by Mary Balogh
Hugo had the feeling he might be scowling. How was he to bring these separate groups together, make a relaxed house party out of it? Really, it had been a mad idea.
He was rescued by the arrival of the tea tray and another, larger one bearing all kinds of sumptuous looking goodies. He turned to his stepmother.
“Will you be so good as to pour, Fiona?” he asked.
“Of course, Hugo,” she said.
And it struck him that she was enjoying herself as a person of importance to everyone in the room, since as his stepmother she was in a sense his hostess. It had not occurred to him that he would need one. But of course he did. Someone had to pour the tea and sit at the foot of his dining table and stand at his side to greet the guests from the neighborhood when they arrived for the anniversary parties in a few days’ time.
“Thank you,” he said, and he took it upon himself to circulate among his guests, distributing plates and napkins before he carried around the plate of goodies and persuaded everyone to take one or two.
Meanwhile Cousin Theodora Palmer, recently married to a prosperous banker, carried a cup of tea to everyone as Fiona poured, and her sister-in-law, Bernadine Emes, Cousin Bradley’s wife, crossed the room and spoke to the little boys. Her own children, she told them, together with some of their cousins, were having tea in a lovely big room up in the attic. And after they had finished, their nurses were going to take them out to play. Perhaps Colin and Thomas would care to go with them?
Thomas half hid behind his father’s sleeve and peeked out with one eye. Colin’s face lit up with eagerness, and he looked to his father for permission.
“We do not have holidays often, do we?” Hugo heard Bernadine saying to Mavis and Harold. “Neither do our children. We might as well all enjoy this one to the full while we may. There are two nurses, both thoroughly trustworthy. The children obey them and adore them. Your boys will be quite safe with them.”
“I am sure they will,” Mavis said. “We do not have a nurse. We like to keep our children with us.”
“Oh, so do I,” Bernadine said. “They grow up so fast. When I had my first …”
Hugo opened the drawing room door, beckoned one of the new servants, who was hovering outside, and told him to inform Mrs. Bradley Emes’s nurse that she needed to stop at the drawing room on her way outside with her charges in order to collect two more children.
Gwendoline was talking with Aunt Rose and Uncle Frederick Emes, and Cousin Emily, aged fourteen, was gazing at her in awe. Constance was leading her grandparents toward Aunt Henrietta Lowry, his father’s widowed eldest sister, matriarch of the family.
Rome was not built in a day, Hugo thought without any great originality. But it was built. And perhaps his house party would not be an unmitigated disaster. He was probably feeling awkward and anxious only because Gwendoline was here and he wanted everything to be perfect. He would not be worrying if she were not here, would he?
He went to talk to Philip, who was part of neither larger group but seemed perfectly comfortable anyway as he looked down at Fiona pouring second cups of tea.
They made a handsome couple, Hugo thought in some surprise. Philip and Fiona, that was. Now there was a thought. Perhaps he would turn into a matchmaker in his dotage.
They must be pretty close in age too.
And then tea was over and the trays were removed and Hugo explained that everyone was at liberty to remain where they were or to remove to their bedchambers to rest or to wander outdoors for some fresh air.
Most people dispersed. Fiona’s mother and father circled the room slowly with Aunt Henrietta, admiring the paintings. Constance went outdoors with a large group of young people that included several of the Emes cousins, Hilda and Paul, and Ned Tucker. Gwendoline was talking with Bernadine and Bradley. Hugo joined them.
“I’ll take all the children to see the new lambs and calves and foals tomorrow morning,” he said to Bernadine. “There are some chicks and kittens and pups too. I think I would have thought I had died and gone to heaven if someone had done that for me when I was a child.”
“We all remember your strays, Hugo,” Bradley said, laughing. “Uncle used to sigh when you came home with yet another bedraggled wall-eyed cat or skeletal three-legged dog.”
“The children will love it,” Bernadine said. “Just do not, I beg you, Hugo, allow any one of them—especially one of mine—to persuade you to allow them to take a puppy or a kitten or a lamb or two home with them when they go.”
Hugo laughed and caught Gwendoline’s eye.
“Perhaps you would all care to come and see the lambs now,” he said. “They will still be out in the pasture.”
“Oh, Hugo,” Bernadine said with a sigh. “The journey was a long one and the country air is killing me—in a thoroughly good way, I hasten to add. And our children are off playing. I am for my bed until it is time to dress for dinner.”
“Brad?” Hugo said.
“Another time, perhaps,” Bradley said. “I ought to walk off that extra cream cake I could not resist, but that bed in our room is beckoning very insistently about now.”
“Lady Muir?” Hugo looked politely at her.
“I will come and see the lambs,” she said.
“Ah,” Bernardine said, “Lady Muir is being polite. You would soon learn to be more selfish if you spent more time with us, Lady Muir.”
