Web of Love

by Mary Balogh

  Everyone knew what was coming. Most refused to believe it or to admit that they believed it.

  The Earl of Amberley waited for his wife to finish nursing their daughter and set her down, sleeping, in her crib one afternoon after they had been out walking in the park. He laid down their son, who had fallen asleep against his shoulder after protesting that he was not tired and did not want to go to bed. He took his wife’s hand and led her from the nursery to her sitting room.

  “Poor Christopher,” she said, laughing. “He would be so cross to know that he had fallen asleep even without his tea. He worked too hard this afternoon feeding the swans and running back and forth on the bank when they swam away. Are we going to have ours here, Edmund, instead of in the drawing room? How cozy!”

  “I want to talk to you,” he said, tugging on the tasseled bell-pull to summon the tea tray.

  “That sounds ominous.” She smiled at him and reached out a hand for his so that he would sit beside her on the love seat.

  “I think we may have to go home soon,” he said, taking her hand in both of his and seating himself.

  “To Amberley?” Her face paled. “Is it coming soon, then?”

  “It is coming closer,” he said, attempting to smile.

  “But we cannot leave Dominic,” she said. “He is why we came, Edmund. And we cannot force Madeline to leave. She would have the hysterics. Besides, we will be quite safe here, will we not?”

  “I have great faith in the duke,” he said. “But I cannot take the risk of placing the lives of my wife and children in his hands, Alex. We must leave. Not immediately. But soon, I think. I want you to be ready.”

  “No,” she said. “No, I won’t leave. It would be cowardly, Edmund. And how could we be back in England, not knowing what is happening here? It would be Spain all over again.”

  “I cannot put you in unnecessary danger, Alex,” he said. “And more especially the children. I will not. And I am sorry, but the matter is not open for discussion. I have decided.”

  “Have you?” she said. “And what has happened to your promise that I might always argue with you, that I need never feel that I must obey you just because you are my husband? I want to argue now.”

  But she had to wait for a few minutes while a footman and a maid brought in the tea tray and cakes.

  Lord Amberley smiled at her when they were alone again. “You may argue, my love,” he said. “You may fight me if you like. But I will not let you win. And don’t cry unfair, Alex. Sometimes one feels too strongly about something to be willing to change one’s mind. As you did about our coming here. You insisted on having your way then because you knew how worried I was about Dominic. Remember?”

  “I hate you,” she said.

  He grinned. “Would it be safer to change the subject now that that unpleasantness is behind us?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “You have said that I may argue. Let us compromise, then, Edmund. I will take the children home. You stay here. Dominic needs you.”

  “No.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Dominic does not need us, love. We need him. He has a job to do. Perhaps he would do it better without having our feelings to worry about. Certainly he is going to be too busy soon to spare us a thought. He has the training and the welfare of many men to concern himself with. We are the ones who need to cling to him because we love him and know we may lose him.”

  “No,” she said. “Dominic has always survived.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And we will pray that he will survive one more battle. But we will not keep him alive by staying here. I must come with you. When all is said and done, my first duty is to you, Alex, and to our children. You three are my life. I cannot be separated from you.”

  “How will you break the news to Madeline?” she asked.

  “Very carefully,” he said with a rueful grin. “I expected worse explosions from you. I am quite sure I will have them from my sister.”

  “Will it be very soon?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “It is impossible to say,” he said. “But when it finally comes, Alex, there is going to be a rush to leave Brussels and reach the ports. I don’t want to wait that long.”

  She nodded. “I hate you when you are so wise and right,” she said.

  “Kiss me,” he said. “I have been dreading this interview and am feeling in need of some reassurance.”

  “The tea will get cold,” she said.

  “At the risk of shocking your delicate ears, my love,” he said, “to hell with the tea. Kiss me.”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I hate you.”

  “I know,” he said. “Kiss me, Alex. Don’t tease me. I need you.”

