by Mary Balogh
Mrs. Bailey, the vicar’s wife, was arranging her considerable bulk on the pianoforte bench, having been invited to play by Tom Corning himself. She was by far the most accomplished pianist in the community. Unfortunately, the instrument was slightly out of tune, as it had been for as long as Lydia had been at Fairfield, and the key of high C stuck whenever it was depressed with any degree of pressure and had to be manually restored to its position before the music could continue. Everyone listened indulgently anyway while Mrs. Bailey played and Major Westcott stood at her shoulder to turn the pages of the music and lend his assistance with the sticky key.
“Tom,” he called across the room when the first piece came to an end and the smattering of applause had died down, “if you do not hire someone within the next week to overhaul this instrument and repair that key, I swear I will undertake the task myself and you will be sorry.”
“He will probably saw off the key altogether, Tom, and leave a gaping hole in its place for Mrs. Bailey and others to break a finger through,” Dr. Powis warned. “I would not chance it if I were you, though the broken finger would be business for me. Get the dratted piano tuner here.”
“You have been threatening to have the thing tuned for at least the last four years, since I came home,” Major Westcott said. “Hannah must have the patience of Job to put up with it.”
“I am not such a saint, Harry,” Hannah said. “I have been threatening to tune Tom over it for at least that long.”
There was general laughter. Tom Corning and the major had apparently been close friends since childhood and were grinning at each other as they bickered.
Lydia laughed with everyone else.
No, it was not a man that was missing from her life.
It was a lover.
They were one and the same thing, of course, some might argue. But those people would be wrong. A man in her life, whether father, brother, brother-in-law, or husband, would want to own her—he would own her. He would also want to dominate her. She would not allow herself to be owned or dominated ever again. A lover, on the other hand, could be enjoyed and sent on his way when his presence became bothersome.
Mr. Carver, one of Major Westcott’s tenant farmers, who lived a mile or so beyond the village, had come to sit beside Lydia before the music began. As soon as Tom and Major Westcott had finished calling across the room to each other, he launched into an account of the sudden and mysterious lameness of one of his horses in the right foreleg, just when there was a great deal of farm work to be done. Lydia turned her attention to him, though at least part of her mind was imagining how very deeply shocked he and all her neighbors and friends would be if they were aware of her deepest musings.
A lover could be enjoyed and sent on his way . . .
She had been the Reverend Isaiah Tavernor’s wife and helpmeet. That was the word he had liked to use to describe her. It was as though she had had no identity of her own. She was only his helpmeet. For more than six years, first as a curate’s wife, then as a vicar’s, she had cultivated modesty and invisibility because it was what he had expected of her. Not literal invisibility, of course. Everyone had seen her, welcomed her, apparently liked and approved of her. She had forever been busy about parish business and the performance of good works, as befitted the wife of a vicar. But nobody, it seemed to Lydia, not even her closest acquaintances, had really known her. She had had no close friends while her husband lived. She had been too busy, all her time and attention devoted to furthering the work that was his passion. Sometimes she had had the rather dizzying suspicion that she did not know herself. Was there even a self to know? Someone quite separate and distinct from her energetic, zealous, charismatic husband?
Since Isaiah’s death she had chosen to remain more or less invisible. It had been better thus while she was still in her blacks, and it was easier now so she could guard her fragile, hard-won freedom. She was known, she supposed, as the amiable, placid, even bland Mrs. Tavernor, the brave, tragic widow and helpmeet of their much-revered deceased vicar. She did not mind. At least for the present she did not.
Yet here she was, seated in the midst of a number of her fellow villagers, dreaming of a lover.
Specifically, of Major Harry Westcott.
Who very probably scarcely knew she existed.
She had never flirted with him or tried in any way to engage his interest. She would not even know how to go about either one anyway if she wished to try. She had no serious designs on him. The chance that she would find a lover, any lover, here in this small village was slim to none. Actually, slimmer even than that.
But a woman could dream, could she not? Dreams were often ideal pleasures because one could make of them whatever one wished. And if they never came true, as most did not and this one certainly never would, then what did it matter? Her real life was very nearly perfect as it was. Her dreams merely brightened it a little more.
Major Westcott was a young man, probably about her own age. He was tall and lean—not thin. That was too negative a word. Besides, his arms and shoulders and chest looked strongly muscled beneath the well-tailored coats and waistcoats he always wore. And his legs were long and shapely and powerful-looking beneath his pantaloons. They looked even more so beneath riding breeches and boots, she had noticed on other occasions. He was fair-haired and good-looking even if not outstandingly handsome. He had a good-humored face, with blue eyes that almost always smiled. She was not deceived by either his face or his eyes, however. What had always fascinated her most about him was the suggestion of darkness that he kept very well hidden.
Perhaps it did not even exist. His mask—if it was a mask—never slipped in public, or never had when she had been present to witness it, anyway. And he was generally known as an even-tempered, sunny-natured man without a trouble in the world now that he was back home after the Napoleonic Wars in which he had fought. Lydia did not believe it. She knew very little of his past, but she knew enough to understand that there had been much suffering in his life, and that it was unlikely he had either dealt with it all or otherwise put it behind him. It was far more likely that he had pushed most of it deep. Lydia knew all about that.
