not want a family wedding without any of Lydia’s family in attendance. But we also did not want to wait. Now it can be a family wedding after all.”
“Oh,” the marchioness said again.
Lydia’s father and brothers could not seem to find even that much to say.
Harry squeezed Lydia’s shoulders almost hard enough to hurt. She raised a hand and covered one of his own.
And suddenly the prospect of tomorrow morning no longer seemed flat. Suddenly there was nothing but joy.
* * *
* * *
The village of Fairfield was already in a state of suppressed excitement the following day when word began to spread from house to house, from business to business, as news and rumor and gossip always did in any community, that something was going on at the church. It was Major Harry Westcott’s birthday, and the illustrious Westcott family, not to mention the Kingsleys and other guests, had been causing a stir all week as they paid calls in the village upon the favored ones among them. Almost everyone had been invited to the ball tonight. It was many years since there had been any such entertainment at the manor.