If Ever I Should Love You

by Cathy Maxwell

  “We live in a cottage, too,” his mother was telling Leonie. “Oh, it is a lovely place, snug and warm.”

  Was it his imagination that Leonie’s gaze went to the caved-in wall?

  “Do you live in the main house?” Leonie asked Dora.

  “No, I live with Lawrence and Beth and the children.”

  “Are there bedrooms in this house?” Leonie asked with deceptive calmness.

  His mother laughed. “Of course. There is my son’s—well, yours and my son’s.” She giggled a bit as she said it, her eyes dancing with happiness. Roman knew what she was thinking. His mother was an earthy woman who adored grandchildren.

  “So, there aren’t ‘seven’ bedrooms in this—” Leonie looked up at Bonhomie’s ivy-covered walls as if she didn’t know what to call it, and settled on, “Manse?”

  “There is only one,” Dora said flatly.

  “One that is usable,” David corrected. “There are seven. However, the roof leaks on that side of the house. You’ll also notice that the wall is weak.”

  “The wall that isn’t there?” Leonie asked. She was too, too calm.

  “Parts of it are there,” David answered.

  His mother took charge. “Come, Leonie—such a lovely name and you are beautiful, too—let us have a small glass of my good wine and I’ll treat you with my salve.”

  “Ah, an elderberry wine,” Leonie said. She glanced back at Roman with arched brows to emphasize the words as his mother took her arm. She led Leonie into the house.

  Roman took a step after them. Afraid, angry . . . uncertain—

  “My, she is a beauty,” Dora said. “Even with her face all battered. What happened to her last night?”

  “An incident,” Roman said.

  “Did she fall down the stairs? Run into a door? Trip over a stone in the walk?” Dora could badger a saint when she set her mind to it.

  Roman had learned long ago, the only way to set her back was to meet her head-on. “Are you saying you don’t like her?” he demanded, a touch of heat in his voice.

  His sister held up her hands to ward him off. “I am saying I do like her. When she first came out of the coach, I thought she will either be a shrewish witch or so sweet I will feel syrupy every time I talk to her.”

  “And which is she?” Roman was genuinely curious.

  “She has a spark of sass to her.”

  “Dora, don’t stir anything up,” Roman warned. He knew his sister.

  “I would not,” she promised. “Leonie would give it right back to me. I only use my tongue on those like you, brother. You know, the sort who are too priggish to be honest.”

  That statement shocked him. No one had ever accused him of priggishness. Critics claimed he tended to follow the rule book to the letter but Roman thought of that as a compliment, of sorts. “What do you mean?” he challenged his sister, but she was already heading in the front door.

  “No time to talk,” she called. “I’m thirsty for elderberry wine myself.”

  Roman started after her but Lawrence stopped him. “David and I spoke to the squire about dredging the stream.”

  That project was near and dear to Roman’s heart. There was a lovely stream through the nearest village of Middle Pike. It was said the fishing had once been great there, but over the years, logs and debris had blocked the stream. “What did he say?”

  “He’ll bring his team and his men, but it will cost you. He’s not one to do charity if he can earn honest coin.” Lawrence had been serving as Roman’s steward until one could be hired.

  “Have him do it.” Those words felt good to say. “We also want the pond dredged in the west field. Oh, yes, and I hired a butler. A good man. He will help organize the work that needs to be done in the house. I’ll be hiring a steward next so you can return to tending your flock full-time.”

  “Why, this is good,” his stepfather said. “The changes will be amazing.”

  “That is what I’m hoping.”

  “I can’t wait to tell your mother,” David said.

  “Then go on and tell her,” Roman answered.

  “Are you coming in?”

  “In a moment. I need to see the horse to the stables.”

  “Very good.” David hurried into the house.

  Roman started down the path leading to the stables. Lawrence fell into step beside him. “This new wealth doesn’t have anything to do with your wife, does it?”

  Here was the conversation Roman was dreading. “A bit.”

