by Mary Balogh
“He will not come,” he said.
“That will be his choice,” she said. “But you will have asked.”
“You will have asked,” he said.
“Yes.” She rubbed her fingers over the back of his hand before getting to her feet and crossing to the desk, where there were paper and pens and ink.
He walked over there a little later, when he was aware that she was folding and sealing the letter she had written.
“Abby.” He leaned over her and set his lips against the back of her neck. “This is not a good idea.”
“Then you will be able to blame me forever after,” she said, getting to her feet and turning toward him.
He took her in his arms and held her head against his shoulder.
“You care,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you are my husband,” she said.
* * *
• • •
Abigail answered the knock on the door at precisely half past eight the following morning. Gil had left word at the desk downstairs last night that they were expecting a visitor and he might be allowed to come up unannounced.
He had hoped with all his being through a night of disturbed sleep, during which he ought to have been delighting in memories of the two meetings with his daughter, that the man would not come. He could not even think of him by name. Certainly not as his father. He hated the fact that now he could put a face to that nameless someone. And that he had been weak enough to give in to his wife’s persuasions. Though he must not be unfair. She had not nagged at him after she had made the suggestion and he had said no.
Surely the man would not come, he had thought earlier this morning and again a few minutes ago when waiters had arrived in their sitting room with breakfast for three on covered warming dishes and a large pot of steaming coffee and had set the table for three.
But he had come. Abby was opening the door and smiling.
“Lord Dirkson,” she said, extending her right hand. “It is so good of you to have come.”
And he stepped into the room and took her hand and bowed over it. Gil hated the fact—hated it!—that even he could see the resemblance between himself and this man, who was tall and trim of figure with silvering hair and sharp, angular features set in lines that suggested cynicism and hard living.
“Mrs. Bennington,” he said. “You will not remember this, but I met you when you were Lady Abigail Westcott and all of two or three years old. You had escaped from the nursery at the house on South Audley Street and had come to greet your papa’s visitor. There was no sign of your brother or your elder sister, and soon enough you were whisked away back to the safe confines of the nursery. In the meanwhile you had made me the prettiest of curtsies, and I had responded with my courtliest bow.”
Ah. The accomplished lothario. Not that he was flirting with Abby, but his words had the desired effect upon her. Her cheeks flushed, seemingly with pleasure, and she laughed.
“I wish I could remember,” she said, and Gil wondered if the incident had really happened. She could hardly dispute it, could she, when she had been a mere infant?
The man turned toward Gil, and they looked measuringly at each other for a few moments while Abby closed the door quietly. He was taller than his father, Gil noticed. And the man looked his age.
“I have little right to be happy for you,” Dirkson said. “I am happy nevertheless.”
“Perhaps that ought to be no right,” Gil said.
“Perhaps,” Dirkson agreed. “She did a fine job with you, your mother.”
“With no thanks to you,” Gil said. “And I would prefer that you not sully her memory by mentioning her.”
Dirkson inclined his head and Abby sat down on a chair beside the door and clutched a cushion to her bosom with both hands.
“This,” Gil said, “was not my idea.”
“I understand it was your wife’s,” Dirkson said. “I understood that when I found her note awaiting me when I returned home last night. I came out of deference to her, so that her feelings would not be hurt. I did not expect your forgiveness or come to ask for it.”
His father spoke with soft courtesy. And he had put Gil firmly in the wrong without uttering any words of accusation—I came out of deference to her, so that her feelings would not be hurt. He had made it clear that his son, on the contrary, was showing discourtesy to his wife and was hurting her feelings. Which was exactly right, damn his eyes.
“Why would my mother not accept support from you?” The question was asked before he could stop himself.
“I was staying with a friend at a house not far from her father’s smithy,” Dirkson told him. “She was a comely young woman, the pride of her father and brothers, much admired by the young men of the neighborhood. I . . . seduced her with promises I do not remember making. She swore afterward that I had promised to marry her. Whatever I did promise, I am sure it was not that. But when I learned, a few months after I had left there, that she was with child, I offered to set her up in a decent house of her own and support her and the child she was expecting. She threw what she called my breach of promise in my teeth and refused all support. She never relented. When I tried sending you gifts, she returned them if she was confronted with a messenger, and threw them on a rubbish heap if there was no way for her to send them back. I was . . . unhappy for your sake, but I honored her pride and resilience. She proved that she could raise you alone.”
Gil stared stonily at him.
“I make no excuses,” Dirkson said. “I do not ask for forgiveness. I do not deserve it. I beg your pardon for saying during the hearing a couple of days ago that I was proud of you. I have no right to pride. I had no hand in the shaping of you. Only in the begetting of you.”
“Were you married,” Gil asked, “when you were with my mother?” He really did not want to know.
“No,” Dirkson said. “My marriage came later.”
“And you have a son,” Gil said. Good God, he really did not want to know.
“And two daughters,” Dirkson told him. “I am fond of all of them and proud of them as well.”
“Who told you,” Gil asked, “about the hearing?”
