Someone to Cherish

by Mary Balogh

  “Straighten your back,” Harry said. “Drop your shoulders. Raise your chin.” All of which Jeremy did.

  The occupants of the summerhouse were all standing and gazing this way, Lydia could see. Mr. Bennington was outside the door, one hand holding it open. And if that was not enough, there was a group of riders approaching from the east, weaving their way through the trees. They must have realized something untoward was happening ahead of them, however, and stopped when they were still some distance away.

  “You have something to say to Mrs. Tavernor,” Harry said.

  “I don’t have nothing—”

  “Silence,” Harry said. “You will speak when you are told to speak. To Mrs. Tavernor. Whom you will address as ma’am. Do you understand that? You may answer.”

  “I don’t have—”

  “Do. You. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I understand. But—”

  “Yes, what?” Harry said again.

  “Yes, sir,” Jeremy said.

  “You have something to say to Mrs. Tavernor, Jeremy,” Harry said. “Say it. Address her as ma’am. Raise. Your. Chin. Look at her.”

  Jeremy looked, winced, and leaned down to adjust the position of his right knee.

  “Attention,” Harry barked.

  Jeremy, obviously close to tears, came up straight, and looked somewhere in the direction of Lydia’s chin. “I am sorry,” he said. “Ma’am,” he added quickly, darting a glance at Harry, who was standing close beside him, his booted feet slightly apart, his hands clasped at his back.

  Lydia drew breath to speak.

  “And for what are you sorry?” Harry asked. “No, do not address me. Address Mrs. Tavernor.”

  “For telling on you,” Jeremy said. “Ma’am.”

  “One tells on someone when that someone has done something wrong, Jeremy,” Lydia said. “What was it, if you please, that I did wrong?”

  “Back straight. Arms at your sides,” Harry said.

  Jeremy jerked to attention. “You was carrying on with ’im,” he said, indicating Harry with a slight sideways motion of his head. “Ma’am. But I got nothing but grief when the reverend jumped in the river and killed ’imself thinking ’e was saving me. I was about to get out on my own when ’e jumped in and almost drowneded me. He just made an idiot of himself. And then everyone thought ’e was such a saint and you was such an angel.”

  Lydia held up a staying hand to stop Harry from speaking. “Destroying someone else’s life, or at least her reputation, has soothed your feelings for what you perceive as an injustice to yourself, Jeremy?” she asked him. “You feel better about yourself now that you have toppled me from my pedestal in the eyes of your mother and other people in the village?”

  “Mrs. Tavernor is awaiting your answer,” Harry said when the boy did not immediately reply. “No. Stay as you are.”

  “Jeremy?” Lydia said as the boy snapped back to attention. “Do you feel better about yourself?”

  “No,” he said at last. “Ma’am.”

  “Are you happy,” she asked him, “that you have made me the victim of malicious gossip?”

  “You was kissing ’im,” he said sullenly.

  “Are you happy?” she asked again.

  “No,” he said.

  “You have something more to say to Mrs. Tavernor, then,” Harry said. “Do not forget how to address her.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Jeremy cried. “I didn’t ought to’ve done it, and I won’t do it no more. I was just sick of everything, and I wished you would’ve left ’ere after ’e died so everyone would forget. My ma wished the same thing. But I shouldn’t ought to’ve watched you till you done things I could tell ’er about. I’m sorry and I won’t do it no more.”

  “Then I accept your apology,” Lydia said.

  “On your feet,” Harry said. When the boy had scrambled up, wincing and staggering, Harry took one step closer to him so they were almost toe to toe. “Whatever you saw or heard here today, you have forgotten. Not one word of it will pass your lips. The penalty for trespass on my land is a thorough thrashing, the sort that makes it impossible for a boy to sit down for a week. It is normally administered by my head groom. With a whip he keeps especially for the purpose. I will waive that punishment for now. However, if I hear, or if Mrs. Tavernor hears, one whisper of your having been here today or one breath of a whisper of what you may have seen or heard here, then the punishment will be doubled, and it will be administered by me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Jeremy’s voice was close to a squeak.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Starting tomorrow,” Harry said, “you will attend school all day every day. If I hear from Mr. Corning that you have been absent or late, I will wish to know the reason why. Now go.” He pointed in the direction of the back of the house. “I will give you five minutes to remove yourself from Hinsford property.”

