by Mary Balogh
“Well,” her mother said, “we will have to see what happens tomorrow at Elizabeth and Colin’s. I daresay the whole matter will be discussed to death, and all sorts of plots and plans and schemes will be hatched. I almost feel sorry for the poor lieutenant colonel. The Westcott family can be as fearful to face as swords and guns.”
“Perhaps,” Abigail said, “everyone will be secretly glad of his absence, Mama. You cannot be sure the family will rally in its usual manner.”
“You and I are ladies, not gentlemen, alas, Abby,” her mother said, smiling at her, “but how much would you care to wager upon that?”
Nineteen
It had been a busy day, not just physically, but emotionally too. Meeting his lawyer face-to-face at last, being interrogated by him—yes, it was the right word—and having Abby interrogated, and learning that General Pascoe and his wife were in London and the hearing before a judge was imminent had all raised Gil’s anxiety level considerably. With his head he might persuade himself that his case was a strong one and that within a few weeks at the longest he would be on his way home to Gloucestershire with his wife and daughter. But with his gut he was fearful and not convinced of anything. For what General Sir Edward and Lady Pascoe wanted, they invariably got. Except, a little voice in his head said, the sort of husband they had wanted for their daughter. And that very fact would make them even more determined not to be thwarted again by the same man.
The afternoon had not improved his mood. He had seen Abby on her way to visit her mother alone, knowing that she would make excuses for him. He knew he had hurt her by refusing to participate in the Westcott family wedding breakfast Lord Hodges and his wife had wanted to put on for them. It had perhaps been selfish of him. On top of the guilt of that thought, he had spent much of the afternoon putting an end to all that had given him identity and focus and self-esteem for twenty years. He had begun the process of retiring from his regiment and the army. And though he had much for which to retire—home, family, fortune, the peaceful, settled life he had always dreamed of—nevertheless it was a wrench to cut himself off from all that was familiar to him. And the future was never assured.
Abby returned to the hotel soon after him, looking as tired as he felt, though she smiled at him and asked about his afternoon. She told him of her mother’s fear that it was her reaction to yesterday’s news that had determined Gil to stay away from the celebration planned in their honor.
“She hopes that if that is so, you will reconsider,” Abby said.
Perhaps it was foolish of him not to do so, especially since it would not involve the ordeal of meeting any of them for the first time. He had spent a week at Hinsford with most of them and had felt relatively at ease with them. He had liked them and felt liked in return. But he knew that his reluctance to meet them again was for that very reason. He had deceived them during that week, allowing them to assume that because he was a high-ranking military officer he must also be a gentleman. And then he had married one of their own, without asking any of them except Harry.
He could not do it. He could not face them again. But by refusing he was hurting Abby.
“I told her you would not,” she said. “But I promised to pass along the message.”
“The plans will go ahead regardless?” he asked her.
“Well, not as a wedding breakfast,” she said. “But yes. Cousin Elizabeth and Colin have invited the whole family to tea tomorrow, and I will go. They will want me there. I suppose I will be the guest of honor.”
“I have a million and one things to do,” he told her. “We need a carriage and horses. I have an appointment to see my agent. He oversees the management of my home and farm—of our home—and he looks after my investments. I rarely get to meet him in person. He is a busy man. I do not suppose it would be easy to change—”
“It is all right, Gil,” she said. She stepped closer to him and set a hand on his arm. She was smiling, an expression that went all the way back into her eyes to fill her whole person. Or so it seemed to him. He felt humbled. He must be a great disappointment to her. “I understand.”
She ought to be raging at him. He stood staring mutely at her, ready, it seemed, to rage at her for not raging at him. But then . . .
“I cannot think of anyone or anything else but my baby, Abby,” he blurted, and for a moment he was terrified that he was about to break down. He gulped for air and hid his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand grasping his temples.
“I know,” she said softly. And she stepped right against him and wrapped her arms about him while his own grabbed for her and held her close. Too close. He must be hurting her. He swallowed and almost lost the battle to start bawling. “I know.”
But she did not know. How it had felt to hold that baby in his arms, knowing she was his to love and cherish and nurture and keep safe and secure in the unconditional love of a parent. How it had felt to leave her when Napoleon Bonaparte had been gathering an army again and another colossal battle seemed likely and he might die and never see her again. How it had felt to arrive home, alarmed by Caroline’s letters, to find the house empty of all but a few servants, none of whom knew where his wife and daughter had gone. How it had felt to be denied admittance to his mother-in-law’s home even after he had learned that Katy was there. How it had felt to hear her cry, perhaps with fright at all the shouting that was going on downstairs. How it had felt to leave there alone. And then to be sent to St. Helena, as much an exile as Bonaparte himself. How it felt now to know that his fate lay in the hands of a judge, who did not know him or the depths of his feelings. No, she did not know. How could she?
But she held him and endured the way he was clutching her to himself in such a way that she was probably having difficulty breathing. No, she did not know. But she understood. Good God, he did not have the exclusive rights to pain. She had suffered too. She had been a young girl, about to make her debut into society. How eager and excited and full of hope and expectation she must have been. Only to have it all taken from her along with the very roots of her identity. No, she was not immune to suffering.