Dirkson seemed to consider a moment. “Young Watley—Bertrand Lamarr—was at Oxford with my son,” he said. “He is Mrs. Bennington’s stepbrother.”
“And he told you?” Gil asked.
“My son,” Dirkson said. “But I was there too.”
Gil looked steadily at the man who was his father. “Perhaps I have one thing for which to thank you,” he said. “The bleakness of my childhood caused me to grow up with an unshakable dream. Of home and wife and family. Of honesty and loyalty and steadiness of character. And of honor. And of love. That dream, sir, has come true.”
He was aware over the man’s shoulder of Abby lifting her hands to cover her face.
“And it will be cherished for a lifetime,” he added.
“Then I did well in that begetting,” Viscount Dirkson said, turning toward Abby, who lowered her hands and got to her feet. “I will not trouble you further, Mrs. Bennington. But I thank you for the invitation. I have long wished to meet my firstborn son face-to-face. I hope that in retrospect he will not be sorry that he has met me and had a chance to say some of the things he has wanted all his life to say.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“You had better stay,” Gil said at the same moment. “My wife wished for you to have breakfast with us, and her wishes are important to me. Sit down. Let us tell you about your granddaughter. If you are interested, that is.”
It was grudgingly said. But how could he say it any other way? Besides, he wanted to know exactly what those gifts had been so that he could imagine the enormous pleasure his childhood self, absent all pride, would have drawn from them. Or even just one o
f them.
His father hesitated before nodding slowly.
“I am interested,” he said, moving toward the table and the place Abby was indicating.
Epilogue
They arrived home in Gloucestershire a little more than a week after regaining custody of Katy, having spent a few days letting her get to know and become comfortable with them.
They had taken her for a boat ride on the river Thames and for ices at Gunter’s. They had taken her to a family tea at Alexander’s, where she had spent a couple of hours playing excitedly with her new cousins in the nursery. They had taken her on a separate visit to her new grandmama and grandpapa, Abigail’s mother and stepfather, and her aunt Estelle and uncle Bertrand, who played a game of spillikin with her and pretended not to notice when she disturbed at least a dozen spills every time she pulled one free, shrieking with laughter as she did so. Harry had not been there. He had returned home to Hinsford two days after the hearing. Gil had taken Katy riding in Richmond Park with her uncle Avery and cousin Josephine, while several other members of the family had followed in a cavalcade of carriages for a picnic on the grass, preceded by a noisy game of hide-and-seek among the trees.
General and Lady Pascoe had declined invitations to the visits and the picnic, but they had received the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester when they called one afternoon, and the Dowager Countess of Riverdale when she called the day after with Lady Matilda. When they said goodbye to Katy, the general had instructed her to be a good girl and mind her mama and papa, and Lady Pascoe had presented her cheek for Katy’s kiss when Gil lifted her up.
Neither one had shown any strong emotion—which did not mean they felt none, Abigail realized. Katy had not seemed upset to be taken from them, perhaps because she did not understand what leaving meant. Though she had made very sure when Gil explained to her that they were going on a long journey to Papa’s house that her nanny was going too.
Mrs. Evans had traveled in a separate carriage they had hired to convey her and all their baggage. For one short stretch of the journey Katy had sat in with her, but most of the time she wanted to be with Mama and Papa and, most of all, the puppy, with whom she cuddled when she was not wedged between Gil and Abigail in their new, very comfortable, though not opulent, carriage. A groom had been hired to bring Gil’s horse by easy stages.
Abigail had promised to write frequently to Lady Pascoe to tell her how Katy did. She had promised also to keep on inviting them to Rose Cottage.
“You must come, please,” she had said when shaking hands upon their departure. “We would not wish Katy to forget you—or her mother.”
Lady Pascoe had merely looked steadily back at her, her face haughty and ever so slightly disdainful. But Abigail would persist. The woman had lost her only daughter less than two years ago. Now she was in a sense losing her granddaughter too.
Something else Abigail hoped for—though she kept it strictly to herself—was another meeting with Viscount Dirkson. She was not sure where or when, but she would not give up hope.
But now they were home. Or almost. Gil had said that Rose Cottage was on the outskirts of the village through which they were driving—a picturesque place with a village green and a church with a tall spire and an inn and a smithy and a cluster of shops and a few rows of pretty houses, several of them thatched. It looked more like an idealized painting of rural England than reality, but it was, in fact, very real. Katy was just waking up from a nap on Abigail’s lap and was yawning and looking out the window.
“Duckies,” she cried, pointing. “Look, Papa. Look, Mama.”
And indeed there were a few of them bobbing on the surface of the pond at the center of the green.
“We will come back and see them one day,” Gil told her.
“Tomorrow?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” he said. “We will bring Beauty for a walk.”
It seemed for a moment that they were driving right out of the village. But then there was a rustic wooden fence to their left with trees and bushes inside it, and then a wide wooden gate, beyond which was a paved path that wended out of sight behind the trees. Gil leaned forward and knocked on the front panel and the carriage drew to a halt.