  Jeremy took off at a run.

  And Lydia and Harry were left staring at each other while the silent audience looked on from the summerhouse and the trees behind him. It was possible he did not even know the latter group was there and had forgotten the former group.

  “I should have taken more notice of all the rustlings among the trees earlier and of Snowball’s reaction to them,” he said. “I assumed I was hearing rabbits or squirrels. I am sorry, Lydia.”

  “I do not believe he will spy on me again,” she said. “You looked and sounded awfully ferocious.”

  And could she please, please, please wake up now, Lydia thought, and find that the whole of today—and the last three days too for good measure—were one hideous, bizarre dream?

  “For a few moments,” a new voice said, “I thought I was back with the regiment, Harry. I was in fear and trembling and about to snap to attention when I recalled that I was actually your superior officer. How do you do, Mrs. Tavernor? You handled that lad very well. My congratulations, ma’am.”

  Mr. Bennington was striding toward them from the summerhouse, looking more formidable than he had at church yesterday. He was frowning, and his facial scar was very noticeable. He was also quite tall and well built. She noticed again that his hair was almost black.

  “If I had remembered I had an audience of more than Lydia,” Harry said, looking over his shoulder toward the summerhouse and then spotting the riders, who were coming nearer, “I would have taken the boy over my knee and given him a good walloping. The humiliation would perhaps have done him some good.”

  “I remember Piper senior—probably this lad’s father—as one of the crowd of regulars in the taproom at the inn when I lived here with you for a while, Harry,” Mr. Bennington said. “I believe it may be time I renewed my acquaintance with him. You must come with me.”

  One of the riders spoke up, a dark-haired lady in a smart riding habit. “Since Harry has steadfastly refused to allow me to transfer ownership of Hinsford to him, Gil,” she said, addressing Mr. Bennington, “I would feel quite justified in asserting my right of ownership. A slur has been cast upon my brother’s good name and therefore, by association, upon mine. I shall go with you to make that call—though I would hope to speak to Mrs. Piper rather than her husband. I shall take Avery with us.”

  “Shall you, my love?” one of the other riders said—the slight, blond, very aristocratic man Lydia had noticed at church yesterday. He must be the Duke of Netherby. The woman must be Anna, Harry’s half sister. “And shall I allow you to do all the talking?”

  “Oh, Avery,” the lady from the summerhouse whom Harry had identified as the Countess of Lyndale said. “You know your silence speaks volumes. You must let Anna talk while you look at Mrs. Piper through your quizzing glass. I just wish I could be there to see it.”

  “Quite so,” he said. “Harry
, you may wish to present the lady. Mrs. Tavernor, I presume?”

  There followed a flurry of introductions while Lydia tried to memorize faces and names.

  “If you please,” she said, looking from Mr. Bennington to the duke and duchess, “I would rather you did not call upon the Pipers. What has happened is a matter that concerns Major Westcott very little if at all. I am the one who stands accused of being a woman of loose morals. I would prefer to handle the matter in my own way.”

  “Lydia values her independence,” Harry explained.

  “How admirable of you, Mrs. Tavernor,” the Countess of Riverdale said.

  She was the one, Lydia remembered, who ran a business of her own. She had purple marks—a birthmark?—all down one side of an otherwise beautiful face.

  The duchess was smiling at Lydia. “It would have been such fun,” she said. “But I agree with Wren. You are greatly to be admired, Mrs. Tavernor.”

  The summerhouse group was already retreating back inside, and the riders continued without further delay in the direction of the stables.

