by Mary Balogh
She tucked a fallen lock of hair behind one ear, accepted a cup of tea from her mother, and looked critically at her brother, whom she had caught up in a long, silent hug upon her arrival.
“You need to put on some weight, Harry,” she said.
She was, Gil concluded, as different from her sister as it was possible to be. Miss Westcott had been cool and dignified during that week—cool toward him, anyway. He did not know what she was like with her family when he was not present, and he stayed out of the way as much as he possibly could. She did not entirely ignore him or behave in any way toward him that would draw attention to herself, but he sensed anyway that she did not like him, apology given and accepted notwithstanding.
For a few moments out in the woods he had felt something like an attraction to her—or perhaps it was only a momentary lust at the sight of her stroking hands—but she was not an attractive lady. Beautiful, yes. Attractive, no. Yet he found himself watching her far more than he did her cousin or her stepsister, both of whom were lovely and far more lively and approachable than she.
A few times, then, he thought about leaving, even if only temporarily until Harry was alone again. If he ever was alone, that was, and the ladies of his family did not have their way and hire an army of medical-type persons to take up residence here. But even if that happened, Harry would need the companionship of a friend. His family made it very clear that they would not stay longer than a week. He could remain in the background that long.
Besides, he soon had another reason to stay at least as long as the Bath contingent remained. Robbie, the mutinous boy, who had apparently suffered neglect and abuse at a home before landing at the orphanage from which the Cunninghams had adopted him, discovered Beauty on the morning after his arrival. He scarcely left her side afterward, even when she was in Gil’s room. The dog, sensing the boy’s need, let him cuddle and curled about him, making herself look more ungainly than ever, and licked whatever exposed part of him she could find.
And Harry needed Gil even though he had all his family. He made that clear when Gil accompanied him up to his room one night after he had rejected offers from various aunts.
“Don’t leave here, Gil,” he begged, supporting himself up the stairs with one hand on the banister while Gil kept his hands clasped at his back. “You are not thinking of leaving, are you? I am touched beyond words that everyone has come long distances to see me. And I love them all dearly. But after they are gone, it is going to be wonderfully peaceful here. Like heaven. And you need some peace too before moving on.”
Harry knew some of Gil’s story, though not all. He knew that Gil had been widowed while he was stationed on St. Helena and that his daughter was living with her grandparents. But he thought she was there only until Gil decided what he was going to do about his military career.
“It is not my needs that are important,” Gil told him.
“No, don’t say that,” Harry protested. “If it is only my needs that are keeping you here, then I will feel a burden and might as well let my mother and the aunts find a nurse or three or ten for me. I have been firm with them about employing a valet. I can just imagine the sort of paragon they would choose. I would be forever hiding from him. I intend to choose for myself. Indeed, I already have someone in mind. But I need— No. I would like a friend here with me too. Stay because you want to, Gil. Or because you need to. Or not at all.”
“I will stay,” Gil promised. “Until I have sorted some things out, anyway. Or until you tire of my companionship.”
“That will be a good long while,” Harry said. “But I am growing impatient, Gil. I want my body back and my strength and energy. And . . . my life. I am not planning to sit around all day every day by the fire, a blanket over my knees, a book perched on top of it. I do not even enjoy reading, for the love of God.”
Gil chuckled and watched his friend step into his room and shut the door firmly behind him. It was half past eight, a time at which the old Harry would probably have been only beginning to think about going out for the evening.
* * *
• • •
The debate about what was to be done with Harry went on all week among the aunts and grandmothers, who could not bear the thought of leaving him to the ministrations of no one but servants. The men had generally avoided the discussion, as had the younger women, both of which groups recognized that Harry was weak of body but not feeble of mind. He had come to Hinsford for a reason, most probably to avoid the very sort of fuss that was being made over him anyway.
“Being alone here is precisely what will suit him best, much as we may abhor the thought,” Camille told the younger ladies when she was upstairs in the nursery with them on a drizzly morning while the men were in the library with Harry, and the aunts and grandmothers were huddled in the drawing room. “Mrs. Sullivan is perfectly capable of seeing to all except his most personal needs, and he says he is going to hire a valet to see to those. Poor Harry. It is perfectly clear that he has been bothered by enough physicians and nurses to last him a lifetime or two.” She turned her attention suddenly to her young daughter. “No, Alice. Be kind. Rebecca merely wants to look at your doll. There is no need to shove her away.”
“I wish he would come to London when we return there,” Jessica said after Anna had put an end to the squabble by giving Rebecca her own doll and suggesting that both little girls rock their babies to sleep. “It would be lovely for him to be there and lovely for all of us to have him so close. But I know he will not agree to that.”
“Avery says he will let us all fuss and worry and plan and cajole and weep and wring our hands,” Anna said, “and then wave us all cheerfully on our way while he heaves a huge sigh of relief.”
“I am quite sure Avery is right,” Wren said, laughing. “It is Alexander’s opinion too. Are you ready for a nap, sweetheart?” She lifted a yawning Richard onto her lap and he snuggled against her.
