by Mary Balogh
“Well,” he said, “we haven’t exactly solved any of the world’s problems, have we, Mad? Shall we go in search of luncheon? The bell must be about to ring any minute.”
“An admirable idea,” she said, getting to her feet and bending to fold her embroidery tidily. “When all else fails, eat. It sounds very sensible. And alarmingly fattening!”
ALEXANDRA HAD AGREED TO accompany her mother and Lady Amberley on an afternoon visit to Sir Peregrine and Lady Lampman. Sir Cedric had also declared his intention of making one of the party, and Lord Amberley had decided at luncheon that he could not possibly allow the older man to have three ladies all to himself for a whole afternoon.
The barouche was ordered around after all in preference to the carriage when the heavy clouds of the morning moved off and the sun decided to shine. It was blustery enough, it was true, to make Lady Beckworth look a little dubious, but it was a warm and healthful breeze, Lady Amberley declared firmly. Lord Amberley rode his horse.
Alexandra sat next to Sir Cedric, their backs to the horses. He smiled at her and patted her hand.
“Well, Miss Purnell,” he said, “and were you pleased with Amberley’s news at luncheon?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “It will be good to see Papa again.”
“I am delighted for you, my dear,” he said, “that he has changed his mind and decided to come for a couple of weeks. There is nothing like the presence of one’s family to raise one’s spirits, is there?”
“No,” she said.
“I cannot say how gratified I am to know Beckworth is coming,” Lady Beckworth said. “I have never been away from him before, you know, except at home when he has occasionally been called away on business. I find decisions too momentous to be made without the guidance of my husband.”
Sir Cedric smiled at her. “It will be a happiness for everyone to have him here in time for Amberley’s ball, ma’am,” he said. “It is always a splendid event.”
“It is one of the few occasions of the year when the state rooms are used,” Lady Amberley said. “I am afraid we do indulge ourselves in lavish preparations and decorations. Of course”—she smiled warmly across at Alexandra—“a wedding is a perfect excuse for using them too. Perhaps we will not have to wait a full year this time before we dine again in the state dining room. But I am putting you to the blush, Alexandra. How unforgivable of me. Do look down, dear, and see the house and gardens from up here. I never tire of the view, I must confess.”
Alexandra had been roundly scolded earlier that morning for allowing herself to be led off alone by Lord Amberley at the picnic when they might have joined the larger party who had gone down to the river. And they had been gone for longer than an hour, her mother had said, longer than the others. What would everyone think of her?
And now Papa had written to say that he was coming. And Mama was vastly relieved, as she had said a minute before. She had said the same thing to Alexandra before they left the house. Her father would control her behavior, Lady Beckworth had said. She would not dare do anything as improper as go off alone with her betrothed more than once or twice in a week once her father was there to keep an eye on her.
It was going to be difficult, Alexandra admitted to herself. It was all very well now to tell herself that the new Alexandra would stand up against him and assert herself. She was one-and-twenty, she could tell herself now, and officially betrothed. She did not have to allow her father or any man to dictate her every word and action. Unless she married another man, of course. Then she would become his property, his to command, his to punish if he so chose. But she did not have to allow that to become possible. The society in which she lived might impose all sorts of restrictions on the behavior of women, but it could not force any woman to marry against her will.
It was all very well to tell herself that she could now command her own destiny. But she knew that it would be harder to live up to her resolution once her father arrived. From the habit of a lifetime she had always obeyed his every command to the letter and without question—even to kneeling for long hours on the floor of her room, reading her Bible, when no one came to check up on her and it would have been easy to cheat and sit on a chair or lie on her bed. Even as recently as a few weeks before, she had submitted to those punishments. She had accepted Lord Amberley because her father had commanded her to do so and had promised that the beatings would resume if she did not.
She no longer had to submit to those beatings or to the hours, and sometimes days, of silent torture. Just that morning she had known an exhilaration at her own freedom, her own ability to free herself and live her own life. But the test would come when Papa arrived. Would she have the strength to do what she knew she had the right to do? It was impossible to tell. She could only hope that she would.
Her eyes rested on Lord Amberley, who was riding behind the barouche. The temptation, she knew, would be to turn to him if she found Papa difficult to deal with—when she found Papa difficult to deal with. He would help her, she knew instinctively. Kindly and courteous as he invariably was, she sensed a streak of iron in him. She had seen it once at Lady Sharp’s soiree, when by sheer force of will, unaccompanied by any forceful words or actions, he had wrested respect for her out of the cream of the ton.
He would not allow Papa to bully her. He would protect her. He would, she was sure, even marry without further ado if she but hinted to him that she needed to be rescued from her father. It would be good to be rescued by the Earl of Amberley. Edmund. Good to relax, forget all her problems, and allow him to shoulder her burdens. Good to know that afterward she would not find a new bully to replace the old. Life could be good with him. He could be her friend as well as her protector. Her lover. The father of her children. Those children with whom he would climb up the most dangerous part of the cliff face. She would go with them.
It was only when Lord Amberley looked away from the valley and smiled warmly at her when he caught her eye that she realized the treacherous direction of her thoughts. She lifted her chin and gave him a half-smile in return.
