by Jane Ashford
“He was proud of me.” Helena looked rueful. “In his way. Like a man who possesses a rare curiosity due to his own cleverness. And I didn’t win often. He was very good.” Her expression grew mischievous. “Roger won’t play with me. I always beat him.”
“Perhaps we can try a match.”
“Whenever you like,” she said.
Arthur nodded. He’d noticed—in his middle age, certainly not sooner—that it wasn’t always easy to be a pretty woman, even in the luxurious ranks of the nobility. He wondered what it was really like, to be constantly underestimated even as one was deferred to. He was aware that his appearance and position often had the opposite effect, leading people to overestimate his abilities. That could be irritating, but not nearly as much as the opposite, he imagined.
“I’ll give you the first move,” said Helena.
She thought he was worried about losing, Arthur realized. “On no account. I like a fair fight.” When she laughed, he moved on to the topic he’d meant to bring up today. “I wanted to speak to you about something.” He felt it only right to tell her that he was making plans concerning her son.
She cocked her head, ready to listen.
“I’ve been doing something rather odd lately. For the last few months, that is.”
“Oh good.”
Arthur looked down at her, startled.
“I’m always glad to hear that my friends are adventurous. Are you going to become eccentric?”
He’d lost more than he’d understood when Helena Ravelstoke chose another husband, Arthur thought. Yet he’d been very happy with Celia. He had no regrets. “Perhaps I already have.”
His companion shook her head. “Still too proper.”
He acknowledged her teasing with a smile and returned to his subject. “I told you about the group of young men I’d noticed, who’d suffered unfortunate losses in their lives, and my wish to help them.”
She nodded.
“Well, in doing so I’ve become a bit of a matchmaker.”
“You have?” Her blue eyes opened very wide.
“That isn’t quite the right word,” Arthur said. “I didn’t make the matches.” He thought of his nephew’s case. He had rather pushed that along with some remarks he’d made to a spirited young lady in London. “Or not exactly.”
“What then?”
“It’s been more a matter of promoting connections that…revealed themselves over time.” Arthur found himself searching for the right way to put the matter, a rare experience. “I wouldn’t presume to—”
“For whom?” Helena interrupted.
“First my nephew Benjamin and a delightful young lady with very decided views on the care of children.”
“Children?”
“Benjamin is…was a widower with a young son.”
“And now he is married again?”
“Yes.”
“And happy?”
“He certainly seems so. He says he is blissful.”
“Who else?” asked Helena.
“Another of the young men I mentioned before and the sister of a ruined baronet.”
“Ruined! How romantic that sounds,” she said. “So your schemes have gone well.” Her sharp gaze suggested that she was aware of where this conversation was heading.
Arthur didn’t like the word schemes. Yet he couldn’t deny it. He nodded.
“And now you’ve turned your attention to Roger.”
“Yes,” Arthur acknowledged. “That is, I came to see if there was any help I might offer him. I don’t set out to make matches, you understand. Marriage might not be the answer. I’m simply on the lookout for ways to promote these young men’s happiness.”
“And yet it’s always love,” she said.
He looked down at her.
“Happiness is always about love.”
Arthur considered this statement.
“The happy people I know love,” Helena added. “Their husbands or wives, their children or other family, their occupations or pastimes, perhaps just their dogs.” The skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Very often their dogs, actually. But someone, something. Those who don’t are forever discontented.”
“A good point,” said Arthur. She’d surprised him once again with hidden depths. “You don’t have any dogs here at the moment?”
He’d meant it as a joke, but Helena’s smile faded. “Arabella didn’t like them.” She made a balancing gesture as if trying to be fair. “Raymond’s two dogs were old when he died. A bit deaf and feeble, and they did slobber over one. She didn’t care to be near them. So she didn’t want them replaced when they died.”
“A puppy?” Arthur suggested.
“Roger got her one. She thought it messy and loud. It chewed up some lace. Roger gave him to a neighbor’s child.”
The way she said him in the final sentence told Arthur a good deal. Best to abandon the subject of dogs for now, he decided. “So Chatton and Miss Fairclough,” he tried instead. “I couldn’t help but notice something between them.”
“I’d be glad,” she admitted. “But that would be a complicated piece of matchmaking. I told you their history.” She tapped the handle of her parasol. “What shall I do?”
“You wish to be involved?”
“In helping Roger find happiness? How not?” She held up a finger. “Whatever that may mean. There’s to be no forcing.”
“Out of the question,” replied Arthur. “I wouldn’t consider it.”
Helena nodded. “So what is your plan?”
“Ah.”
“You don’t have one, do you?”
“I tend to respond to circumstance.” She laughed at him. Arthur joined in. “I try to, uh, provide opportunities for matters to develop,” he added.
“Opportunities.” She looked doubtful. “I’ve been doing something similar for months, and nothing has come of it.”
Just then the subject of their conversation appeared at the castle door. The marquess surveyed the garden and then began walking toward them.
“Roger looks very satisfied with himself,” said Helena.
“He does?”
