by Balogh, Mary
He had got over Matilda years and years ago, though when they were both in London he had spotted her occasionally, growing ever older and more staid, wasting herself upon a mother who had denied her daughter’s happiness and now did not seem to appreciate that daughter’s attentions. He had felt irritated every time he set eyes upon Matilda Westcott—the only feeling he had had left for her.
Until, that was, he had stepped a few weeks ago into the visitors’ parlor here in his own home and she had called him by his given name instead of his title, a woman of fifty-six who was a stranger and yet was not. He had found himself then remembering the pretty, vital, warmhearted young woman she had once been and had felt an irritation far more intense than usual—for her and perhaps for time itself for robbing her of youth and beauty. And maybe for himself for remembering not just facts but feelings too, most notably the depths of his youthful passion for her and the contrasting pain of his despair at losing her, not because she did not love him but because her parents did not think him worthy of her. And anger. That she had turned him out and there had been no way of getting her to see reason. And present anger that she had come to his home like this without a by-your-leave and with only young Lamarr’s connection to Adrian as an excuse.
He had been angry that he could still remember those feelings. For it had all been a lifetime ago. And why should he remember? He had known scores of women both before and after her and even after his marriage.
Why should it annoy him that Matilda had grown old? No, not old. That was both inaccurate and unkind. Besides, she was almost the exact same age as he. She had grown middle-aged—to the shady side of middle age, to be more precise. She had never married. Why not, for God’s sake? Had no one measured up to the expectations of dear Mama and Papa? Yet their two younger daughters had married well. Had Matilda been too valuable to them, then, as the family drudge? Had it pleased them to sap all the life and youth and passion out of her until she became as she was now?
But why should it annoy him, what had happened to Lady Matilda Westcott? A bruised heart did not remain bruised for very long. He had soon learned that. He had forgotten her before that summer was even over. Gil’s mother had had successors. His reputation as a rake had been well earned.
“So,” Adrian said, “is he going to be in your life now? As a semirespectable member of the Westcott family? Is that what this dinner is all about?”
“The dinner,” Charles explained, “is Riverdale’s way of thanking me for appearing at the custody hearing and perhaps having some small part in enabling my … son to get his daughter back from her grandparents. He does not need to thank me. None of them do. I do not really want to go to the dinner, but it would seem the civil thing to do.”
“And you want me to go with you,” Adrian said.
Charles shrugged, picked up the quill pen from the desk before him to trim the nib, changed his mind, and set it back down. “I thought I ought to tell you at last,” he said, “before word somehow leaks out, as it well might, and you learn the truth from someone else. The existence of my natural son makes no difference to my feelings for you and your sisters.”
“I have a half brother twelve years my senior,” Adrian said, as though he were only now understanding what Charles had told him several minutes ago. “Does he look like me?”
“No,” Charles said.
“No.” Adrian laughed. “How could he? I look like Mama. Does he look like you?”
“Yes,” Charles said. “But he has a facial scar.” With one finger he traced a line across one cheek and down over his chin.
“The crusading hero,” Adrian said. “I suppose it makes him irresistible to women. And he is tall and dark like you, is he? I suppose you are going to grow close to him now.”
“I very much doubt it,” Charles said. “He does not have a high opinion of me, and I cannot blame him.”
“Do you have a high opinion of him?” his son asked.
Charles hesitated. “Yes,” he said. He pushed his chair with the backs of his knees and got to his feet. “You may come to the dinner with me if you wish, Adrian. I will be pleased if you do. I will understand if you do not.”
“Do you intend to tell my sisters?” Adrian asked.
Neither of them was in London at present. Barbara, the elder of the two, was in the country with her husband and children to celebrate the fortieth wedding anniversary of her parents-in-law. Jane had discovered herself to be with child just before the start of the Season and had remained in the country until she recovered from the bilious phase that had plagued her also with her first child.
“I do,” Charles said. “In person when the opportunity arises.” And for the same reason that had persuaded him to tell Adrian. The truth was bound to come out now that Gil had surfaced in his life, even though his son planned to live year-round in Gloucestershire. It was better that the news come from their father.
Adrian nodded and pushed away from the bookshelves. “I’ll come,” he said. “Bertrand will be there, you said?”
“Lamarr?” Charles said. “Viscount Watley? Very probably, since his father is married to the former Countess of Riverdale.”
“Then I’ll come,” Adrian said again. “Just as long as your other son will not be there too.”
“No,” Charles said. “He has already taken his wife and daughter home to Gloucestershire.”
“At your expense?” Adrian asked.
“No,” Charles told him. “He is apparently independently wealthy. So is his wife.”
“I have to go out,” his son said abruptly, making his way toward the door. “I was supposed to be somewhere half an hour ago.”
“Adrian.” His son stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and looked back at him. “I adored you from the moment I first saw you all swaddled up in your mother’s arms, your cheeks red and fat. I have not changed my affections since.”
