by Lisa Berne
The morning.
And what he had to say.
Chapter 13
Gwendolyn stared down at her empty plate. She didn’t feel like eating, and had only managed to drink a little chocolate. The breakfast-room, normally a cheerful parlor, felt too big somehow, almost cavernous, and it didn’t help that the sun was hiding behind great, heavy-looking clouds; the light from outside was dull and gray. Ponderous. Bleak. Matching her mood, Gwendolyn thought.
Only the Duchess and Helen had come down for breakfast. Lady Almira wasn’t feeling quite well and was going to rest today, explained the Duchess. Helen, her face like a thundercloud, spoke to no one and steadily made her way through a plate heaped high with eggs, bacon, scones, and spiced deviled kidneys.
Gwendolyn and the Duchess talked in a desultory fashion; Gwendolyn could see that she was distracted this morning. A little worried about Lady Almira, perhaps, or troubled about Helen. When Tyndale announced the arrival of Christopher Beck, it was at once a relief to Gwendolyn and a sharp renewal of the dread she’d been feeling since Christopher had asked to come over unusually early. Was today the day he was going to propose to Helen?
No matter what, she was going to be unselfish. A good friend to Christopher, who had become, in these past days, so very, very important to her.
Christopher came into the breakfast-room dressed for riding in breeches, tall boots, and a plainly cut jacket. How well such apparel suited him, Gwendolyn thought, how very distinguished he looked. Although he also looked—
She stared at him.
He looked tense. Unhappy. Was it because he wanted to be alone with Helen—and she and Cousin Judith were making that difficult? It was a nasty, troubling feeling to be an encumbrance. Getting in someone else’s way. Could she make up some kind of pretext to leave?
Christopher stopped at the foot of the table. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Beck,” said the Duchess. “Gwendolyn mentioned that you might be coming by. Won’t you join us for breakfast?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but no. I’m leaving town in a little while and I wanted to come by in person and say goodbye—and to thank you for your kind hospitality to me.”
“Leaving?” Gwendolyn echoed. Inside her chest was a sinking feeling—as if her heart was literally dropping down and away. Suddenly the whole world, not just this room, seemed bleak. Get ahold of yourself, Gwendolyn, she told herself sternly. Think about Christopher and Helen.
She glanced over at Helen, whose gaze was fixed upon her plate as she stolidly continued eating. She didn’t seem the least concerned that Christopher was going away. Was she trying to hurt Christopher by pretending to be indifferent to him? Gwendolyn turned her eyes to Christopher, and saw that he was looking at her, his face set and tense. What could she do to help him? Was he signaling for her to leave, so that he could talk to Helen alone?
“I shall be sorry to see you go, Mr. Beck,” said the Duchess. “We’ve all enjoyed your company so much.”
Sometimes, Gwendolyn thought miserably, it was very difficult to be good. But for Christopher’s sake she would try. She took her napkin from her lap and set it next to her plate, then got up. Maybe if she left the breakfast-room, the Duchess would follow suit.
“I hope—I hope you have a safe journey, Christopher,” she said, hating how small and shaky her voice sounded, and wishing her stomach wasn’t clenched so tightly. She turned to the Duchess. “Will you excuse me, Cousin Judith?”
“Of course, m’dear,” answered the Duchess, then added rather tartly, “Helen, if you can be bothered for five seconds, do say goodbye to Mr. Beck.”
“G’bye,” Helen mumbled through a mouthful of egg, sounding not at all like a person sorrowing over the imminent departure of someone for whom she deeply cared, and cheerfully could Gwendolyn have flung away Helen’s plate, lifted her up by the scruff of her neck, and forced her to be nice to Christopher whom she no doubt was wounding very painfully.
But this being, unfortunately, an impossible course of action, Gwendolyn did the only thing she could do, which was to make herself go over to Christopher and lift her eyes up to his. “Goodbye,” she said shakily.
“Walk me to the door?”