  Lawrence chewed on that a moment and then said, “I never saw you as the type to marry for money.”

  Roman stopped. “And why is that?”

  “Not in your character.” Lawrence started walking again. At the stable door, he said, “Then again, Leonie is one of those women it is hard not to notice.” He hung his saw on a peg with other tools by the door.

  “That she is,” Roman said.

  Whiby, an old codger who had been in the employ of the earls of Rochdale since he was seven, greeted him and took the hired horse. “You go on, my lord. Whiby has this.”

  “Thank you, Whiby.” The post lad was busy cleaning his tack, a jug he was sharing with Whiby beside him.

  Roman gave him a nod and left. Lawrence followed him a few feet to where the path led to the village. He stopped and Roman paused with him. Apparently, he had something to say and he didn’t waste time in speaking.

  “There is a saying in my family that I have found to be true.”

  “What is that?” Roman asked.

  “You can marry money but you can’t live with it.”

  That might well be the case, but Roman didn’t want to admit it. “As you said, she is a beauty.”

  “Will that be enough?”

  Roman hadn’t quite decided whether to tell his family about Leonie’s dowry. As his acting steward, Lawrence had gleaned enough information to form his own conclusions about the estate’s finances.

  However, the question was: Would Leonie be enough?

  He thought of last night before the attack, of how good it had felt to be inside her, how willing she’d been. “It must be,” he answered his brother-in-law. “I will see you on the morrow.” He headed to the house.

  Bonhomie’s first floor was fairly well intact. Some of the rooms had been filled with the mildew after years of neglect but others had been dry. He and his family had worked hard to make them livable. Most of the furniture, especially the pieces with upholstery, had to be thrown out, but the rest was solid and good.

  The house was laid out in the manner of all great country houses—a huge, welcoming front hall and then side rooms for reception and dining. Because of the damage to the south wall, the dining room was not used, but soon Roman planned to have a beehive of workers making things right.

  His family and wife were in the reception room sitting in a circle of wooden high-back chairs.

  Roman entered the room, his eye going straight to his wife. To his relief, she was sipping a steaming cup of tea while his mother painted her bruises with her salve.

  His mother looked up. “Would you enjoy a glass of my wine, Roman? I offered it to your wife but she said she would prefer my chamomile.”

  Leonie had been watching him. She’d seen his gaze go to her cup and she now silently laughed as she toasted him with it.

  “I will take a cup of the tea,” Roman said. Earlier, he’d been so angry he’d baited Leonie with ale—but now? He was tired and happy to be home.

  Home. This was the first one he’d known. His stepfather had been a private tutor and they had traveled with him, always living in rented houses.

  Dora poured him a cup of tea. His mother sat back, surveying Leonie and proud of her work. “Does the salve sting?” she asked.

  “Slightly.”

  “That is the mint.”

  “I’m surprised you are letting her cover you with one of her concoctions, Leonie,” Dora said. “I spent my childhood avoiding them.”

  “You spent your
childhood with so many scrapes you had to bathe in that salve,” David said, and everyone laughed.

  It was strange to see Leonie at ease with his family. She acted as if she’d always meant to be one of them. She easily kept the conversation flowing by asking his mother how she came to choose his given name.

  “Roman Lancaster was in the Department of Philosophy and my late husband’s closest friend, although there was a good twenty years between their ages,” his mother said. She smiled with the fondness of memory when she explained, “My children’s father was quite a few years older than myself. Be it as it may, Roman died shortly before this Roman was born and Alfred wanted to honor his friend with the name. Now, in many ways, my Roman honors both men.”

  Leonie looked touched by his mother’s sentimentality.

  Of course, Dora spoiled that moment by pointing out that she, too, had one of the Latin names.

  “Greek,” their stepfather mildly corrected.

  “Only Elizabeth escaped and that is because of Mother.”