  “Nicely done, Harry,” His Grace said as he passed them. “And superbly done, Mrs. Tavernor.”

  “I think, Lydia,” Harry said ruefully when they had all moved out of earshot, “you must be on the verge of collapse. Do you find yourself wondering, as I do, what on earth happened to your life of quiet, rather dull but perfectly happy routine? If the last few days have proved anything about life, it is that the only certainty upon which we can rely is its uncertainty.”

  Lydia bit down hard upon her upper lip. But she could not stop it, much as she tried because it seemed so inappropriate. Laughter bubbled up inside her and then spilled out. She spread her hands over her face and laughed until her sides hurt. When she looked up finally, it was to see Harry with his head tipped to one side, regarding her closely, his eyes smiling though he was not laughing.

  “You are quite right,” he said. “Sometimes the only answer to its uncertainty is laughter. I do not suppose you still want to meet my grandmothers, do you?”

  “Oh,” she said, and she could feel another gust of possibly hysterical laughter coming on. “Whyever not?”

  “Lydia,” he said, “I like you so much.”

  And this time he laughed with her.

  Twenty

  By the time they came around the side of the house onto the terrace, the infants who had been playing circle games with Elizabeth and her mother had gone back indoors, probably for afternoon naps, and the cricket game had just finished. The teams were gathering up wickets and bats and arguing good-naturedly about something. Harry’s grandmothers and great-aunt Edith were still outside. Aunts Matilda, Louise, and Mildred were with them. So were Lady Hill from the neighboring estate and Rosanne. Lawrence was down talking with the cricketers.

  Poor Lydia was about to be exposed to more than she had bargained for. But it was too late to change direction now. They had been seen. He felt Lydia draw a deep breath and let it out slowly. Snowball, trotting along at her side, was straining at her lead and yipping in anticipation of confronting yet more strangers.

  “Lydia, my dear.” Lady Hill got to her feet and came a few steps toward them, both hands extended. “Maynard often tells me that I live with my head buried in the sand, which brings a rather horrid image to the mind. However, sometimes I think he must be right. We and our visitors all slept late the morning after the assembly even though it was over long before midnight, and we spent the rest of the day very quietly at home. On Saturday we went into Eastend to do some shopping. If you can believe it, we did not hear about all the bother here until after church on Sunday, by which time you had already walked home and we had a luncheon engagement to keep us away until the middle of the evening. When Rosanne and Lawrence and I called at the cottage today you were no longer there, and we discovered, just as you were coming around the corner now, in fact, that you were actually here at Hinsford.”

  She squeezed Lydia’s hands, which were now in her own. “My dear!” she continued. “It is all such utter nonsense, as I have told everyone with whom I have spoken since Sunday morning, but distressing for you nonetheless. And embarrassing for Harry too, I do not doubt. But so many people are only too ready to listen to scandalous tidings, regardless of facts and common sense. How dared that horrid woman! It ought to have been obvious to everyone on Thursday evening that you and Harry are friends, as why on earth should you not be? Mrs. Monteith has just been telling us that your mama and Harry’s mother were dear friends before your mother passed on. It is the most natural thing in the world, then, that their son and daughter should be friends too. But I am talking too much. How do you do, Harry? How does it feel to be almost thirty?”

  She released Lydia’s hands and resumed her seat while Rosanne smirked at Harry and gave him what looked suspiciously like a wink.

  “May I have the pleasure of presenting Mrs. Lydia Tavernor?” Harry said, looking along the line of his relatives. “My paternal grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, Lydia. My maternal grandmother, Mrs. Kingsley.” He went on to introduce Great-aunt Edith and his aunts.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Lydia said, including them all in her smile and inclination of the head. Snowball, on her best behavior, had flopped down beside her.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Tavernor?” Grandmama Kingsley said. “You must have been just a child when my daughter and your mother were friends. And when your mama died.”

  “I was eight years old, ma’am,” Lydia told her.