A few more seconds together! Had he given up on trying to be alone with Helen? He looked so unhappy. Gwendolyn was startled to realize that at this moment she rather hated Helen, but she pushed aside such violent feelings as best she could—her time with Christopher was so short. “I’d be glad to.”
“Goodbye, ma’am, Lady Helen,” Christopher said, and then they were making their way to the entry-hall where Tyndale and a couple of footmen stood. Oh, she didn’t want to say her farewells so closely observed!
“Let’s go onto the porch,” she said, and, having refused with thanks Tyndale’s offer to dispatch a footman to fetch a shawl, she and Christopher went onto the wide stone porch. His horse stood waiting for him at the bottom of the steps, with full-looking leather saddlebags fastened behind the saddle.
“It may rain,” she said, more or less at random.
“I won’t melt.”
“I’m so sorry about Helen.”
“Why would you be? You’re not responsible for her behavior.”
“I know, but . . .” Damn Helen for being so rude and hurtful! “Christopher, where are you going?”
“To Nottingham.”
“Nottingham? To see your father, and Diana?”
“Yes.” His dark eyes were somber, intense. “Gwennie, I must try. To try and reconcile with Father. He may turn me away—but I’ve got to make the attempt.”
She put a hand on his arm, gripping it tightly. “I understand. Oh, Christopher, I wish you well!”
“Grazie, signorina.”
“I know where your father lives. He never sold your house next to ours—and he left a placard on it with his new address. It’s 14 Primrose Lane, in the Rushcliffe district.”
“He left a placard?”
“Yes. I always thought it was because he really did hope you would come back—that you’d be able to find him and Diana again.”
Christopher shrugged. “More likely it was to have stray correspondence sent on. Very practical, is Father.”
“I hope—I believe—you’re wrong.”
“I’ll find out soon enough.”
“Yes. I’m glad you’re going. That sounds awful, but you know what I mean, don’t you? I’ll miss you terribly, but—oh, I’ll be thinking of you, so very hard!”
He put his hand over hers. “Likewise,” he said quietly.
“Will you let me know how it goes? You could write to me, of course, or—or do you think you’ll be coming back? I’ve no right to ask you, Christopher, but I would like it so much if you did.”
“Would you, Gwennie?”
“Yes.” She took a deep, deep breath. “Well—au revoir, ma sherry moo.”
His smile was a little twisted. “Goodbye, signorina,” he said, very low, and they let go of each other, and she stood on the townhouse porch and watched as he got onto his horse and rode away. It was only when Christopher was out of sight that she went back inside, and stood in the entry-hall looking rather blankly around her.
Christopher had only been gone a few minutes and already she felt so lonely without her dear friend that she could hardly bear it.
What to do now?
Last night, at Lady Jersey’s party, the Countess had asked her to come over after breakfast today, to talk over wedding plans and share a nuncheon together. Afterwards, Julian wanted to take her and Rupert to St. James’s Park, where a balloon ascension was scheduled, and then to Gunter’s for ices. Altogether, a full day of the Westenburys.
Her attention was abruptly caught by a maidservant walking past, and carrying a tray which held a teapot, a cup, and a plate of dry toast.
“Is that for Lady Almira?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Yes, miss.”
Gwendolyn remembered the day Lady Almira had been unwell, final
ly emerging from her room to say, wistfully, I should have liked a little company from time to time.
She said to the maidservant, “I’ll take it up to Lady Almira. Her Grace is in the breakfast-room—will you tell her where I’ve gone?”
“Of course, miss.”
Gwendolyn took the tray and went up the two flights of stairs and along the hallway to Lady Almira’s room. She tapped on the door, and when she heard Lady Almira say “Come in,” went inside and found her still in bed, a large ruffled nightcap on her head, and looking quite woebegone, with watery eyes and reddened nose. She struggled to sit up when she saw Gwendolyn.
“My dear! How kind of you to bring my breakfast! Completely unnecessary, of course, but I’m most appreciative. My throat feels so dry.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am.” Gwendolyn put the tray on a table next to Lady Almira’s bed, helped her to sit up, fluffed the pillows, and pulled the blankets up higher when Lady Almira leaned back against her pillows. “Do you think a cup of tea might help?”