  MADELINE HAD GONE to the park with her brother and sister-in-law and the children. They had met Ellen and Jennifer Simpson there, and she had stayed to stroll with them after the baby had begun to fuss and show signs of hunger and had been taken home.

  Madeline had grown fond of both ladies. Jennifer reminded her of herself at the same age. She seemed to have an endless capacity to enjoy herself and a quite genuine exuberance for life. And men were attracted to her like bees to flowers, especially the very young officers.

  The girl favored Dominic, Madeline thought sometimes. Certainly she blushed whenever he came into her sight, and gazed upward at him almost worshipfully. But was she in love with him? Or was it a hero worship she felt? Equally uncertain were Dominic’s feelings for her. He certainly favored her, dancing with her at every ball, escorting her to the theater, taking her for walks in the park and rides in the Allée Verte beyond the walls of the city, calling almost daily at her father’s rooms. And he had a way of looking at the girl, with a type of gentle affection, that was different from the way he usually looked at his flirts.

  But was it love? He did not confide his feelings to his sister, as he always had. And that in itself was perhaps significant. Madeline was not sure how she would feel about having Miss Jennifer Simpson as a sister-in-law. She liked the girl. But she did not seem right for Dom, somehow. But then, Madeline thought, and turned weak at the knees with horror at the thought, perhaps the question of approving a bride for her brother would not be relevant at all by the end of the summer.

  “Can you quite believe that the weather can be so lovely day after day?” she asked the two ladies. “I wonder if they are having an unusually fine spring in England, too.”

  “It is lovely,” Ellen Simpson said. “You would appreciate it even more if you had spent several years in Spain, Lady Madeline. There is nothing there but searing heat and dust, or rain in torrents when it comes.”

  “Dominic wrote to us about it,” Madeline said. “It must have been dreadful. I used to cry over his letters when they came.”

  “There were compensations,” Ellen said. “Living like that sometimes destroys people. I have seen men go mad. But much more often it brings people closer together. There was a wonderful camaraderie among the men in Spain, and examples of great kindness and heroic self-denial. It is a strange irony that soldiers whose business it is to kill can often be the kindest and most generous of men. A life like that builds character in a man. And those are not empty words spoken by a recruiting officer,” she added with a laugh. “They come from my experience.”

  That life built character not only in men, Madeline thought, as two young ensigns appeared on the path before them, their faces wreathed in smiles when they saw Jennifer. Bows and curtsies and bright pleasantries had to be exchanged with these acquaintances. The life she had lived had built character in Mrs. Simpson too. Madeline had grown to admire her, though she had been prepared at first to find her spineless.

  Lady Lawrence and Maisie Hardcastle had done their best in the previous few weeks to raise a scandal over the fact that Mrs. Simpson, who was received at all the best homes in Brussels as the wife of Captain Simpson, was the daughter of the Countess of Harrowby. Madeline did not know the significance of the fact since she scorned to
listen to the explanation that Maisie burned to give her, and Alexandra and Edmund knew no more than that the countess had a reputation for loose living and indeed lived separate from her husband the earl.

  She had not asked Dominic what he knew. Dom was very friendly with the captain, and she was shy of asking him anything quite so personal about his friend’s wife, and something that smacked so much of malicious gossip. She guessed that Mrs. Simpson must be an illegitimate daughter of the countess.

  And Mrs. Simpson must know of the gossip herself. Fortunately most people did not seem to feel that it was of any great significance. And the Simpsons did not go out into society a great deal and had their own circle of friends, who would not be affected by society scandal. But there were those, mostly matrons who felt they were better than the general run of mortals, who took every opportunity to snub her. And yet that lady was as dignified, as warmly friendly and charming, as she had ever been.

  “Here comes Papa!” Jennifer cried as they were walking beside the lake. “And Lord Eden.”

  “They are finished early today,” Ellen said. “They both look tired.”

  Both men were smiling, but, yes, Madeline thought, there was that set quality to Dom’s smile that usually denoted tiredness.