  His mother smiled and confessed, “I told my late husband that if I was the one carrying the children, then I should have first choice for a name. In fairness, I let him name Dora and then I, too, loved Roman Lancaster. He was a good, good friend.” For a second, a memory seemed in danger of overwhelming her. She looked over to her husband and there was one of those silent times of communication where his mother and stepfather perfectly understood each other.

  Those moments always touched Roman. He longed to have that sort of deep affinity with his wife.

  He felt someone watching him and looked up to see Leonie with a thoughtful expression on her face. Did she, too, long to be close to another? Had she witnessed the respect his parents held for each other and found it moving?

  Roman couldn’t tell in her expression. She could be a cypher, a mystery. Or a wasp’s nest. She had already turned out to be vastly different than he had anticipated.

  And that was part of her intrigue for him.

  Dinner was a simple repast served at his parents’ cottage. His mother had made a stew with bread she had baked the day before. Elizabeth, Lawrence, and the children, Edward and Jane, joined them.

  Leonie proved to be good with children. Beth was taken with her to the point that his sweet oldest sister mouthed the words, “I like her,” to Roman.

  What surprised Roman was how Leonie could be gentle with Beth and sharp-witted with Dora, especially if Roman was the topic. She was also well read. He’d not considered her education and perhaps he should have. However, she held her own in a conversation with David. She asked intelligent questions and seemed genuinely interested in the answers.

  Was it a ruse? She was a polished product of London drawing rooms. She could probably talk to diplomats and merchants alike.

  The best moment was when his mother asked for stories of India. Usually, his family had no curiosity about what he’d seen and that was fine with him. Some of what he’d done and where he’d been would not have made respectable table conversation. However, Leonie drew out of him the good memories.

  They talked of pilgrims bathing in the muddy rivers and monkeys stealing anything shiny. Leonie brought up the heat and everything was either very dusty or very green.

  He’d forgotten that. He could almost smell the heat and recall vividly how the Indian women preferred vivid colors in their dress that seemed to make the sun brighter.

  “More cider?” Dora asked everyone as the meal was coming to an end. It was sweet, potent stuff made by the villagers. Everyone save for Beth, Lawrence, and the children had been drinking it.

  Beth shook her head, and then noticed Leonie’s thoughtful expression. “We are Methodists,” Beth explained to her.

  “And?” his wife prompted, not understanding.

  “We are temperate,” Lawrence answered.

  Leonie’s brows came together. “What does that mean?”

  “We don’t drink spirits or ale or cider,” Lawrence said.

  “Or elderberry wine,” his mother chimed in.

  “By choice?” Leonie asked.

  Beth laughed. “Of course.”

  “My father didn’t drink well,” Lawrence explained. “He, too, was a man of the church until they asked him to leave after sampling too much of the communal wine.”

  “Interesting,” Leonie said. She smiled at Roman but there was no humor in her dark eyes. She had been poured a glass of cider but she hadn’t touched it. Roman had been watching.

  Beth stood. “We need to be off for bed.”

  “How far is the walk into the village?” Leonie asked.

  “Not far from here. Just ten minutes down the path,” Lawrence answered.

  Beth leaned down and gave Leonie a kiss on the cheek. The affection seemed to surprise her as did Beth’s next words. “Here, children, say good night to your new aunt. Come along, Dora. If you won’t help me teach, then you must help me plan lessons.”

  Jane and Edward dutifully kissed Leonie’s cheek before moving to their grandparents, and finally Roman. This was his favorite part about having his family with him.

  “I believe we have had enough as well,” he announced. He looked to Leonie. “Are you ready to retire?”

  “It has been a long day. The stew was delicious.” Leonie stood. She started to hold out her hand, but then changed her mind and kissed his mother on the cheek as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

  David kissed her cheek.

  And Roman knew that against his better judgement, his wife had been accepted into his family.

  They all left his parents’ cottage at the same time, Dora going with Beth and Lawrence. The moon was high in the sky, but he and Lawrence carried lanterns to light the way.