“Yes. He’s walking with a spring in his step. And he’s trying not to smile. He’s been up to something.”
“I accept a mother’s keen perceptions,” Arthur replied. Chatton did have a lively air about him.
“Hello, Mama, Macklin,” said the younger man when he reached their bench. He stood before them, hands behind his back. He looked up at the clouds racing across the sky. “Not really a day for the outdoors,” he commented.
“I thought you went riding,” said his mother.
“Well, yes,” he said, as if this was a different matter.
“I would have accompanied you if I’d known,” said Arthur.
“Oh, ah, I set off early, you know.”
Helena was right, Arthur thought. Chatton had definitely been up to something, and he’d avoided having a companion in order to do it. And he was very glad that he’d done so. All this was evident in his manner and expression.
“I believe Mrs. Burke is looking for you, Mama,” the marquess added.
“Is she?” Helena’s tone acknowledged what they all knew. If the housekeeper wanted her, she could easily find her. Nonetheless, Helena rose. Arthur stood with her as she said, “I had better see what she wants then.” She strolled away toward the castle. The two men watched her go.
Chatton shifted from one foot to the other. “Are you flirting with my mother?” he asked abruptly. His tone held the awkwardness of posing such a question to a distinguished elder.
“We’re old friends,” Arthur replied.
“She thinks you came up here to see her.”
“She did have an idea about that, but we cleared it up. Quite amiably, I promise you. We’v
e agreed that friendship is the right thing for us.”
“Agreed?” Chatton looked skeptical.
Arthur nodded.
“I won’t have her hurt.”
“Your sentiments do you credit. But you need have no fear.”
“Mere friendship?” the marquess asked, again as if he doubted.
“You’ll find as you grow older that there’s nothing mere about friends, Chatton.” Arthur tried to sound reassuring, and it seemed he succeeded. The younger man relaxed, as if he’d done his duty and could now return to his own concerns. The question was: what were they? “Shall we walk a little?” Arthur asked.
They moved along the path that led to the far end of the garden.
Arthur tried a question, rather like tossing a baited hook into the water, he thought. “I understand you’re acting in the historical pageant with Miss Fairclough?”
Roger suppressed a start. Macklin could not read his mind, no matter how close to the subject of his thoughts he’d come. That lad Tom had told the earl about the rehearsal, Roger concluded. He’d tell him about the ride today as well, though he couldn’t have spoken to Macklin yet. But today’s expedition certainly wouldn’t be clandestine. Was that idea ridiculous? Roger found he didn’t care. He was ready to do whatever was necessary, whatever she asked, to spend time with Fenella.
“So you’ve reconciled?” asked Macklin.
“What do you mean?”
“After the…misunderstanding over that ride in the rain.”
“Miss Fairclough had nothing to do with my wife’s death!”
“You said that.” Macklin looked him over like a man considering buying a horse. No, he didn’t. That was ridiculous. “You seem quite certain, now. As you did on the other side of the question in London.”
“Fen—Miss Fairclough is far too levelheaded a person. She tried to keep Arabella from going.”
“Ah.”
Did Macklin sound skeptical? He mustn’t be. He had to convince him. Meeting the earl’s level gaze, Roger saw not doubt but genuine interest. He remembered that dinner in London and the clear impression he’d received of a judicious, generous person—a rare man who listened rather than commanding. He’d felt so much better after that conversation, and he’d thought, afterward, that Macklin would be a good source of advice. But what would such a man think of his behavior? He valued the earl’s opinion more than he could say and, equally, feared his judgment. But he couldn’t offer Macklin anything but honesty. Roger flailed through his chaotic thoughts. The earl didn’t break in as he groped for the right words. “I wanted to blame someone for Arabella’s unhappy end,” he said finally. “I accused others as well. Unjustly.” He looked down, ashamed.
“Understandable,” said Macklin.
Roger’s head jerked up. He saw no condemnation in the older man’s face. The relief was immense. But there was worse to confess. “I didn’t want to admit that I had any part in it. But I did. I made her unhappy, which made her reckless.”
They walked a few steps in silence. Roger braced for disappointment. “I’ve often wondered about my responsibility for others’ feelings and actions,” said Macklin.
This wasn’t the reply Roger had expected.
“Particularly, these days, with my children and grandchildren,” the earl continued. “Those who care the most for my opinion. Or so I think. Occasionally I say or do something that worries them. Even though I try to act with kindness always.”
“I didn’t.” Roger bit off the words. “I got angry. I shouted at Arabella.”
“Were you unhappy as well?”
“Miserable.” He had never been more so.
“And was that her fault?”
A flare of anger shook him. He recognized it. He’d used it before, as a mask and a bulwark against the very worst. “When she was gone, I was glad the marriage was over.” There, he’d said it aloud, as he never had before.
“But you would not have killed her.”
“Of course not!”
“And perhaps you tried, now and then, to make things better between you.”
“It was impossible. She hated Northumberland, and life at Chatton, and me, I think.” His efforts had been a failure from start to finish. The familiar weight of it descended on him.