But she laughed as she took Brad’s arm and moved off with him without waiting for an answer.
“Sometimes,” Gwendoline said, looking at Hugo, “I think I already am the most selfish of mortals.”
“You don’t have to come,” he said.
“Don’t start.” She laughed and took the arm he had not yet even offered her.
Chapter 21
Walking into the drawing room for tea had taken a surprising amount of courage, Gwen had found. She had not known quite what to expect. She had feared everyone would look at her either with excessive awe or with resentful hostility, either of which would have been isolating and would have made it difficult for her to behave with any degree of ease.
Constance had made it easier, even though she had probably done it quite unconsciously. Although there had been some sign of awe as the girl introduced her, Gwen had detected no hostility. And even some of the awe, she believed, had dissipated during tea. Perhaps after all this was going to be somewhat more doable than she had feared.
She did not care anyway. She was almost fiercely glad she had come. Even open hostility from every single one of his family members would be worth facing just for this.
This was the sight of Hugo feeding a lamb, the smallest of the flock. Its mother had died giving birth to it, and the sheep to whom it had been given, though it had lost its own lamb, was not always willing to let it suck. Today was one of those days, and so there was Hugo, sitting cross-legged in the pasture, the lamb half on his lap and sucking greedily from a bottle with some sort of nipple attached to it.
He was talking to it. Gwen could hear his voice, though she could not distinguish the exact words. She stood against the outside of the fence, her arms leaning along the top of it, watching them, though she believed he had forgotten all about her. There was such tenderness in his voice and in his whole manner that she could have wept.
He had not forgotten, though. Even as she thought it, he looked up and smiled at her. No, it was not just a smile. It was more of a boyish grin.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “I ought to have taken you back to the house first.”
“Don’t start,” she said again.
And he laughed and returned his attention to the lamb, which was finally showing signs of having had enough.
“Or I ought to have had someone else do the feeding,” he said a short while later as he let himself out of the meadow. “There are a few laborers. I had better not offer my arm. I must smell of sheep.”
She took his arm anyway. “I grew up in the country,” she reminded him.
He did smell faintl
y of sheep. And he was still wearing the very smart clothes he had worn for tea.
He did not take the path that led directly from the boundary of the park to the stables. Instead, he led her about part of the perimeter of the park, where there were more trees. They were widely enough spaced, though, that it was easy enough to walk among them.
“I can understand,” she said, “why you shut yourself up here in the country a number of years ago and wanted nothing more to do with the outside world.”
“Can you?” he said. “It cannot be done indefinitely, though. My father’s dying dragged me out again. On the whole, I am not sorry.”
“Neither am I,” she said.
He turned his head to look at her but did not comment.
“I realized something,” he said, “when I was feeding that lamb and you were standing there so patiently, watching. I keep my sheep for their wool, not their meat. I keep my cows for their milk and cheese, not for their meat. I keep chickens for their eggs. I have felt very virtuous about it all. But I eat meat. I concur in the killing of other, unknown animals so that I may be fed. And almost all creatures prey upon others for food. It is all very cruel. One could dwell upon it and become massively gloomy. But that is the way life is. It is a continual balance of opposites. There are hatred and violence, for example, and there are kindness and gentleness. And sometimes violence is necessary. I try to imagine Bonaparte having been allowed to reach our shores with his armies. Overrunning our cities and towns and countryside. Pillaging for food and other pleasures. Attacking my family and yours. Attacking you. If any of that had happened, I could never have stood by in the name of the sanctity of human life and the tenderness of my conscience.”
“You have forgiven yourself, then?” she asked.
He had stopped walking and was standing with his back against a tree, his arms folded across his chest.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he said. “Carstairs has lived with guilt all these years even though he spoke up for retreat at the time and a saving of at least some of the men’s lives. And even though he was badly wounded in the attack and has suffered the consequences ever since. He feels guilt because he believes his instinct was cowardly and my actions were right. He hates me, but he believes I was right.”
“You were right,” she said. “You have always known that.”
He shook his head slowly.
“I do not believe there is right or wrong,” he said. “There is only doing what one must do under given circumstances and living with the consequences and weaving every experience, good and bad, into the fabric of one’s life so that ultimately one can see the pattern of it all and accept the lessons life has taught. We were never expected to achieve perfection in one lifetime, Gwendoline. Religious people would say that is what heaven is for. I think that would be a shame. It’s too easy and too lazy. I would prefer to think that perhaps we are given a second chance—and a third and a thirty-third—to get everything right.”
“Reincarnation?” she said.
“Is that what it is called?” He dropped his arms to his sides and looked at her. “I wonder if I would meet the same woman in each life and discover each time that there was a problem. And would the solution that came to mind be foolhardy or brave? To be resisted or embraced? Wrong or right? You see what I mean?”