It was not yet time for tea, Lady Lampman announced when they arrived at the neat stone house set among carefully tended gardens and orchards. Would they all care for a walk? She took Alexandra’s arm resolutely as they left the house, and led the way along the hedge-lined laneway, in the opposite direction from that by which they had come in the barouche.
“I insist on plenty of exercise both morning and afternoon,” she said, “even though Perry worries. He thinks it would be far better for me to sit at home with my feet on a stool. Can you imagine any life more dull, Miss Purnell?”
“No, indeed,” Alexandra said fervently, thinking of all the years she had spent almost confined indoors. She was noticing for the first time—she could not understand how she had missed the clear evidence both at the Courtneys’ dance and at church on Sunday—that Lady Lampman was with child.
“Perry is terrified, of course,” Lady Lampman said with a quick and nervous smile at her companion. “Both for me and for…” She touched her abdomen and blushed. “I am thirty-seven years old, you know. No, you probably did not know, though I am sure you might have guessed. I think we both assumed I was too old.”
“Are you pleased?” Alexandra was a little embarrassed, having been brought up to believe that talking about pregnancies was as unthinkable as talking about the marriage act.
She was favored with that nervous smile again. “Terrified,” her companion said, “though Perry must never know. I pretend that it is a matter of no moment at all. But you cannot know what it means to me, Miss Purnell, to have the chance to present him with a child, just like any normal woman.”
Alexandra gave her a look of surprise.
“Perry is only seven-and-twenty,” Lady Lampman said. “He should be married to a sweet young thing who could fill a whole nursery for him, shouldn’t he?”
Alexandra found the question quite impossible to answer. She did not e
ven try.
“I am embarrassing you,” Lady Lampman said. “Do you like it at Amberley? And are you planning to be wed soon? And are my questions impertinent? We will talk about the hedgerow if you wish.”
Alexandra laughed. “I love Amberley,” she said. “I am sure there can be no more beautiful place on earth. His lordship has shown me the place on the cliffs where he climbed as a boy with your husband. Sir Peregrine got stuck, it seems, and they were both caught. And thrashed.”
Lady Lampman flashed her a broader smile. “Boys are horrors, are they not?” she said. “I wonder if our sons will ever try anything as foolish. Oh, Miss Purnell, I do so wish for a son. This will be my only chance, surely. Of course, first and foremost I wish for a live and healthy child. But a son! There could not be any greater happiness.”
The woman looked stern and humorless. Alexandra had labeled her thus during their first meeting. And she had watched her husband all during the Courtney dance with eyes that Alexandra had labeled as jealous and possessive. How wrong first impressions can be, she thought as they walked on and climbed a low hill in order to circle around behind the house for their return.
Lady Lampman was a woman deeply in love. And perhaps painfully in love. She was ten years older than her husband—Alexandra did not know the story behind their union—and very insecure. She must wonder constantly whether he regretted their marriage, whether he looked with longing at younger women. And now she was bearing his child, terrified that she was too old to bring it alive and healthy into the world, painfully yearning to be able to present him with this one token of her love.
She wondered about Sir Peregrine and watched him curiously during tea, after they had returned to the house. He and Lord Amberley spent some time reminiscing about their boyhood years and laughing a great deal. Only once did she have any indication of his feelings for his wife. She was bending over the tea tray, pouring a second cup for Sir Cedric. Sir Peregrine’s eyes were on her, on the slight swelling of her abdomen. His eyes followed her as she took the cup across the room though he continued with the story he was in the middle of telling. After his wife sat down, he got up and carried a footstool across to her. And he touched her shoulder lightly before returning to his own place.
They were small gestures and caused not the slightest pause in the conversation. But Alexandra smiled slightly to herself. It was a strange relationship—a ten-year gap in ages seemed enormous when the woman was the elder—but it was not without affection even on the husband’s part.
She looked around the cozy parlor in which they sat. For the moment she was not directly involved in any of the three conversations in progress. But she felt an enormous and seductive contentment. She did love Amberley Court, as she had just admitted to Lady Lampman. And its surroundings. And she was beginning to love its people too—Lady Amberley, always so gracious and sensible; Sir Cedric, quiet, unassuming, part of the family though no blood relation; and Sir Peregrine and Lady Lampman, who were becoming for her no longer merely faces, but interesting and probably complex people.
How easy it would be to relax into the comfort of it all, to allow herself to become one of them. And how foolish not to, when the alternative was so unnecessary and so bleak. What a dreadful thing pride is, she thought as she met the blue and smiling eyes of her betrothed, watching her from across the room. She lowered her eyes to her teacup.
“Did you enjoy this afternoon?” he asked her later, when he took her for a stroll in the rose garden after their return. “Perry has always been one of my closest friends.”
“Yes,” she said. “I like them both.”
“I think they are happy together,” he said. “I am glad of it. I thought he was mad at the time, I must confess. Lady Lampman was living with her brother, our last rector, as his housekeeper. Perry was particularly friendly with him. He used to spend half his time at the rectory. And then she was left apparently quite destitute two years ago when the rector died suddenly.”