His son nodded again and was gone.
He was not good with words of affection, Charles thought. He had not been a good husband. They had not married for love, he and his wife, and they had lived very separate lives. They had always been polite to each other, but there had been no real warmth or affection between them.
It had been otherwise with his children. He had always loved them totally and unconditionally, and still did. He had spent time with them when they were young. He had taught them to ride and had taken Barbara hunting with him on several occasions. He had taken Jane and Adrian fishing. He had taken them all swimming and tree climbing—the latter when his wife was well out of sight. He had read to them before they could do it for themselves. Perhaps, he thought now, he had lavished upon his legitimate children all the time and affection Gil’s mother had refused to allow him to lavish upon his firstborn.
He picked up the quill pen again, though he did not resume his seat, and turned it in his hand, brushing the feather across his palm.
He loved his firstborn son with a dull ache of longing. But he wished all this had not happened to churn up pointless emotions—Gil’s sudden appearance in London with a wife, terrified that he might lose his daughter forever if the judge ruled against him; Charles seeing his son for the first time across that small courtroom where the hearing had been held, the Westcott family in their rows of chairs between them; the stiff, awkward breakfast meeting the following morning at Gil’s hotel, arranged by Gil’s wife; the almost certain knowledge that they would never see each other again.
Matilda.
He wished he did not feel angry with her, irritated with her for aging and making him want to lash out at someone or something for a reason he could not even fathom.
Passion was for young men. He resented the strong emotions that had been coming at him from all directions during the past few weeks. His life, at least for the previous ten years or so, had been on the placid side as he surrendered to middle age, prepared to enjoy his grandchildren, and rejoiced in how well his children were settling into meaningful lives. His relative contentment with li
fe had included happiness for his firstborn, who had survived the unimaginable brutality of the Napoleonic wars.
He did not want strong emotions to erupt now at his age.
He did not want to have to look again into the wounded eyes of his younger son, who had just discovered the existence of an older half brother. He did not want to have to tell Barbara and Jane, and that was an understatement.
He did not want to go to this infernal dinner at Riverdale’s house on South Audley Street. He did not want to have to talk about Gil with the Westcotts. He did not want to spend an evening in company with Matilda.
Especially that. In fact, without that, the dinner would be merely an inconvenience.
He had loved her …
But it was all foolishness.
Two
Eighteen members of the Westcott family—though not all of them actually bore the name, or, in some cases, even the blood—were assembled in the drawing room at the house on South Audley Street where Alexander, Earl of Riverdale, had his town residence. They ranged downward in age from the dowager countess, who was in her middle seventies, to Boris Wayne, twenty-one years old, eldest son of Matilda’s sister Mildred, newly down from Oxford and eager to cut a figure as a dashing young man about town, much to his mother’s frequent consternation.
There were plenty of persons, in other words, among whom to hide. But they nevertheless seemed thin cover to Matilda as Alexander’s butler announced Viscount Dirkson and Mr. Adrian Sawyer, his son, whom she had met very briefly a few weeks ago when she made her call upon his father. She took up her accustomed position behind her mother’s chair and busied herself with her usual tasks, checking to see that her mother was comfortable and in no danger of a draft from the opened door even though it was not the time of year when one was likely to take a chill from such exposure. She attempted to be invisible, to blend into the scenery.
Charles stepped into the room ahead of his son. He was a remarkably distinguished-looking man and was drawing all eyes his way. Well, of course he was. He was the newcomer, the guest of honor. He had just walked in among a crowd of people who all claimed some sort of kinship with one another. Nevertheless, he looked perfectly at ease as he smiled and bowed to Wren and shook Alexander by the hand. His hair was still thick and predominantly dark, though it was nicely silvered at the temples. Although he was not slim in the way a young man is slim, he had an excellent figure, the extra weight well distributed about his person. His evening clothes were expertly tailored.
All told, he was an extremely attractive man and Matilda dearly wished she had thought of some excuse not to come, though what excuse she did not know. She had always been notoriously healthy. She had never, all her life, laid claim to the vapors or heart palpitations or any of the other ailments many women trotted out anytime they wished to avoid an activity they considered tedious.
She wished her mind was not so full of buzzing bees.
She turned her attention toward Mr. Adrian Sawyer, several inches shorter than his father and fuller faced, fair-haired rather than dark—a pleasant-looking young man. He too was smiling as he bowed to Wren and said something that caused her to twinkle back at him. What reason had his father given him for their attendance at this family dinner? Had he told him the truth? Bertrand was making his way toward his former university friend, and the two shook hands warmly before Bertrand bore him off to introduce him to Estelle, his twin sister, and to an openly eager Boris.
Seeing Alexander begin to lead Charles about the room to make sure he knew everyone—though he surely did—Matilda stepped farther behind the chair and bent over the back of it to adjust her mother’s shawl.
