“Your cousin’s wife has become quite the hostess. Even the highest sticklers appear to be enjoying themselves tonight…” Prideaux’s voice trailed off, then resumed in a slightly different tone. “Ah. I see that we share a common interest.”
“Interest?” Harry echoed blankly.
“The widow Bettesworth. Comely, isn’t she?”
Black but comely. With even features and eyes as dark as her hair, though her complexion was pure cream, lightly blushed with rose—though whether the latter was due to art or nature, Harry could not tell. Nor did it matter, given how delectable the whole package was.
“She’s just out of mourning,” Prideaux went on. “And reluctant to dance, or so I hear. I hope to change her mind before the evening is over.”
Most widows newly emerged from mourning still chose to wear subdued shades like grey, lavender, or mauve. But Mrs. Bettesworth’s dark beauty was set off by a gown of deep wine, almost the color of burgundy. Not improper, but unusual—and undeniably becoming.
Just then, as though sensing their scrutiny, she turned her head and met Harry’s gaze, dark eyes staring into green. Pure physical attraction shot through him, so powerful that his mouth dried and his palms dampened in their gloves. Not since his days as a callow youth had he experienced this intense awareness of a woman. Even as Mrs. Bettesworth turned away—plying her fan a little more rapidly, some part of him was pleased to note—Harry felt a certainty growing inside of him. He would be asking for an introduction very soon…
They’d become lovers three months later—May’s idea, as it turned out, and he’d been at once excited and startled by her boldness. But she’d desired no closer association than that, and after the first surprise, Harry had willingly entered into their present arrangement. As a widow, May had license to do as she pleased, as long as she was discreet. And after years of dodging his mother’s attempts to marry him off, Harry had found it a relief to be with a woman who wanted only his companionship and had no designs on becoming the next Lady Tresilian.
He wasn’t sure when things had started to change or what had caused the shift. Perhaps it was watching James and Aurelia build their life and family together, their bond deepening day by day. Or witnessing his younger brother John’s happiness at finally being able to marry his longtime sweetheart, Grace Tregarth. Or, most poignantly of all, seeing Sophie and Robin reunite, after being kept apart for so long by his past and his obligations to others. Harry could still remember the faith shining in his sister’s eyes when she’d first revealed her love for his friend. Barely eighteen then, but somehow that faith had weathered all the intervening years, had still burned bright on the day she returned to Cornwall, to stand with Robin in his darkest hour. And for all his earlier doubts and misgivings about their involvement, Harry couldn’t help but warm to them—and envy them, just a trifle, for knowing exactly what and whom they wanted.
It was time—past time—that he took a wife and started a family of his own. And who better than the woman who was already a part of his life, of whom he was already fond?
He’d have to tread carefully, of course. After two years, he knew how skittish May could be when the subject of marriage arose, from which he inferred that her marriage to Mr. Bettesworth had not been altogether happy. May seldom spoke of him, except to say that he’d been something of a martinet and she enjoyed her freedom as a widow far too well to give it up.
But if he could just help her see that marrying again need not be a trap and a trial…
“Harry!”
A woman’s voice hailed him, and he glanced up with a start to see a waggonette coming towards him, carrying his sister Cecily, his sister-in-law Grace, and another younger lady he did not recognize.
He touched his hat to them as the carriage drew level with him. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Good afternoon,” Cecily returned, eyeing him quizzically. “I’m surprised to see you abroad at this hour, Harry. Don’t you usually ride in the mornings?”
Harry shrugged. “I’d a few errands to attend to. Where are you off to?”
“Truro, to help Grace find a frock to wear for the wedding,” his sister replied.
“I shall have to take special care to choose the one that’s—not too snug,” Grace added, a smile playing about her lips. One hand was resting lightly on her midriff, Harry observed. Well, well, well… he wondered if she’d told John yet. His brother would be stunned and delighted in equal measure to learn there was a child on the way.