She stepped forward and stood against him, spread her hands over his chest and rested her forehead between them. She felt his heartbeat and his warmth and inhaled the strangely enticing smells of cologne and man and sheep.
“Oh, Hugo,” she said.
The fingers of one hand caressed her neck.
“Yes,” he said softly, “I have forgiven myself for being alive.”
“I love you,” she said into the fabric of his neckcloth.
For a moment she was horrified. Had she really spoken aloud? He did not reply. But he bent his head and kissed her softly and briefly in the hollow between her shoulder and neck.
And so the words had been spoken aloud—by her at least. And really it did not matter. He must know anyway. Just as she knew that he loved her.
Did she know that?
Of course she did. He had just said so in other words. I wonder if I would meet the same woman in each life …
Love might not be enough. He had said as much in London when he had come to tell her he was not going to court her.
And then again, it might be.
Perhaps love was everything. Perhaps that was what they would learn if they had thirty-three lifetimes together.
“Some people have wilderness walks on their estates,” he said. “I have thought maybe I ought to have one too. But they usually have hills and masses of trees and views and prospects and all sorts of other attractions. I have none of those things. A wilderness walk here would be just that—a walk through the wilderness. It would be silly.”
“Daft?” she said, lifting her head and looking up at him.
He tipped his head to one side.
“That is not a very elegant word for a lady to use,” he said.
She laughed.
“A definite path meandering through the woods would be pleasant,” she said. “And there is room here for more trees, perhaps some rhododendrons or other flowering trees or bushes. Perhaps a few flowers that would grow well in the shade and not be too gaudy. Bluebells in the spring, for example. Daffodils. There could be some seats, especially in places where there is something to look out upon. I noticed a few moments ago that I could see the spire of the church in the village. I daresay farther along here we will see the house. There could be a little summer pavilion, somewhere to sit even when it is raining. Somewhere to be quiet and relax. Or read. It is what Crosslands is all about, after all, and why you were attracted to it. It is not a place that is spectacular for its picturesque beauty and its prospects, but just a plain statement of something good—of the peace and joy that come with the ordinary, perhaps.”
He was gazing down into her eyes.
“It would not need fountains and statues and topiary gardens and rose arbors and boating lakes and alleys and mazes and Lord knows what else?” he said. “The park, I mean.”
She shook her head.
“It could do with a few delicate touches here and there,” she said, “but not much. It is lovely as it is.”
“But a bit on the barren side?” he said.
“Just a bit.”
“And the house?” he said.
“The paintings need to go.” She smiled at him. “Was the house fully furnished when you purchased it?”
“It was,” he said. “It was built by a man who, like my father, made his money in trade. He built it with all the best materials and furnished it with all the best furniture and never actually lived in it. He left it to his son when he died. But his son did not want it. He went off to America, to make his own fortune, I suppose, and left the house for an agent to sell.”
Sad, she thought.
“Just as I went off to war and left my own father,” he said.
“But you came back,” she reminded him, “and saw him before he died. You were able to assure him that you would take over from him and care for his business and his wife and daughter.”
“And I have just realized something else,” he said. “It would have broken his heart if I had been killed. So I am glad for his sake I did not die.”
“And for my sake?” she said.
He framed her face with his great hands and held it tilted up to his.
“I am not sure I am much of a gift,” he said. “What do you think of my family and Connie’s?”
“They are people,” she said. “Strangers who will become acquaintances, even perhaps friends during the coming days. They are not so very different from me, Hugo, and perhaps they will find that I am not so very different from them. I look forward to getting to know them all.”
“A diplomatic answer,” he said.
And perhaps a little naïve, his expression seemed to say. Perhaps it was. He
r life was as different as it could possibly be from that of Mavis Rowlands, for example. But that did not mean they could not enjoy each other’s company, find common ground upon which to converse. Or was that a naïve belief?
“A truthful answer,” she said. “What about Mr. Tucker?”
“What about him?” he asked.
“He is not a relative,” she said. “Is there something between Constance and him?”
“I think there may be,” he said. “He owns the ironmonger’s shop next to her grandparents’ grocery. He is sensible and intelligent and amiable.”
“I like him,” she said. “Constance is going to have a wide variety of choices, is she not?”
“The thing is,” he said, “that she thinks your boys, the ones you introduce to her at balls and parties, are sweet, to use her word, but a bit silly. They do not do anything with their lives.”
“Oh, dear.” She laughed. “She has told you that too, has she?”
“But she is enormously grateful to you,” he said. “And even if she marries Tucker or someone else not of the ton, she will always remember what it felt like to dance at a ton ball and to stroll in the garden of an aristocrat. And she will remember that she might have married one of their number but chose love and happiness instead.” “And she could not find either with a gentleman?” she asked him.
“She could.” He sighed. “And indeed she may. As you say, she has choices. She is a sensible girl. She will choose, I believe, with both her head and her heart, but not one to the exclusion of the other.”