  The captain winked at his daughter and bowed to Madeline before smiling at his wife in that way that had begun to make Madeline envious.

  “Charlie,” Ellen said, “you are on your way home? You are tired.”

  “Not too tired to accompany you on your walk,” he said, offering her his arm.

  Madeline heard no more as she was caught up in an exchange of words with her brother and Jennifer. But it was soon clear that Mrs. Simpson had insisted that her husband go home with her.

  “We must have Lady Madeline and Eden come home to tea with us, Ellen,” the captain said.

  “They will be very welcome,” she said. “But I would not wish them to feel obliged to come, Charlie. Lord Eden is tired.”

  Who else would have noticed? Madeline wondered. Dominic’s eyes were twinkling from some teasing remark he had just made to Jennifer. Living close to an army had made Mrs. Simpson sensitive to such things, it seemed.

  “I am going to take Dominic home,” she said. “But thank you, sir, for your invitation. Some other time we will be glad to accept.”

  “I suppose you really are going to march me home too and tuck me up in bed,” Lord Eden said with some amusement after they had taken leave of the Simpsons.

  “Yes,” she said. “Mrs. Simpson was right. You are tired, Dom. You have been working too hard.”

  “I am not used to having a female to fuss over me,” he said. “In the old days I would have gone back to tea with Charlie and droned on talking to him until we were both asleep. And Mrs. Simpson would have removed the tea tray quietly so that we would not kick it over in our sleep.”

  “Poor lady,” Madeline said with a laugh. “She must be very long-suffering. I would kick you both awake and demand to be entertained.”

  He chuckled. “You would, too, Mad,” he said. “She loves him, though, you know. I would have married years ago if I could have found someone to love me like that.”

  “What is it?” she said with a sigh. “What is it between those two, Dom? If you think about it, they seem so very unsuited in every imaginable way. But they light up in each other’s presence. It should not be allowed, should it?”

  “No,” he said with a grin. “There should be a law. And I say, before I lose my nerve, I have to tell you this. You are going to have to go home, you know.”

  She stiffened immediately. “You mean to England, don’t you?” she said. “I’m not going.”

  “Yes, you are,” he said, his voice unusually grim. “Things are going to get pretty hot here soon, Mad, and I won’t have you caught up in it. Edmund will be taking Alexandra and the children home within the next week or so—I mentioned the matter to him yesterday. And I have promised Charlie that I will try to arrange for Miss Simpson to travel with them—and you.”

  “I’m not going.” Madeline’s voice was shaking.

  “I knew you would be difficult,” he said. “But you will have to go, Mad. You can’t stay here without Edmund. And it wouldn’t be right anyway. Do you know what happens to women when a city is sacked?”

  “Brussels is not going to be sacked,” she said. “I have faith in our army if you do not.”

  “Of course I have faith in it,” he said. “I am part of it. But I am not playing any games with my sister’s life. Or her virtue. You are going, I’m afraid, even if I have to carry you kicking and screaming all the way to Antwerp.”

  “I would come right back again,” she said. “And I am not being difficult or childish or anything else you are about to accuse me of. You are here and you are going into battle. And you are the half of my life, Dom. I won’t leave you. I can’t. You will kill me if you send me away. I don’t care that Edmund is going. It is right that he should, for his life is centered on Alexandra and the children. But mine is centered on you, Dom. There will be any number of people staying. I will stay with one of them. Lady Andrea Potts, perhaps. She is my friend, and she will be staying, since her husband is a colonel. I won’t go. Don’t try to make me.” Her voice was shaking almost beyond her control.

  “What a goose you are, Mad,” he said. “As if you can do me any good by staying here. And I will have you to worry about.”

  “Then maybe it is time you did a little worrying,” she said. “I have lived with far worse than worries for three years, Dom.”

  “Hey,” he said. “You aren’t crying, are you, Mad? And we have three people to pass before we reach Edmund’s door. Deuce take it, you never cry.”