He loosened his hold and regarded her wearily. “You look tired,” he said. She was still wearing her bonnet, a small-brimmed, high-crowned frivolity that made her look purely pretty. Not that she really needed a bonnet to do that. He pulled loose the ribbons beneath her chin.
“So do you.” She moved back a half step and spread her hands over his chest. “It will soon be over, Gil.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” he said.
“I know.” She swayed against him again as he removed her bonnet, and set her forehead against his shoulder. “It is the waiting that kills, and you have been doing it for close to two years. Let me order up some tea. It is too early to go down for dinner.”
“I would rather go to bed,” he told her.
“If you would prefer,” she said, raising her head and smiling again. He saw the moment at which she realized what he meant. “Oh.” Her smile faded and she blushed rosily.
“It can be done during the daytime, you know,” he said. “It is physically possible. It is not just for the nighttime.”
She laughed and something caught at his stomach. Or perhaps it was his heart.
“Oh,” she said again.
“We might even sleep,” he said. “Afterward.”
* * *
• • •
Abigail arrived at Lord Hodges’s house on Curzon Street the following afternoon with her mother, Marcel, and Estelle, who had come to the Pulteney Hotel for her. Gil had taken Beauty for a walk in Hyde Park. After that he had an appointment with his agent.
Everyone else had arrived before them, perhaps by design, Abigail thought, since she surely was the guest of honor. They had gathered to see her. It was not long since she had waved them all on their way back to town from Hinsford. But of course everything had changed since then.
She felt ridiculously nervous as Colin and Elizabeth’s butler escorted them upstairs and announced them after opening the drawing room doors. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester, Lady Estelle Lamarr, and Mrs. Bennington.” Just as though they were stepping into someone’s ballroom for a grand ton event. Not that Abigail had ever experienced one of those in person.
Mrs. Bennington. It still sounded strange.
Alexander was standing with his back to the fireplace. Abigail’s grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, was seated in a large chair to one side of it, Aunt Matilda standing beside her chair, vinaigrette in hand on the chance that her mother might need to be revived in the excitement of the moment. Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas, Lord and Lady Molenor, were seated side by side on a love seat. Aunt Louise, the Dowager Duchess of Netherby, was sitting with Jessica and Wren on a sofa. Cousin Althea Westcott, Elizabeth’s mother, was sitting on another chair, Anna perched on the arm. Avery, Duke of Netherby, was seated somewhat apart from everyone else, as though he considered himself more an observer than a participant. Bertrand was standing beside him. Colin and Elizabeth, both on their feet, both smiling warmly, were coming toward them, hands outstretched to greet them.
Abigail drew a deep breath and smiled. She understood perfectly why Gil could not face this.
“Well, Abigail,” her grandmother said. “Explain yourself.”
“You must not excite yourself, Mama,” Aunt Matilda said.
“I am not excited,” the dowager told her. “And put that thing in your hand away unless you intend on using it yourself. Abigail?”
Colin, having smiled at Estelle, shaken Marcel by the hand, and kissed Viola’s cheek, had just turned to Abigail to take her hand in both his own. He laughed. “Allow the poor lady to catch her breath and be seated first, if you will, ma’am,” he said, offering his arm. “We have kept the chair by the fireplace for you, Abigail. We are delighted you have come.”
She was not to escape so easily to the relative safety of the chair, however.
“But a hug before you sit down, Abby,” Anna said, hurrying toward them and pulling Abigail into her arms. “I liked Lieutenant Colonel Bennington extremely well while we were at Hinsford, and I wish you both all the happiness in the world.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said.
“So did I, and so do I,” Wren said, hugging Abigail after Anna had let her go.
“Abby.” Jessica caught hold of her next. “I did not know what to think when I heard. I still do not. You might have knocked me over with a feather. I was quite convinced that you would never marry, and the thought made me miserable. I do know you would never have married where your heart was not engaged, so I must be happy for you. But I am not sure I will ever forgive you for not inviting me to your wedding. I have not even decided yet if I will even talk to you again.” All the while she was squeezing Abigail tightly.
“I feel the same way,” Estelle said.
“Well, I hope you both decide in my favor,” Abigail said, “or I will have to be content with delivering monologues whenever I am in company with you.”
Aunt Louise claimed a hug next. “Goodness me, you took us all by surprise, Abigail,” she said. “I did not see it coming while we were at Hinsford. And even looking back I cannot see any signs of what was in the wind.”
“I do not believe anything was in the wind while we were there, Louise,” Uncle Thomas said. He had come to shake Abigail heartily by the hand and kiss her cheek. “I wish you well, my dear. Lieutenant Colonel Bennington seems like a fine young man.”
“Oh, Abigail,” Aunt Mildred said when she hugged her. “It really is quite romantic. Just as Avery’s dashing off with Anna to marry quietly while we were all planning a grand wedding for them was.”
“I just wish,” Cousin Althea said, “that Lieutenant Colonel Bennington had come with you, Abigail. He looked very uncomfortable yesterday afternoon when I met him for the first time. But he will get used to us.”