  “That was very sad for you,” his grandmother said. “Do you have sisters and brothers?”

  “I have three brothers,” Lydia told her. “Two older than me, one younger. My mother never recovered her health after the birth of my youngest brother.”

  “You were unfortunate not to have sisters,” Aunt Matilda said. “I have always found mine to be a great blessing.”

  “So have I,” Aunt Louise added. “Well, maybe not always.” She smiled while the other two aunts chuckled. “I feel for you in the premature loss of your husband, Mrs. Tavernor. I lost mine far too early too.”

  “Thank you,” Lydia said.

  “You live alone, Mrs. Tavernor,” Grandmama Westcott said. It was not posed as a question.

  Lydia answered anyway. “Yes, quite alone, ma’am,” she said. “My cottage is small and my needs are modest. I can clean and cook for myself and actually enjoy doing both. I also enjoy my own company.”

  “You were seen kissing Harry on the doorstep of your home a few evenings ago,” his grandmother continued. “Living alone and allowing such intimate behavior to be witnessed by anyone who chances to be passing by is like an open invitation to unwelcome gossip and the necessity of a marriage proposal that the one party does not wish to make and the other does not wish to accept. That you did not accept is to your credit, at least. Perhaps you have learned something from the experience, Mrs. Tavernor?”

  This time she was asking a question.

  “Grandmama—”

  “Mama—”

  Harry and Aunt Mildred spoke at the same time, but his grandmother held up a staying hand, and Lydia answered.

  “I have, ma’am,” she said. “I have learned to look to my conscience for direction rather than to those people who observe my behavior or listen to an account of it and pass judgment. I have learned to respect myself and trust my own judgment.”

  Oh, well done, Lydia, Harry thought. She had spoken with quiet dignity. Not many people stood up to his grandmother.

  “That sounds well and good,” his grandmother said. “We can all admire someone who does not cringe in the face of adversity. Nevertheless, there is a certain code of behavior by which it behooves us all to live if society is not to fall into chaos.”

  Harry drew breath to intervene, but again Lydia forestalled him.

  “I agree, ma’am,”
she said. “And if an acquaintance offers me a ride home in his carriage one evening because the clergyman who has promised to convey me has been called away to a sickbed, I would consider it ill-mannered to refuse. If he then escorts me to my door because it is dark and raining hard and he has an umbrella, I will be grateful. If he then, because he is something of a friend and not merely an acquaintance, chooses to kiss my forehead as he says good night to me, I am not going to slap his face or scold him for inappropriate behavior. When it happened, ma’am, I did not deem the kiss to my forehead in any way improper. I still do not, even though the gossips in the village have made me into something of a scarlet woman.”

  “Lydia knitted me a scarf as thanks for a pile of wood I chopped for her,” Harry said. “She had just given me the finished scarf that night. Hence the infamous kiss—on the forehead. In the open doorway of her house with my coachman standing on the other side of her garden gate. If anyone is to blame for this whole stupid incident, it is I, not Lydia. I will not have her accused of impropriety.”

  “Mrs. Tavernor.” Aunt Matilda had got to her feet. “Do come and sit down on my chair. We are having a tray of tea brought out. I shall go and make sure two more cups are added. And another chair. And I will have a bowl of water fetched for your dog, who is, by the way, adorable.”

  “Thank you, Lady Dirkson,” Lydia said. “It is kind of you, but I will not stay. It has been a busy day and I am ready to go home.”

  “We will look forward to seeing you at Harry’s birthday ball, then, Mrs. Tavernor,” Aunt Louise said.

  The cricketers, a mixture of adults and children and both genders, were making their noisy way up the lawn, still arguing about something and doing a great deal of laughing in the process. Lawrence Hill grinned at Harry and greeted Lydia.

  “I’ll escort you home, Lydia,” Harry told her, offering his arm.

  “Just look both ways first if you plan to kiss her on the doorstep,” Lawrence advised him.