“I’m sorry for you,” said Macklin. “You might have found a way, if you’d had more time.”
Roger couldn’t suppress a snort of disbelief.
“Or perhaps not. One can’t know in such a case. For me, the only answer is to try to do better as time goes by and I learn.”
“You?” Macklin seemed a paragon.
“Of course. Do you think I’ve made no mistakes?”
It felt like a kind of absolution. Roger drew in a breath, slowly let it out. He meant to improve. He intended to take every care. If Fenella would give him the chance, he would show her that he could be a better man. “How do you avoid them now?” he asked. Because it seemed to him that Macklin never made a misstep.
“I don’t, of course.”
That wasn’t good news.
“But I find that I make fewer when I take care to discover others’ opinions.”
“You make that sound simple.”
“Did I?” Macklin shook his head. “Then I have created a misimpression. Asking properly can be quite difficult. And then one must work very hard to hear the answer.”
“To hear?” This wasn’t the type of advice Roger had expected.
“People aren’t always eloquent. And then, we often hear what we wish for rather than truth, do we not?”
Roger hadn’t thought so. All he could think now was: here was another social pitfall waiting to trip him up.
Eight
When Fenella next rode out, as the neighborhood was accustomed to her doing, she turned her mount to the ancient oak that had been a fixture of her childhood. The great tree stood alone on the side of a low hill, where a spring arose and marked the beginning of a stream, hardly more than a trickle in this spot, though it gathered force nearer to the sea. The oak leaned toward the slope, and its branches dipped down to create a secret space in this spot the tree had guarded for hundreds of years. Had it been a sapling when the Vikings harried this coast, as Roger was supposed to be doing in the pageant? Perhaps that was stretching the tree’s age, but it was fun to think so.
She stopped beside the spring and gazed up through the arching branches. During her childhood, the youthful ringleaders of the neighborhood had gathered here, lords of the juvenile set. Finally, after all these years, she felt like one of them. Fenella laughed aloud. Ridiculous to care, but she couldn’t help it. Though she was twenty-three, she’d had no social triumphs to overshadow old memories. Her grandmother didn’t entertain a great deal, and she’d never thought it right to take Fenella to London for the season and presentation at court without her father’s approval. Grandmamma hadn’t really wanted to go in any case, Fenella thought. She had no love for cities, or the English.
She’d assured Fenella that a person didn’t need the approval of society to be strong and self-assured. Which was true, Fenella supposed, but it required a marked degree of resolution. And there was this. Grandmamma had attended the balls and routs and soirees she now rejected when she was a girl. By all accounts, she’d been lavished with society’s approval. So her arguments weren’t quite definitive.
These thoughts went out of Fenella’s head as Roger appeared, riding up the slope toward her, straight and strong on his spirited horse. She couldn’t see his eyes from here, but she remembered their fierce blue, the glint of his red hair in candlelight. Fenella felt a tremor in the region of her heart. Was it wise to be meeting him this way? She found she didn’t care.
He pulled up and gazed at her as if they hadn’t seen each other recently. “A fine day.”
It was a balmy northern morning. Clouds la
zed across the blue sky. The hum of insects and birdsong wove a pleasant counterpoint. “It is,” Fenella agreed.
“We can count on August to give us sun.”
“Yes.” Their conversation had gone stilted. They had been talking so freely on their last ride. These were the sorts of bland remarks strangers exchanged in a drawing room. Disappointment loomed over her.
“How I hate society chatter,” Roger blurted out, echoing her thoughts. “It’s the next thing to meaningless, and yet it can be so difficult to produce. Why is that?”
“Because one doesn’t really care?”
He looked a question.
“It’s not worth much attention,” Fenella added. “You know the other person isn’t really listening. And most likely doesn’t care about your opinion. Probably they’re simply marking time until they can walk away.”
“Not the case here!” Roger said.
“And so we needn’t talk about the weather.”
“No.”
He looked at her. Fenella stared back and realized that she hadn’t improved matters with her disquisition on idle chatter. In fact, she’d sounded fatuous, or pompous. She ought to have said… She didn’t know what she ought to have said. It was difficult to think of anything except their visit to the stone circle and the fact that she’d kissed him. Just stood up on tiptoe and kissed him, as if that wasn’t a terribly improper thing to do. She ought to be mortified, to be putting distance between them. In fact, she was remembering how much she’d enjoyed the experience.
Of the three kisses in her life so far—kisses from gentlemen, that is—one she had endured in a spirit of inquiry; one she had repulsed, revolted; and the third had made her body tingle and her head spin. It was marvelous how a simple pressure of lips could vary so radically. What did her childhood acquaintance have that other men didn’t, to make her feel so dazzlingly alive?
Roger looked self-conscious. She’d been staring…hungrily? Not that, surely. The word was completely inappropriate.
He turned away, rode closer to the tree, and reached down into a hollow in the trunk. “No messages in here. The neighborhood children don’t use it, apparently.”
“There aren’t many about these days. We all grew up.”