Once, very briefly, after the death of his father, he had been the Earl of Riverdale, with properties and fortune that had made him a very wealthy and socially prominent young man. He had been brought up and educated for just that life. But he had lost everything after the bigamous nature of his father’s marriage to his mother had been discovered. It all must have been absolutely devastating to his family. And to him. Oh, he was treated here with great deference despite that huge change in his life. Most people here had known him since he was a child and had always liked him. He was still treated as lord of the manor, somewhat above all of them in rank. He could no longer be called my lord or Lord Riverdale, of course, but he could be and was called Major Westcott as a mark of their respect, even though he was no longer a military officer.
He had been severely wounded at the Battle of Waterloo and had spent years recovering, first in France and then here at Hinsford Manor. He seemed perfectly fit now and had no visible scars, but Lydia doubted his recovery was complete or ever would be. Perhaps there were wounds of war that were not entirely physical. She had no evidence of that, but she had always thought it. How could one fight other human beings to the death, witness the slaughter of dozens, watch one’s friends and comrades dying, be wounded almost to the point of death oneself, and come away from it unscathed?
How did one live with memories of hell?
Why did people speak of battlefields as fields of glory? They must be as close to hell as it was possible to get in this life.
Oh, there was surely darkness in Major Westcott. Lydia could sense it. But it served only to make him more impossibly attractive to her than his appearance and outer manner already made him.
Could something be more impossible than impossible?
Lydia smiled to herself, gave herself a mental shake, and focused more of her attention upon Mr. Carver, who was still speaking even though Mrs. Bailey was playing again.
“Perhaps,” he was saying, “he has just grown too old and is ready to be put out to pasture. Do you think that might be it, Mrs. Tavernor?”
“Perhaps he just needs to rest for a while until his leg is better,” Lydia suggested.
As soon as the music had finished, Mrs. Bartlett, Lydia’s next-door neighbor, approached her and smiled apologetically down at her.
“Mrs. Tavernor,” she said. “I am sorry to interrupt your conversation. My daughter-in-law has persuaded me to go out to the farm with her and my son to stay for a few days. There is room in the carriage for me to go with them tonight. I have things out there and will not need to go back home first. I always welcome the chance to spend some time with my grandchildren. I will not need you to walk home with me after all, then. I know you are not afraid of the dark, but I do hope you will not mind going alone.”
“But we can squeeze Mrs. Tavernor into the carriage too, Mother, and give her a ride home,” her daughter-in-law protested, appearing at her side. She smiled at Lydia. “It will be no trouble at all.”
“There really is no need for you to go out of your way,” Lydia assured her as she got to her feet. It was indeed growing late. “I will enjoy the exercise and the fresh air after all the excellent cake I have eaten. And I really do not have far to go.”
“But—” the younger Mrs. Bartlett began, while all about them other guests were also getting to their feet and preparing to leave.
“Mrs. Tavernor will not have to walk alone, Mrs. Bartlett,” Tom Corning called across the room. “I’ll run upstairs and fetch a coat and come with you, ma’am. I doubtless need the exercise, and you really ought not to walk on your own at night.”
Lydia opened her mouth to protest. The main street of the village was not terribly long, after all, even though the Cornings lived at one end of it and she lived a little beyond the other end. A number of people between here and there would be at home with lamps or candles illumining their windows. There was absolutely nothing of which to be afraid. And then another voice spoke up, from the direction of the pianoforte, where Mrs. Bailey was gathering up the music and Major Westcott was putting it away neatly inside the bench.
“I am going in that direction anyway, Tom,” he called, “and would be happy to escort Mrs. Tavernor home. You will be perfectly safe with me, ma’am. I can fight off wild bears and wolves with my bare hands.”
“That would be a sight to behold,” Tom said derisively, grinning as he spoke. “Do you wish to take the risk that he is merely boasting, Mrs. Tavernor?”
“Since I have never in my life seen a wolf or a bear, stray or otherwise, in this neighborhood,” Lydia said, “I believe it is safe to take the chance. Though I hope I am not dragging you away earlier than you intended to leave, Major Westcott.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” he assured her. “Tom and Hannah will probably be glad to see the back of me. And it will be my pleasure to walk with you.”
He smiled at her. A sweet, quite impersonal, devastatingly attractive smile.
“Then thank you,” she said.
Oh goodness.
Three
Harry had grown up at Hinsford Manor, knowing almost everyone in the vicinity for most of his life. The arrival of new residents was rare. It had happened four years ago, however, not long after he returned from France and only a month or so after the wedding here of his sister Abigail to Lieutenant Colonel Gil Bennington. Mrs. Jenkins, the old vicar’s wife, who had been a witness at that wedding, had died suddenly, and the vicar, brokenhearted and lost without her, had decided it was time to retire and go to live with his son and daughter-in-law. His son, also a clergyman, was vicar of a church fifty miles or so away. The day of Mrs. Jenkins’s funeral had been a sad one for the community. That of the vicar’s departure had been equally affecting, for he had been here more years than most people remembered and was much beloved.