  “Well, I am crying now,” she said crossly, sobbing and hiccuping all at the same time and lowering her head until her chin rested against her chest so that the couple they were passing would not see her shame. “You can’t send me away, Dom. You might need me. You might be hurt. You might…Oh, Dom, you might need me!”

  “Silly goose!” he said. “We will have to see what Edmund has to say. He won’t like it by half if you insist on being difficult, you know.”

  “Edmund won’t be any problem,” she said. “Edmund never treats women as weak females who must be protected at all costs. At least he has not since he married Alexandra. He will understand and allow me to make my own decision.”

  “Silly goose!” he said.

  IT WAS CAPTAIN SIMPSON’S day off duty again. He was strolling with Ellen along the Allée Verte, a long stately avenue lined with two rows of lime trees, with a canal flowing along one side of it. It was a peaceful place, deceptively peaceful when one considered the fact that most of the gentlemen walking there wore military uniform, and when one remembered that the troops quartered in Brussels had been reviewed there a few days before, including the men of the Ninety-fifth Rifles and indeed the whole of the Fifth Division to which they belonged.

  Ellen was feeling happy. It was a beautiful day, she had the whole of it to spend with her husband, and what was in the future was in the future. She could control it no more than she could control the past. The very best course was not to think about it.

  She smiled up at the captain.

  “Happy, lass?” he asked, laying one hand over hers on his arm.

  She nodded. “Happy.”

  He had come everywhere with her in the past few days. When he was off duty, that was. She had still gone shopping with Mrs. Byng and to take tea with Lady Amberley and some of her more personal friends with only Jennifer for company. But he had accompanied them to the theater, to a soirée at Mrs. Hendon’s, and to a ball at Lady Trent’s.

  Poor Charlie. He had insisted each time that he really wanted to go. And it had been very wonderful to have him there, always within her sight. He had even danced once with her at Lady Trent’s and been subjected to quite merciless teasing for the rest of the evening from Captain Norton and Lord Eden and Lieutenant Byng.

 
She had recovered from the vague and terrifying fears that had succeeded her return from England with Jennifer, the fear that something had changed, that something indefinable was missing, that something dreadful was going to happen. It had been the going away that had done it. When one lived with an army from day to day, one became accustomed to the dangers and the uncertainties. One learned to live with them. Being away for a while had brought to the surface all the latent anxieties that she was normally unaware of.

  “I enjoyed last evening,” she said.

  “Did you, lass?” The captain smiled at her. “Just being at home with me? It wasn’t very exciting for you, was it?”

  “It was,” she said, moving her head a little closer to his and batting her eyelids, “very exciting.”

  He laughed. “Even after five years, sweetheart?” he said. “Do you think Jennifer really had the headache?”

  “I think not,” she said. “She knew that you would have gone to that moonlight picnic only because you love the two of us, Charlie, and she knew that I would go only because I love her. And she has grown up a little in these weeks. She did something for us. She developed a headache and took herself off to her room. You have a kind daughter, sir, and I would say that she comes by it quite honestly.”

  “You must come with me afterward,” he said, “and I will buy her that tortoiseshell brush she admired. Do you know the shop?”

  Lord Eden was strolling along behind them with Jennifer. She had lost a good deal of her shyness with him, though she still blushed if he let his eyes rest on her for too long. And though she talked freely with him, she did not prattle as she tended to do with that group of young ensigns who liked to crowd around her, or with some of the younger lieutenants, like Penworth.

  He had grown fond of her. She was a sweet girl, and a very pretty one. But he had not allowed himself to fall headlong in love with her as he would have done a few years before. He wanted to be more cautious. He wanted to make sure that he really wished to be in love with her. And he wanted to wait to see if he was in any fit state to court her after this confrontation with the French was over. If he were dead, of course, there would be no decision to make. But there were some things worse than death for a soldier. He might not wish to inflict himself upon any wife.