“And my cousin needs a new gown as well,” Grace went on, gesturing at the pretty blonde girl beside her. “Gwen, this is my brother-in-law, Sir Harry Tresilian. Sir Harry, my cousin, Miss Tregarth, from Veryan. She and her family are visiting my parents through the Christmas holidays.”
“How do you do, Miss Tregarth?” Harry nodded at the girl. “I hope you are enjoying your stay in St. Perran.”
She mustered a shy smile. “Oh, I am—thank you, Sir Harry. Though things seem a bit more… turbulent here than on the south coast, especially the weather.”
“The sea is gentler in the south,” he agreed. “On the other hand, our coast is more dramatic. Grace can point out some of our most striking vistas to you, and so can my sister Sophie.”
“Perhaps you could show Gwen the sights as well, Harry,” his sister-in-law suggested.
The hopeful note in her voice was all too easy to interpret, and Harry stifled a sigh. Et tu, Grace? Bad enough that his mother and sister were continually trying this, but now his brother’s wife had joined their ranks? Three against one was highly unsporting.
“Perhaps.” Harry kept his tone bland and inoffensive, even as he privately vowed to make himself as scarce as possible for the next few weeks. By the looks of her, Miss Tregarth was no older than eighteen or nineteen: a pretty child, but to a man of thirty-three, she could only be a child. “Well, I must be on my way,” he added, ignoring the flash of disappointment he saw on all three faces. “Enjoy your shopping expedition, ladies.”
He kneed his horse forward, coaxing him into a trot as soon as they were safely past the waggonette. Not until he was in sight of Roswarne did he slacken his pace and relax his hold on the reins, slumping in the saddle with relief over still another escape.
No more of this, he resolved, blotting his forehead on his sleeve. The sooner he persuaded May to take a chance on them, the sooner he could be done with his family’s well-meaning but hopelessly misguided matchmaking attempts!
Chapter Three
What a woman thinks of women is a test of her nature.
—George Meredith, Diana of the Crossways
Eight days before the wedding…
“AFTER three—well, nearly three—weddings in this family, one would think planning the breakfast would become easier!” Lady Tresilian lamented, peering over the list. “Dearest, are you sure about the pasties? You know Cook is capable of making something more elegant—”
“Yes, but she does make the best pasties in the county,” Sophie pointed out. “And they’ll be miniature ones, so I should think they’ll be elegant enough for the occasion. Besides,” she added, “Robin’s chef at the hotel will be providing a number of French delicacies, and the soups—lobster bisque and an herbed beef consommé!”
As she had hoped, her mother relaxed at the news. Lady Tresilian had been skeptical five years ago about Robin’s decision to convert his family estate into a summer resort, but she wasn’t about to question its success—much of which was due to the hotel’s excellent kitchen. “That does sound suitably grand,” she admitted. “And it takes some of the burden off Cook.”
“It frees her up to concentrate on the wedding cake,” Sophie replied, smiling. “She’s determined to outdo herself on that. I heard something to the effect of four tiers, a pound of sultanas, and a dozen eggs!”
“Good heavens, there should be enough to feed the whole county!” her mother exclaimed. “And I thought Cook was extravagant when your sister got married!”
“I suspect she feels she has something to prove,” Sophie confided.
“Who has something to prove?” her eldest brother’s voice inquired from the doorway.
“Cook—about the wedding cake,” she explained. “I think she wants to show that she can surpass any of the hotel staff, not to mention Mrs. Dowling, when it comes to baking!”
Harry grinned, his vivid green eyes crinkling at the corners. “For what it’s worth, my money’s on Cook!” He turned to Lady Tresilian. “Talking of the wedding, I hoped to have a word with you, Mother. And you, Snip,” he added hastily, before Sophie could excuse herself. “Because it concerns you as well.”
Mystified, Sophie exchanged a glance with their mother, who then folded her hands and regarded her firstborn quizzically. “Well, my dear?”
He hesitated, looking… almost tentative, Sophie thought: most unusual for her confident older brother. “I wish to invite May Bettesworth to the wedding breakfast.”