  Dora had imbibed a bit too much of the cider and was pleasantly tipsy. Roman could hear her laughter through the woods. Apparently, she was racing Edward and Jane, because Dora was shouting, “I’m ahead of you.”

  “She’ll fall and break her neck,” Roman said.

  Leonie did not answer.

  He looked over to his wife. She walked with her back straight, her head high. Moonlight highlighted the delicate planes of her face beneath her bonnet, the same one that had been smashed. She’d molded it back into a semblance of shape.

  “Do you wish to talk about our argument this morning?” He had enjoyed several glasses of the cider along with a sample of his mother’s elderberry wine and was feeling a touch conciliatory . . . and, maybe, amorous? Aye, very amorous.

  In fact, in between watching whether or not Leonie drank her cider or worrying about how she was being accepted into the family fold, he’d thought about how much he had enjoyed making love to her.

  And how much he’d like to do it again. In fact, that topic was never far from his mind.

  Of course, one could interpret by the set of her chin that she might be out of sorts with him, but why? He’d said what he’d said this morning because it needed to be said. He liked to have all opinions out in the open, especially his own. He could not call his words back. His doubts had been honest. It might be best to change the subject.

  “Whiby brought your valise up to the bedroom.”

  Again, silence.

  “Yarrow and Duncan should be here tomorrow or the next day with your trunk.”

  They had reached the stables. One of the hired horses nickered to them. Leonie didn’t pause but went marching by, heading for the house as if she owned the place.

  Well, in a way she did.

  And then, just as his long legs caught up with her, she stopped. They were at the edge of the path. Bonhomie appeared silver in the night with the overgrowth of ivy cutting huge swaths of darkness on its walls. However, on the fourth side, the south side, the crumbling wall and open rooms for two floors could not be ignored.

  It was the south side they faced.

  Leonie spoke her first words since leaving his parents’ cottage. “One must admire the architecture.”

  Now it
was Roman who was quiet, uncertain of her mood.

  “Do you think the abbey’s monks took these stairs?” She nodded to the remnants of a stairway that could be clearly seen in the moon’s beauty of light and shadow. “Perhaps the abbot slept in that room on the right, the one that would be overlooking the gardens that do not exist. He must have enjoyed the calling of rooks every morning since they seemed determined to line the trees.”

  “I have nothing to do with the rooks,” Roman murmured. “And perhaps I exaggerated the state of the house.”

  “Exaggerated?” Leonie tilted her head up to him. “You lied.”

  “I thought you were over being out of sorts,” Roman complained. He had a suspicion that if he wasn’t cautious, there would be no love play for him tonight.

  “No, I’m just starting,” Leonie remarked, moving toward the house. She took several steps and then whirled on him. “I was heading to the front door, but really, why? We can go in right here.” She picked her way through the rubble, twisting her ankle on a rock and almost falling.

  “Careful.” He took her by the waist, lifting her up and swinging her around, carrying her to the front door where it was safe to walk.

  Her response was to shake off his help the moment her feet touched the ground. She even batted at his hand as if he was an annoyance and began moving toward the door—but then she, again, abruptly stopped to confront him.

  “You made me feel small. You presented yourself as this holier than thou person who had been saddled with my weakness and lack of character. I despised myself when I saw who I was through your eyes. And now—” She waved her arms to encompass Bonhomie and all its grounds. “Now I learn you were misrepresenting yourself.”

  “I was not,” Roman answered, stung more by her picture of him as some sort of judgmental overlord than her criticism of his beloved home. “Bonhomie will be everything I said it was . . . someday.”

  “There isn’t enough money in my dowry to repair everything that is wrong with this house. Or pave the front drive.” She scuffed her shoes on the ground to kick up the dust. “And if that’s your idea of a manicured lawn,” she continued, “then you are done before you started. But the worst part is that you carry on about honesty and yet you weren’t honest about the most basic things to me. You didn’t even tell me about your family and they are lovely people.”