“I do hope so. I don’t know how it is, but somehow life never seems as dark when one is drinking tea. Won’t you ring for another cup, my dear?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t want any.” Gwendolyn poured tea into the delicate china cup and handed it to her, then brought a chair over next to the bed. Looking more cheerful, Lady Almira alternately talked, sipped at her tea, and nibbled on a piece of toast.
“Wasn’t that a lovely party at Lady Jersey’s last night? I do think she’s the nicest of the Patronesses, don’t you? And her gown was so cunning—those half-sleeves all set about with puffs and jet beads—simply delightful! It’s not something I’ve seen before. I daresay she’s setting a new fashion. I must admit, however, I didn’t care at all for the Countess of Westenbury’s gown—such a busy look, and I’m quite baffled as to why she wears so much white. It’s hardly suitable for a woman of her age, and the color quite washes out one’s complexion. Why, I haven’t worn white in decades. But oh, how thoughtless of me to criticize your future mother-in-law, my dear Gwendolyn! Do forgive me! But you’re smiling—which means you’re not offended, I hope?”
“Not at all, ma’am.” Gwendolyn poured more tea into Lady Almira’s cup. “I was only thinking that I had seen a version of that gown in La Belle Assemblée.”
“Oh, did you, my dear? Well, that makes it all right, I suppose. But still—white is a young woman’s color, and nothing anyone can say will dissuade me from my opinion! Now! Have you given any thought to your wedding gown? The cloth-of-silver that the poor Princess Charlotte wore at her wedding is still, I believe, very popular, and would become you admirably. With some Brussels lace, perhaps?”
Gwendolyn paused before replying.
Everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk about her wedding.
Everyone except her.
Inside her was confusion and loneliness, bleakness and uncertainty. But—also—a stubborn defiance. For today, at least, she wasn’t going to talk about it. She was going to be like one of those characters in novels who were being cruelly interrogated but who, through incredible determination, refused to reveal the secrets they were carrying.
Gwendolyn would have laughed at this ludicrous vision of herself on the rack. If she was in the mood to laugh.
So she said, “I’d love to hear about your wedding gown, ma’am. Or gowns?”
And Lady Almira was off, animatedly describing the gown she had worn at her wedding to the dear late Mr. Thane, a fashionable silk robe à la française, very wide, as dresses were back then, with loose box-pleats, and elaborate embroidery at the neck, hem, and cuffs, and also—
Gwendolyn listened and nodded and handed her another piece of toast and poured more tea. When the Duchess stopped by to see how Lady Almira was feeling, she excused herself to go and write brief notes to the Countess and Julian. She was, she told them, in attendance on Lady Almira, who wasn’t well, and would see them another time.
Then she had the notes sent on, and went back to Lady Almira’s bedchamber.
14 Primrose Lane.
A large, attractive, many-windowed house made of white stucco and with a gray-green slate roof, three stories high with a wide front porch, the overhang of which was supported by Doric columns; there was a basement below which also had plenty of windows. The house looked fairly new and was immaculately maintained—suggesting that Father was prospering here in Nottingham, just as he had in Whitehaven.
Christopher had left his horse at the stables of an inn not far away and walked to Primrose Lane with his saddlebags flung over his shoulder. He paused at the front gate, black iron decorated with elaborate curlicues. It was late afternoon on a Sunday, and unless Father had radically changed his habits, he was likely to be at home.
He put a hand on the gate, and paused again.
Preparing himself mentally to have the door slammed in his face, not just metaphorically but, quite possibly, also literally.
He was also remembering what Gwendolyn had said. About the placard.
I always thought it was because he really did hope you would come back—that you’d be able to find him and Diana again.
Well, he’d found them at last. A boy no longer, but a man. He would face whatever came. If he was to be rejected, it would be very painful indeed, but somehow he’d get through it.