His replacement, the Reverend Isaiah Tavernor, could hardly have presented a greater contrast. He had been a young, vigorous, handsome man, eager to serve his God and his flock with every ounce of his being. He had been a charismatic man, a burning-eyed zealot who had held his congregation in the palm of his hand as he preached, often at considerable length, the gospel of moral rectitude, sober living, and devotion to duty and service. He had lived what he preached. There had been no hypocrisy in the Reverend Tavernor.
It had not taken long for many of his parishioners to become utterly devoted to him. It was not that they had thought any the less of the Reverend Jenkins, some had been at pains to explain when the topic arose in conversation, as it often did. It was just that this new man was a welcome change. He stirred things up. There were those, however, like Harry himself, who had never quite been able to warm to the new vicar, even though they had been equally unable to find any fault in him. It was because they missed Mr. Jenkins, Harry had supposed. What was new was often resented. Quite unreasonably so, but sometimes one’s deepest feelings were hard to shift.
No one had expected that the new vicar would stay longer than a few years, for he was the second son of an earl and had no doubt been intended for the church from the moment of his birth. He had served as a curate for a while before being appointed to his present living. But it had been very clear to all that he was destined for higher things, for a bishopric at least, perhaps even an archbishopric before his time was done. Alas, his time was done all too soon in the performance of an act of suicidal heroism when he rescued a young boy from a fast-flowing river swollen by two weeks of heavy rain. He had tossed the boy unharmed onto the bank, not counting a few scrapes and bruises and a great deal of fright, but he himself had been swept away by the current and drowned. It had taken a full day to recover his lifeless body and carry him home.
He had left behind a young widow, who had surprised everyone after his death by purchasing a cottage that had sat empty for a year on the outskirts of the village and moving in soon after the funeral. Mrs. Tavernor had been a diligent and loyal helpmeet to her husband. She had always been seated quietly in the front pew of the church at Sunday services, had busied herself with church and community duties, had led a number of women’s committees, and had worked tirelessly at visiting the sick and the elderly. It was said that she had never turned a vagrant from her door without first feeding him and pressing a coin into his hand, though those poor beggars more often than not had to endure the frowns of her housekeeper and a lecture upon the temptations of sloth and shiftlessness from her husband while they consumed their soup and bread.
She had lived a life of near solitude during the year of her mourning but had gradually rejoined the social life of the community during the past few months.
Yet despite Mrs. Tavernor’s four-year residence in the village and her involvement in its affairs and her indefatigable devotion to good works, it struck Harry as he walked away from Tom and Hannah’s house, her hand tucked lightly through his arm, that if he were to encounter her on a street in London or some other bustling town, he might well pass her by without recognizing her. It was a startling admission. He might also not recognize her voice if he heard it without also seeing her. He had not been sure how tall she was until now, when she was walking along at his side—the top of her head reached halfway up his ear—or what exact shade her hair was or how she dressed it. Did she wear a cap? He could not for the life of him remember. And what color were her eyes? He could recall hearing that she was the daughter of a well-to-do gentleman, though he did not know who the man was or where he lived. The father had come for her husband’s funeral, but Harry had been away from home himself at the time. He knew virtually nothing about her, in fact, and had never been curious enough to find out. While her husband lived, it had been easy to dismiss her as a mere shadowy appendage of him rather
than accept her as a person in her own right. Since his death she had been virtually invisible.
Harry was not proud of his lack of awareness. No one deserved to be totally disregarded, as though their very existence was of no significance. Everyone deserved to be noticed. To be treated with respect. To be listened to. To be recognized as a fellow human being. During his military years he had always made a point of knowing each of the men under his command, down to the lowliest recruit.
For a few moments he felt a familiar clutch of panic in the region of his stomach as his thoughts shifted to all those faceless multitudes of men who in his nightmares marched inexorably toward him and their deaths. Scores of them, even hundreds, coming to be slaughtered by his own hand or by his command to his men to fire their muskets and rifles. Anonymous beings whom he had never dared think of as people. Whom in his nightmares he could think of as nothing but people—for whose deaths he was guilty, for the suffering of whose mothers and wives and sisters he was responsible. Yet he could not put a name or even a face to any of them.
He turned his head to see Mrs. Tavernor’s face, to impress it upon his conscious mind at last—and perhaps to assure himself that yes, of course he knew what she looked like and would recognize her anywhere. But her face was hidden by the brim of her bonnet and would not have been easily visible anyway in the darkness.
“It was a pleasant evening, was it not?” he said, aware of the silence now that they had walked away from the other departing guests. “I won three shillings at cards.”
“I lost sixpence, alas,” she said. “What a good thing it was—for me—that large wagers were forbidden. I shall think for days of how I might have spent those six pennies.”