“Poor lady,” Alexandra said.
“The rest of us were busily thinking of a solution,” Lord Amberley said. “Mama was even going to offer her the position of companion, though Mama would hate having such an employee. But Perry took the matter out of our hands by marrying her. I am afraid at the time I thought it a foolishly noble gesture and told him so. I had a rather painful jab on the nose for my pains.” He laughed softly. “But I think he is fond of her. And she dotes on him.”
“Yes,” Alexandra said. “I hope she will be able to bear her child safely.”
She was blushing furiously and biting her lip when Lord Amberley smiled down at her.
ALTHOUGH THE ANNUAL BALL AT AMBERLEY was to be held within a week, nevertheless it was decided that an informal garden party would be an appropriate welcoming gesture for the arrival of Lord Beckworth from London. The Carringtons, the Courtneys, and the Lampmans were to come, as well as the Misses Stanhope, the rector and his wife, and the two officers of the regiment. Tables were set up on the northern lawn, close to the trees and the river.
Lord Eden had spent an unhappy few days. His decision to buy a commission in the army and go to Spain if at all possible had been quite firmly made. It was true, he had decided, that sometimes one had to do what one wished to do, no matter how selfish one’s behavior might seem to be. There were some things too important to be given up even for the sake of loved ones. For him, the active life of a soldier in the service of his country was essential. He felt that he could not be a whole person if he did not go. And if he were not a whole person, then he could never be a good son or brother—or husband.
He had not yet spoken to either his mother or his sister about his decision to leave before the end of the summer. It was not cowardice or procrastination that held him back. It was just that he wished to tell them all of his plans, and he did not know himself what all his plans were. Was he going to marry Miss Purnell? Or at least, was he going to still try to persuade her to marry him?
He had been quite firm in his plans to do so. He had asked her, and he had even mentioned his intentions to Edmund. Neither had expressed marked opposition to the idea. But he could not shake from his mind what Madeline had said in the conservatory. She had echoed uncomfortably the very thoughts that had been in his own mind and that he had so ruthlessly quelled.
It was all very well to feel, as he had originally felt, that it was his responsibility to marry Miss Purnell, not Edmund’s. It was fine at the start to fight against his brother’s decision, to try to take an unwelcome betrothed off his hands. Even up to the moment when they had left London, the change would have been possible. Already there had been enough upheaval, enough scandal, surrounding both families, that one more odd incident would have made little difference.
But he had to admit that once they had all removed to Amberley, the situation had become remarkably formal and unchangeable. Miss Purnell had been introduced to everyone in the neighborhood as Edmund’s betrothed. She had been entertained in the homes of many of their neighbors; she had attended church with Edmund; she had visited the Petersons and attended Joel’s funeral with him; there was to be the ball within a week.
The thought now of his trying to take her away to marry her himself seemed almost incredibly naive. Certainly not noble. Madeline was right. He had already thought it himself. Edmund would find it difficult to hold his head up forever after. Miss Purnell would never be received again by respectable society. He would surely be banished from his childhood home.
And why was he trying to do such a thing? Because he loved Miss Purnell? He did not, though he did like her a great deal and respected her deeply. He wanted to marry her in order to save his brother from a life of misery. Would he not be plunging Edmund into a life of much deeper misery if he continued with his plans than if he allowed the marriage to take place? And he wanted to marry her so that he could take upon himself the duty of making her happy. Making her happy by changing her into a social pariah? It was a lunatic idea.
And
yet, he thought every time the answer was obvious to him and he decided that he must drop his plans, if Edmund had a bad marriage, if Miss Purnell did, then he would never forgive himself for having been the cause of it all.
Life was just not easy, Lord Eden concluded. Adult life, that was. When one was a child, one frequently made wrong decisions and frequently got into trouble. But when one was a child, there was always someone there to pick one up and soothe one’s hurt or else call one to task and mete out punishment. And always someone to explain exactly what it was one should have done. In childhood, it always seemed that there was an absolute answer to everything. If one did not have that answer oneself, an adult surely did. Mama did, or Sir Cedric, or Edmund.
But when one reached that longed-for goal of adulthood, where there was no longer anyone to lecture or scold or punish, one also became aware of the supreme joke of life—that there were no absolute answers after all, not, at least, to many of the thornier problems of life.
And then there was Susan! She was with Lieutenant Jennings during the first part of the garden party, until teatime, and he was content to leave it thus. He had avoided her company since his uncle’s picnic. But when he turned away from the table, a loaded plate in his hand, he literally collided with her. A cucumber sandwich flew one way, a jam tart the other. Susan’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a shriek.
“Susan!” he said with a grin. “Do you see the effect you have on me? I cannot even keep a steady hand.”
She blushed and lowered her lashes. “It was all my fault, my lord,” she said. “I was not looking where I was going.”
“How fortunate for me that you weren’t,” he said. “May I fill a plate for you?”
“Oh,” she said breathlessly, “I am not hungry.”
He did not think to ask what she was doing approaching the food table if she did not intend to eat. He put down his own plate gallantly and offered her his arm.