“Don’t fuss, Matilda,” her mother said just as the two men arrived before her chair.
“The Dowager Countess of Riverdale,” Alexander said, “and Lady Matilda Westcott.”
“I have an acquaintance with Viscount Dirkson,” Matilda’s mother said, her voice regal and a bit chilly, “though it has been a while since we last spoke. I did see you in the judge’s chambers a couple of weeks ago but you did not remain after the proceedings were over. You used to be a friend of my son’s.”
“I did indeed, ma’am,” he said, bowing to her. “The late Riverdale and I were acquaintances for a number of years. I also know Lady Matilda. How do you do, ma’am?”
He was looking very directly at her over her mother’s head, and Matilda felt as flustered as a girl at her first ton party, her heart pounding hard enough in her bosom to rob her of breath, her brain spinning and fluttering with a thousand bees’ wings so that no sensible answer presented itself immediately to her tongue and lips. No one was looking at her, she told herself. Not with any particular attention, anyway. And why should they? She was just Matilda. And why be so flustered? She had actually called upon him and stepped into his garden with him and spoken with him there less than a month ago. But that was half the trouble. What must he have thought of her bold presumption?
“I am well, I thank you,” her mother said in just the words Matilda ought to have uttered in the brief moment of hesitation that had followed his question.
His eyes remained on hers a moment longer before he looked down to acknowledge her mother’s reply, and then he stepped away with Alexander to shake someone else by the hand.
Matilda leaned over the back of the chair again to adjust her mother’s shawl, remembered that she had just been told not to fuss, and straightened. She, who never wept, even when there was good cause, wanted to weep now when there was none.
“It is easy to see where Gil got his height and his looks, is it not, Matilda?” her former sister-in-law, Viola, said, moving up to her side. “He and Abby and Katy arrived safely home in Gloucestershire. I had a letter today. Abby loves the house and the village and the countryside. I have rarely if ever had such an exuberant letter from her. I do believe she is going to be happy.”
“I know she will be,” Matilda said, patting Viola’s arm. “She already is. They both are. He has a way of looking at her and she at him, and they have the child. And their cottage in the country with a garden full of roses.”
“Now if I can just see Harry happily settled I will consider myself the most blessed of mothers,” Viola said.
Her son, Harry, had very briefly been the Earl of Riverdale following his father’s death—before it had been revealed that his birth was illegitimate.
“He will have his own happily-ever-after, never fear,” Matilda assured her.
“You cannot be certain that anyone will be happy, Matilda,” her mother said. “What do you know of marital bliss, never having been married yourself?”
Matilda did not wince, not outwardly at least.
“But Matilda knows a great deal about love, Mother,” Viola protested, linking her arm through her erstwhile sister-in-law’s. “I will take her word about Abby and Gil’s future because I want to agree with her and actually do. And I agree about Harry.”
Charles was bending his head to listen to the conversation of the small group to which he had been led. He was smiling, his eyes crinkling attractively at the corners.
He had fathered Gil very soon after she sent him away, even though he had sworn undying love and fidelity when he went. And for years afterward he had had what Matilda believed to be a well-deserved reputation as a rake and a gamester and a man who lived hard and behaved recklessly. He had perhaps mellowed with age. She could not know for sure. But surely her father had been right to refuse his consent to their marrying and her parents had been right to insist that she put an end to her acquaintance with him. Acquaintance! Ah, it had felt like far more than that. But surely she would have been miserable had she married him.
Wouldn’t she?
Love would not have been enough.
Would it?
But they were pointless questions to ask herself. She could not know the answers. There was no going back to do things differently. There was no knowing how happy or unhappy their marriage would have been. There h
ad been no marriage.
Dinner was being announced and Matilda entered the dining room with her mother. Fortunately she was able to sit halfway along the table, some distance from Charles, who was seated beside Wren at the foot. Unfortunately, perhaps, she had not thought to go to the other side of the table so that she would be on the same side as he and therefore unable to see him every time she looked up from her plate and turned her head that way. But it did not matter anyway. He was never looking back at her when she did inadvertently glance at him. He was always politely focusing his attention upon Wren to his left or Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, Matilda’s middle sister, to his right. Conversation was lively along both lengths of the table.
Matilda discovered without surprise that she had little appetite. She also felt like bawling for no good reason whatsoever—again. She sincerely hoped she was not about to develop into a watering pot at her advanced age.
It was a somewhat more pleasant evening than Charles had anticipated. For one thing Adrian was taken almost immediately under the wing of young Bertrand Lamarr, who introduced him to Lady Estelle, his twin sister; to Boris Wayne, Lord Molenor’s son; and to Lady Jessica Archer, half sister of the Duke of Netherby, who was married to a Westcott. And since Adrian was a young man of generally even temper and easy manners, he appeared to be right at home with all of them and actually enjoying himself.