Abigail drew a slow breath and released it. She had been afraid of saying anything about her plan too soon lest it be disapproved of and cause even more discussions and arguments and a concerted effort to get her to change her mind.
“I am going to stay here,” she announced.
Everyone turned to look at her in some surprise.
“Stay?” Camille said. “Here at Hinsford, do you mean, Abby? After the rest of us go home?”
“Yes,” Abigail said. “I have asked Harry if he minds, and he does not.”
“But looking after him on your own will be a huge responsibility, Abigail,” Wren said.
“He does not need looking after,” Abigail said. “He is not an invalid. He is just very weak after two years of injuries and surgery and fever. He needs time and space and quiet in which to rebuild his strength and recover his spirits, and I am confident he will do that better without people here to agitate him, however well-meaning they are. He is not going to be content to be a semi-invalid all his life. I will be here simply as a companion when he needs one. And I will be able to run the house and lighten the load for Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Abby.” Jessica had been sitting on the window seat with Winifred while the girl told a story in such a way that Andrew could enjoy it too, though he could not hear. But she got to her feet now, frowning, and crossed the room toward her cousin. “I might have expected it. You never had any intention of rejoining society or of attending any balls or parties, did you? Even when you agreed to come to London this year for Estelle’s come-out. You have clung stubbornly instead to your stupid fear that you will be spurned because of the stain upon your birth. Everyone has told you that is nonsense. Avery has and Mama and Alexander and the Marquess of Dorchester and . . . oh, everyone.”
The other ladies looked at her, concerned by her sudden outburst of emotion. Even a few of the children paused in their play. Richard rubbed one knuckle over the eye that was not pressed against Wren and snuggled closer.
&nb
sp; “Jessica,” Anna said soothingly, laying a hand upon her sister-in-law’s arm. But Jessica jerked it away.
“It makes no sense,” she said. “It is stubborn nonsense.”
“I am sorry, Jess,” Abigail said. “I have explained to you time and again that I will never try to cobble together the tattered remnants of my old life. You have chosen to believe that eventually I must change my mind. It has been six years, Jess. It is the difference between eighteen years old and twenty-four. I am a different person than I was all that time ago. I am sorry. I know you have been hurt too. But I cannot— Well, I cannot heal your pain. Only you can do that.”
The anger went from Jessica as quickly as it had come. “I am finally to believe you, then, am I?” she asked, though it was not really a question she expected to be answered.
“I will be staying here when everyone else leaves,” Abigail said. “It is what I want to do, Jess. It is not because Harry needs me. He does not, though his coming here has made it possible for me to come home too. And it is not because I fear that at any moment I will be driven out of London over the scandal of my birth. I do not care to be in London or to be part of polite society. I need to live my own life on my own terms, and for the next while at least that is going to be done here.”
Jessica nodded unhappily and turned to watch Nathan and Jacob, who were building a precarious tower of wooden bricks.
“Oh, Abby,” Camille said with a sigh before smiling at Andrew, who had come to sit on her lap, story time being over. “I thought at the beginning that you would be the easy one. You were so sweet and placid and accepting when we went to live with Grandmama Kingsley in Bath while I hid and raged. But you were not the easy one after all, were you? You pushed everything inside and have not even begun to recover.”
“Oh no, Cam,” Abigail protested, grimacing and then laughing. “I will not be made into a figure of tragedy. I am not staying here to lick my ever-open wounds and live out my life in unhappy seclusion and self-pitying misery. I am coming home. Because I want to be here to live my life. Because it is where I think I can be happiest. For now at least.”
No one understood. But how could they? She was on a journey she could not explain in words even to herself. She did not know what the next step would be and had no idea what the final destination was or even if there would be one. She knew only that she must take one step forward at a time and that she must do it herself, even when that made her family unhappy. For they all seemed to believe that if she could only find a place in society and a kind husband who would disregard the blot upon her birth, all would be well in her life. Once upon a time it had been her sole aim to make her come-out, find an eligible husband, and live happily ever after. But no longer. That dream belonged to another lifetime. She did not even feel nostalgic about it.
“Abigail,” Anna said, getting to her feet, “will you come walking outside with me? I see that the rain has stopped.” She did not extend the invitation to anyone else.
Six years ago Abigail and Camille had resented Anna because she had suddenly appeared in their midst, their father’s only legitimate child. She’d come straight from her orphanage in Bath, where she’d grown up unacknowledged by him. She arrived the sole inheritor of their father’s vast fortune and unentailed properties, which meant they and their mother and brother were stripped of everything that had made up the fabric of their lives, their titles included. Their very identities, it had seemed. Even at the time, of course, they had realized that Anna was undeserving of their resentment. She had suffered terribly too, though her suffering had been done before the big discovery, whereas theirs had just begun. She had grown up as an orphan, knowing nothing of her father and his family or of her dead mother and her mother’s parents, who would have been only too happy to raise her and shower her with love if they had not been told she was dead.
Their resentment had faded over time for lack of fuel. Anna had never stopped reaching out to her half siblings. She had steadfastly refused to take offense at their rejection—though truth to tell that very saintliness in her nature had at first added to their irritation since it had exposed their own pettiness for what it was.