Christopher could feel the tension tightening his muscles, threatening to keep him frozen in place, and deliberately he made his hands loose, his breathing relaxed. Into his mind came an image of Gwendolyn as they had stood together on the porch of the Egremont townhouse.
Her blue eyes filled with light and warmth, hope and compassion.
I’m glad you’re going. That sounds awful, but you know what I mean, don’t you? I’ll miss you terribly, but—oh, I’ll be thinking of you, so very hard!
It helped, knowing that Gwendolyn was there in the world. Thinking about him. Caring about him.
It enabled him to push open the gate, walk up the path and onto the wide front porch.
And lightly bang the knocker on the door.
Easy, easy, he said to himself, almost as he would calm a restless horse. Easy now.
He heard footsteps from within, hurried and quick.
Easy, easy—
The door opened, only partially, and a pale anxious face peered out.
“Nan!” said Christopher, recognizing a maidservant from the Whitehaven house.
“Sir?” she replied doubtfully, and then her eyes widened and she gasped. “Mr. Christopher! After all these years! Is it really you, sir?”
“It is, Nan. Is Father home?”
“Yes, to be sure, Mr. Christopher, but—but we’re all at sixes and sevens—Mrs. Cora’s—oh, she’s worse, sir, and as for the baby—we just don’t know—it’s right dreadful—”
Mrs. Cora? “Father’s wife, Nan? And she has a baby?”
Nan nodded. “She’s in childbed, sir—has been for two full days. We’re waiting and waiting for that baby, but . . .”
He knew essentially nothing about such matters—for horses, yes; humans, no—except that two days seemed like too long. “Father’s brought in a doctor?”
“Oh yes, the very best in Nottingham, sir, but—that is—it’s not going so well at all—”
Christopher now heard from inside the house heavy footsteps, sounding as if someone was descending a flight of stairs. Then a voice came from behind Nan. A man’s. Achingly familiar, but hoarse and ragged, sounding fatigued beyond human endurance. “Who is it, Nan? We’re not seeing anyone—send them away.”
Quickly Nan turned. “Sir, it’s Mr. Christopher! He’s back!”
“What?”
Footsteps again, quicker now. The door was flung wide. And there was Father, a little grayer than Christopher remembered, a little stooped, and deathly pale. His eyes, dark like Christopher’s own, were wide with shock.
“Christopher,” he said, sounding dazed. “My son. My boy.”
“Yes,
Father.”
“You’ve come.”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.” And Father opened his arms wide, and Christopher went into them, and they embraced.
At first Christopher felt like the little boy he’d once been. Long ago, when his mother had been alive and they’d all been happy together. How very long ago that was . . .
Father gave a racking sob, and almost seemed to crumple. Christopher tightened his arms around him. And now he was the strong one, the sturdy one, able to not just receive but also to give.
More footsteps, coming swiftly down the stairs. A young woman’s voice—familiar—sounding very frightened.
“Father, Dr. Baynes is asking for you—”
It was his sister Diana, all grown up with her dark hair piled high on her head, and dressed in the rich burgundy colors of a married woman.
Father pulled away, but still gripped one of Christopher’s arms as if for support. “Look who’s here.”
“Christopher!” Diana exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!” She ran to him and he used his free arm to hug her tightly to him.
And so they stood, the three of them.
Reunited.
Connected.
A family.
Diana was crying, and Father, his mouth working, seemed as if he might start again. They both looked at him rather helplessly. So he said:
“The doctor wants you, Father. Shall I come up, too?”
“Would you, my son? If you think you can bear it—”
“Yes. Of course. Come on, Father, let’s go up.”
He set aside the saddlebags and they went up the stairs, with Father still gripping his arm and Diana at his side, weeping. He caught glimpses of handsome furniture, luxurious carpets, light-filled rooms, and everything clean and harmonious and well-kept. And clearly loved. So unlike the old house in Whitehaven, which had come to feel sad and neglected despite the small army of servants Father employed. This house was obviously very different; it was a home. Presided over by his stepmother.