“We all know why he has not come,” Abigail’s grandmother said when Abigail sat down at last and everyone else had resumed their places. The hubbub of sound stopped with her words. “And why he will not allow a wedding breakfast. We know everything except why you did it, Abigail. Why you married a man you knew to be ineligible, a man with problems that may well drag you and your family down into the dust. Why you married him in such a havey-cavey manner, without letting even your mother know. Do you have such little respect for yourself?”
“Mama!”
“No, Mother, I will not have Abigail harassed.”
“Perhaps we ought—”
Aunt Matilda, Abigail’s mother, and Elizabeth spoke simultaneously. Aunt Matilda even forgot to try pressing the vinaigrette upon Grandmama.
Alexander stopped them with a raised hand. “No,” he said. “The concern is one we all feel. Perhaps we needed Cousin Eugenia to express it so bluntly. And perhaps we ought to give Abigail a chance to answer for herself.”
An uneasy silence settled on the room.
“Or not,” Avery said quietly from his corner. “It seems to me that Abigail was invited here for tea.”
“Oh, she was, Alexander,” Elizabeth said. “We want to rejoice with her.”
“Rejoice,” Grandmama said scornfully. “In the absence of the bridegroom. He will not come here to face us himself.”
“Because he agrees with you, Grandmama,” Abigail said, and felt all attention swing her way. “He believes he does not belong here. But he does belong with me. I married him, knowing full well who he was and why he needed to marry without delay. Harry knew everything, and he has known Gil for years. They are close friends. Harry approved of our marriage. The Reverend Jenkins married us in the village church and came to the house afterward with Mrs. Jenkins for a wedding breakfast. Mrs. Jenkins decorated the church with flowers, and the staff at Hinsford decorated the house. They greeted us formally when we returned from church. It was a sudden wedding because Gil needs a wife to give him a better chance of recovering his daughter from his first wife’s parents, to whom she was taken without his permission while he was in Belgium just prior to the Battle of Waterloo. It was a sudden wedding, but it was not clandestine.”
“His reason for marrying you and for doing it in a hurry is obvious,” her grandmother said. “Your reason is less clear, Abigail. Were you so desperate for a husband? Yet for six years you have resisted all the attempts of your family to introduce you to eligible gentlemen.”
“Marcel,” Abigail’s mother said, getting to her feet, “take us home, please. It was not for this that we—”
“It is all right, Mama,” Abigail said. “I was aware of the tension in this room even before we entered it, and it is as well that Grandmama had the courage to confront it.”
Her mother subsided back into her seat while Abigail returned her attention to her grandmother.
“I was not desperate,” she said. “I was quite prepared to go through life unmarried if I did not meet the man who would be perfect for me. I found him in Gil, though I do not believe I will ever be able to explain to anyone what I mean by that. I married him because I wanted to, and I married him in a hurry because that was what he needed. I am sorry that I have upset you all. But I am not sorry for what I have done. I expect to be happy.”
“Brava, Abigail,” Avery said from his corner. Everyone turned his way.
“That is all very well to say, Avery,” Aunt Louise said. “But Lieutenant Colonel Bennington refuses to face Abigail’s family, he is embroiled in what might well be an ugly fight over custody of his daughter, and he is the illegitimate son of a washerwoman.”
“None of which matters,” Elizabeth said, “if Abigail is happy with him. He is a man who has achieved a very high military rank. Avery has told us that he has won several commendations for bravery, most notably for leading a successful forlorn hope when he
was in the Peninsula. He is Harry’s friend and was kind enough to accompany him home and stay with him while he recovered his health and strength. He obviously cares very deeply for his daughter if he is fighting to get her back when he could very easily leave her with her grandparents and not have to worry about the raising of her.”
“I do not care what anyone says,” Estelle cried. “If Abby has married him, I am prepared to like him. I do like him. Who can forget how he allowed Robbie to take over his dog while we were all at Hinsford?”
“Well done, Stel,” Bertrand said. “Our stepsister is old enough and mature enough to know her own mind. If she is happy, I am happy for her.”
“Well said, young man,” Cousin Althea said.
“What we need,” Aunt Matilda said, her cheeks flushed with color, “is a plan. Whether we like it or not, Abigail is married to Lieutenant Colonel Bennington. I am not even sure I do not like it. Clearly she cares for him, and perhaps that matters almost more than anything. We need a plan for drawing him into the family, for making him feel welcome. Not just on sufferance, but welcome.”
“And how are we to do that, Matilda?” Aunt Louise asked.
“And we need a plan,” Aunt Matilda continued, ignoring her sister’s question, “to make sure that he and Abigail succeed in getting custody of his child. It is quite unthinkable that a father not be allowed to take his own child home with him when he clearly loves her and did not consent to her being taken to her grandparents in the first place. He does love the child, Abigail? I cannot imagine you would have married him if he did not.”
“He adores her,” Abigail said.
“Matilda is right,” Aunt Mildred said with a sigh. “We do need a plan. But what?”
“Abigail,” Alexander asked, “who is Lieutenant Colonel Bennington’s father? Does he know?”
She hesitated. Gil did not like to talk about his paternity. He had not even told his lawyer. When asked yesterday morning, he had evaded the question.