“The carriage house and stables are at the back,” he said. “But we will get out here and approach the house from the front.”
He had been quiet for the last little while so as not to disturb Katy while she slept. But it had seemed to Abigail that he was full of suppressed excitement. She had felt it in him throughout the long, sometimes tedious journey from London.
His lifelong dream, he had told his father that morning at the Pulteney Hotel, had come true. But it had not really. Or not fully. This was his dream: Rose Cottage, the home he had purchased when he came home from India—and bringing his wife and child here. And spending the rest of his life here with his family.
It had happened once before, of course. He had brought a pregnant Caroline here in the wintertime, and there had been a brief blossoming of happiness with the birth of his daughter. The dream had turned sour and had threatened to die. But he had not let it go. He had fought to get his daughter back. He had married her, Abigail, to make that more possible. Though that, she knew, had not been his only reason. Or, if it had, it was no longer so. She knew he cared. She knew this homecoming was the more precious, the more perfect for him, because she was here too. They were husband and wife. They were family.
And this time it was summer.
Beauty leapt to the ground with loud huffs and puffs as soon as the coachman opened the door. Gil descended first after the steps had been lowered and swung Katy down before handing Abigail out. There was something different about his face. It was not quite smiling, but the disciplined austerity had somehow gone from it. It was as though he had allowed some of himself to come out from that place deep within where he had hidden most of his life.
He turned to open the gate, and Katy went skipping through it and along the path, Beauty loping along at her side. Gil offered Abigail his arm.
“I have never seen it in the summertime,” he said. “I have not seen the flowers. Or the roses.”
She smiled as she took his arm.
It was not a long garden path. It was not a huge garden. The house was not quite a mansion. But as they turned the bend in the path and it all came into view, they both stopped walking and merely gazed. Freshly scythed grass, almost emerald in color. Flowers in profusion in neat beds everywhere and hanging in baskets from the house eaves. Roses in abundance climbing trellises and spilling over low walls. Their scent filling the air. Curtains fluttering at open windows. And Mrs. Evans, who had come ahead of them from the last stage, standing in the doorway with the woman who must be the housekeeper, and opening her arms to Katy, who went dashing toward her, prattling something that was inaudible from where Abigail and Gil stood, Beauty at her side.
“Home!” Gil said, and he turned his head to look at Abigail, and his eyes filled with tears as they had on the bank of the Serpentine a week ago.
“Home,” she said softly, lifting a hand to wipe away a tear that had spilled onto his cheek. “I do love you, Gil.”
He blinked away his tears, released his arm from hers, and wrapped it about her shoulders to draw her against his side. They both looked ahead to the house and the little group gathered about the door.
“Abby,” he said, “I am not sure how good I am at showing emotion. Not very good, I suspect. I might never say this again, but I will always, always mean it: I love you with all my heart. I am not even quite sure what that means. I could not define it in words if my life depended on it. But I know it is true.”
“Let’s not bother with words,” she said, resting the side of her head against his shoulder. “They are not important. I understand. And you understand. That is all that really matters, is it not?”
“Yes.” He hugged her against his side, look
ed down into her upturned face, and . . . smiled.
She would never, ever get over the wonder of that smile. And as she looked around the garden again and ahead to the house and the two women and the child and the dog gathered outside the door, she knew with a sudden rush of certainty that she had arrived at last. At that unknown destination toward which she had striven for six long, often lonely years. Not that destination was quite the right word, for she had learned during those years that one never quite arrives anywhere. Life was too full of unexpected twists and turns and challenges for that.
But she had arrived at a new starting point, one she knew to be right. She was with the man she loved and honored and the child she loved, and there was all the prospect of a happy future even though she would never make the mistake of calling it a happily-ever-after.
She was in a place she knew to be home, though she had not yet even seen the inside of the house. It was where she belonged. It was hers. And Gil’s. And the home of their family, however small or large it turned out to be.
It was their own piece of heaven.
Gil was still holding her close and still smiling down into her face.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
READ ON TO DISCOVER THE FIRST BOOK IN MARY BALOGH’S WESTCOTT SERIES,
Someone to Love
AVAILABLE NOW FROM JOVE
Despite the fact that the late Earl of Riverdale had died without having made a will, Josiah Brumford, his solicitor, had found enough business to discuss with his son and successor to be granted a face-to-face meeting at Westcott House, the earl’s London residence on South Audley Street. Having arrived promptly and bowed his way through effusive and obsequious greetings, Brumford proceeded to find a great deal of nothing in particular to impart at tedious length and with pompous verbosity.
Which would have been all very well, Avery Archer, Duke of Netherby, thought a trifle peevishly as he stood before the library window and took snuff in an effort to ward off the urge to yawn, if he had not been compelled to be here too to endure the tedium. If Harry had only been a year older—he had turned twenty just before his father’s death—then Avery need not be here at all and Brumford could prose on forever and a day as far as he was concerned. By some bizarre and thoroughly irritating twist of fate, however, His Grace had found himself joint guardian of the new earl with the countess, the boy’s mother.