Sophie bit back an exclamation of surprise. She’d never met May Bettesworth; all she knew of her was what Cecily told her. That she was a young widow, who had apparently no desire to remarry, with whom their brother had… kept company for the past two years. Discreetly, for there had been no breath of scandal, but—also according to Cecily—Mrs. Bettesworth was not an easy woman to get to know, attending the more populous social events but otherwise holding somewhat aloof from the rest of St. Perran. Studying her mother covertly, Sophie wondered what she thought of Harry’s association with this woman.
“Naturally, Mrs. Bettesworth is welcome to attend the wedding,” Lady Tresilian began. “But you know the breakfast is to be a comparatively small affair. Just family and close friends.”
Harry squared his shoulders, a hint of challenge in his eyes. “I consider Mrs. Bettesworth to be a close personal friend.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Lady Tresilian observed, a touch dryly. “I was not aware, however, that Mrs. Bettesworth desired to extend her friendship with you towards the rest of this family. Indeed, I have had quite the opposite impression from my dealings with her.”
To Sophie’s surprise, her brother flushed. “I assure you, Mother, May has never intended to appear unfriendly or discourteous—towards you or anyone else!”
“Perhaps not,” Lady Tresilian conceded. “And I can make allowances for those who feel awkward and uncomfortable, living here. St. Perran is a close-knit community, and I know it isn’t always easy for newcomers—or relative newcomers—to fit in.”
Harry relaxed. “I’d hoped you might understand, Mother.”
“Nor have I any faults to find with Mrs. Bettesworth’s manners in company,” Lady Tresilian continued. “She is unquestionably a lady. However, she is also brittle, flippant… and not always kind.”
And the last, Sophie knew, would weigh most with their mother. As Harry himself knew, for he turned just a trifle pale. “Not kind?” he echoed, somewhat apprehensively.
“I was among a group of ladies who called upon Mrs. Bettesworth some weeks ago, to solicit donations to the Foundling Home in Truro,” Lady Tresilian went on, her tone as even as a newly paved road. “Mrs. Pearce, our curate’s new wife, inquired if she did not love little children. Mrs. Bettesworth replied that she did, especially in a fricassee or a ragout.”
Sophie winced inwardly, torn between dismay and a reluctant amusement. She could only imagine the reaction of poor Mrs. Pearce, who—like her husband—tended to the painfully earnest. Not to mention how the other ladies might have responded!
“That was just a joke!” Harry protested, though he looked equally dismayed. “An allusion to Swift’s Modest Proposal—”
“Yes, I recognized as much,” their mother replied coolly. “I was a dean’s daughter, after all. Mrs. Bettesworth’s remark was certainly clever and perhaps even amusing. But it was not kind, nor was it in the best of taste, and not even a sizable donation could make it so.”
“But she did donate,” Harry pointed out, though his tone carried a little less conviction than before.
“Indeed,” Lady Tresilian acknowledged. “I do not discount that Mrs. Bettesworth showed a charitable impulse. Or that she may have other virtues, though you are in a better position to judge than I. Am I to infer by your request that you desire a closer association with her?”
Harry swallowed. “I—have been considering a more permanent arrangement, for quite some time now.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. Her brother could only mean marriage. Had matters between him and his elusive widow progressed to that point?
Lady Tresilian sighed. “I had wondered if that might be the case. And hoped that I might be mistaken. Not because I dislike Mrs. Bettesworth—for indeed I do not—nor because I think that her flippancy sinks her beyond forgiveness. None of her little… idiosyncrasies would matter a jot—if I truly believed that she could make you happy.”
Her voice had gentled on the last words, and Harry’s gaze dropped. Sophie eyed him worriedly. It was so seldom that she saw her brother at a loss for words.
“Every mother wants the best for her children,” Lady Tresilian continued. “And in our family, that includes marriage for love—a deep, abiding, mutual love. Three of my children have been fortunate enough to find such a love. I should like to see you find it as well, and… forgive me, but I do not think you have that with Mrs. Bettesworth.”
He looked up swiftly. “I care for May, and I believe she cares for me as well!”
“But will that be enough?” she countered. “You are a Tresilian, my dear. And no Tresilian I have known has ever been content with anything less than love.”