“A bit of fresh air would be very welcome,” Abigail said, and went to fetch a bonnet and pelisse and stouter shoes before meeting her half sister downstairs in the hall. How typical it was of Anna to have sensed that she had needed an excuse to escape from the nursery after her big announcement.
They strolled along the cobbled terrace rather than venture onto the wet grass. The air still held some dampness, though it had stopped drizzling for the moment. Anna linked an arm through Abigail’s.
“You must stop me,” she said, “if what I am about to say is offensive to you. I will just come out and say it. I want you to have your quarter of our father’s fortune. It has always been yours, set aside for you and your descendants after I am gone if you will not take it before. But if you are to live here alone, though Harry will be here too, of course, you really ought to have an independence, Abigail. And it is yours anyway. Please say yes.”
Anna stopped and glanced apprehensively at her half sister when she did not immediately reply.
“I find it very distasteful,” she added, “to talk about money. But it would be absurd for me to go home and then write you a letter. Abigail, you are my sister.”
From the start Anna had seen the injustice of their father’s will, made years before his death while he was still married to Anna’s mother, before his bigamous marriage to Abigail’s. He had never made another. It had seemingly never occurred to him to provide for the three children who knew nothing of their illegitimacy. Perhaps he had assumed the truth would never come to light. Perhaps he had forgotten all about that will, gathering dust in the offices of a lawyer in Bath. According to that will everything that was not entailed was to go to his wife and their daughter.
Anna had wanted to do what had seemed to her the only fair and just thing and divide the fortune into four parts, one for each of their father’s offspring. In addition, she had made arrangements, even before she could be asked to do so, for Abigail’s mother to recover the dowry that had been given on her marriage and all the interest it would have accumulated in the more than twenty years since.
Her half siblings had all spurned her offer as though she were somehow insulting them by making it. They had refused to take even a penny of the money. How ridiculous and ugly they had been, Abigail thought now, when they had chosen to be offended rather than grateful. But they had been so dreadfully, terribly hurt. Was that a valid excuse? Probably not, but when one was hurt to the core of one’s being one could not always think in terms of fairness.
“It is legally your money, Anna,” Abigail said.
“Yes, of course,” Anna said, making a dismissive gesture with her free hand, “though I do believe the three of you might have made a convincing case against me had you chosen to pursue the matter in the courts. If it had been necessary to do so, that is, and if you had believed you were entitled to your share. It was nothing short of wicked of our father to deceive you and Aunt Viola all those years and then to leave you unprovided for. I am very glad I never knew him, Abigail. His will was an abomination and should not be binding upon us, regardless of what the law says. Morally his fortune belongs to the four of us, and the sooner you accept your portion, the happier I will be.”
“Even if Camille and Harry never accept theirs?” Abigail said, frowning.
Anna started walking again, though they were almost at the end of the terrace. “Camille approached me in Bath before she married Joel,” she said. “She told me she would accept her portion, not because she needed or even wanted the money, but because she did want to make peace with me and make more of an effort to accept me as her sister. I know that was an extremely difficult thing for her to do. I was a stranger who came into her life at the most stressful moment imaginable. But she has done what she was d
etermined to do. She has given me a gift every bit as precious as the one I was able to give her. More so, since I gave her only what was rightfully hers.”
“Oh,” Abigail said, mortified and touched. “I did not know.”
“No,” Anna said. “We both decided to say nothing. We did not want to put undue pressure upon either you or Harry. Avery had a word with Harry yesterday. Not about his share of the fortune. That will have to wait until a more opportune time. Rather he persuaded Harry to accept the benefits of this house if he will not yet agree to a legal transfer of ownership. From now on he will receive the rents from the tenant farms and the income from the home farm. He saw the hole in the argument Avery made, of course, and insisted that if he was going to accept the income, then he must also handle all the expenses of the house and estate. But it is a profitable property. He will be able to lead a comfortable life here even if he merely maintains it as it is and does nothing to develop it—and even if he never will take his share of the fortune.”
They had stopped walking again, having run out of terrace. Abigail bit her upper lip as she fought tears. “I have been wondering,” she admitted, “how I can justify living here on Harry’s bounty when he has very little himself except his officer’s pay. I am not even sure he is still receiving all of that. At the same time I did not know how in all conscience I could continue to accept the very generous allowance Marcel has made me since he married my mother.”
“Then wonder no longer,” Anna said, squeezing her arm and turning back in the direction of the house. “Harry will have more than just his officer’s pay, and you . . . Accept what is yours by right, Abigail. Please. We are equally our father’s daughters.”
Abigail released her arm, fumbled for her handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose. Then she caught Anna up in a wordless hug.
“And may I say,” Anna said after they had both sniffled a bit more, “that I admire your decision to do what you want to do with your life instead of giving in to what the family has been urging you to do for at least the last five years.” They continued walking more briskly back to the house as a light drizzle began to fall again. “Trying to fit into society in order to find a husband is clearly not what you want to do, and I do not for a moment believe it is cowardice or the fear of rejection that holds you back. You will find your way eventually, or perhaps this is your way and you have already found it. Either way, I believe in you, Abigail. I really do.”