Harry fidgeted, as ill at ease as Sophie had ever seen him. “I am nearly thirty-four, Mother. What you describe… if it hasn’t happened for me by now, I rather doubt it will happen at all. Perhaps I am destined to be one of the Tresilians who was never struck by the coup de foudre. That doesn’t mean that I could not make a successful marriage and be content in it. Affection may grow, with time.” He paused, then resumed doggedly, “There has been no one else these past two years. That must count for something, surely. At any rate, what harm could it do to invite her here, and give all of you a chance to know each other better?”
Judging from their mother’s expression, Sophie suspected that she already knew Mrs. Bettesworth quite as well as she wanted to. But her own heart went out to Harry. Knowing what she did of love, it saddened her to think that her beloved older brother might be prepared to settle for less. And yet, he was not wrong in thinking he could find happiness, regardless. And as for the lady in question… well, she might not be his family’s choice for him, but who would have chosen Robin for Sophie herself?
“I don’t see that it does any harm at all,” she declared stoutly, and saw her brother’s eyes light up in surprise—and gratitude. “It is just one day, after all,” she added, meeting her mother’s astonished and not wholly pleased gaze squarely. “My wedding day, and I would like to see everyone I love happy.”
Lady Tresilian’s lips parted as though about to shape some instinctive protest, then, abruptly, she capitulated. “Very well, my dear. As it is your day, I leave any final decisions about whom to invite up to you.”
Sophie rose from her chair and crossed over to the desk in the window alcove. Opening the topmost drawer, she took out one of the spare wedding invitations, picked up a pen, and hurriedly wrote “Mrs. George Bettesworth” on the envelope. “Here.” She handed the invitation to her brother. “You can personally deliver this to Mrs. Bettesworth the next time you see her.”
Harry broke into a smile. “Thank you, Snip! You’ll not regret this, I promise you!”
Sophie smiled back. “If it makes you happy, then what have I to regret? Rest assured that your guest will be welcome here.”
Harry stooped to kiss her cheek, then turned to bestow a similar salute on their mother. “I’ll take this over to her straightaway.”
He strode from the morning room, a decided
spring in his step. Lady Tresilian watched him go, her expression at once rueful and resigned. “Sophie, darling, are you quite sure about this?” she asked her daughter.
“I don’t see how I could have refused, Mama. I don’t personally know Mrs. Bettesworth, though I admit she doesn’t sound like the easiest person to get on with. But,” Sophie emphasized, “if Harry is in earnest about her, if he truly wishes for her to become a part of this family one day, then I think we must invite her. It would be an unpardonable snub if we did not.”
“True,” her mother acknowledged, sighing. “I just hope Harry isn’t building castles in the air. I can’t help feeling that, if Mrs. Bettesworth was of the same inclination, she’d have accepted him long ago.”
The post arrived then, with letters for them both. Picking up hers, Sophie felt a thrill of anticipation when she recognized the handwriting: David Cherwell, a brilliant tenor who also happened to be a good friend. They’d performed together at the Royal Albert Hall this past summer, and his letters were often full of fascinating or amusing details—some might even say gossip—about the music world.
Breaking the seal, she drew out the folded pages and began to read with alacrity. Three paragraphs in, she came to a stop, scarce able to believe her eyes. Pulse quickening, she read the relevant sentences over and over, her excitement mounting with every word… until she came to a phrase that was like a dash of cold water in her face.
No. It simply wasn’t possible, not with the plans she—and Robin—had already made. They’d agreed that their marriage, their family, would come first. She’d been the one to propose it, had not regretted doing so.
She hadn’t quite anticipated the disappointment she might feel, however, the first time that resolve was put to the test. The opportunity David had mentioned was not likely to arise again, not anytime soon, not even for a singer of her capabilities.
Still, Sophie reminded herself, she was young yet, and there would be other engagements. Robin was very much in favor of her continuing to perform. “I don’t want you to have to give anything up for me,” he’d said…
A Wedding In Cornwall Page 2
