Web of Love

by Mary Balogh

  Ellen closed the distance between them, and laid a hand lightly on the other’s shoulder. “This is hard on you, Dorothy,” she said, “being a go-between like this. I understand, and I honor you for remaining loyal to both sides all these years. But I can’t make it easy for you, I’m afraid. I can’t go and visit him without Jennifer.”

  Their conversation was interrupted at that moment by the entrance of the butler, who presented a card on a silver salver to his mistress.

  Lady Habersham picked it up, read it, and smiled up at Ellen. “This should cheer you up,” she said. “You have a visitor, my dear. Is he waiting downstairs?” she asked the butler.

  “Yes, ma’am,” that individual said, bowing.

  “Who?” Ellen asked.

  “Charlie’s friend,” Lady Habersham said with a bright smile. “The one Jennifer was taken with. The one you nursed in Brussels. Lord Eden. Show him up, Hancock.”

  “No!” Ellen spun around to face the butler. “No. You will tell him, if you please, that neither I nor Miss Simpson is at home.”

  “Ellen, dear…”

  “We are not at home,” Ellen told the butler firmly.

  He looked inquiringly at Lady Habersham, bowed, and left the room.

  “But why?” Lady Habersham’s voice was puzzled. “I thought you would be delighted to see him, Ellen. Was he not a very close friend of yours and Charlie’s?”

  “Excuse me.” Ellen did not turn around to look at her sister-in-law. “Excuse me, please, Dorothy. I, er…We…Excuse me, please.” She hurried from the room.

  Lady Habersham was left to stare after her in some dismay. Clearly Ellen was not as far along the road to recovery as she had hoped, if she went to pieces like this at the prospect of meeting someone who would remind her of Charlie and the events surrounding the Battle of Waterloo.

  LORD EDEN HAD SPENT almost a month in Brussels with his mother and brother before they felt that he was fit for the journey home. There he had concentrated all his energies on his physical health, forcing himself every day to greater and greater effort, priding himself on the gradual return of stamina and weight and muscle.

  He had set goals for himself. By such and such a day he would be able to set foot outside the hotel, or walk for fifteen minutes or half an hour, or ride a horse. By such and such a day he would be ready to return to England. Edmund’s frequently woebegone expression spurred him on to the last goal. Edmund was missing his family, though not by a single word would he ever have admitted the truth.

  They had come home eventually, leaving Madeline behind. She was still busy nursing Lieutenant Penworth, whose recovery was necessarily slower than his own, and was made slower by the patient’s own lack of will to live. Madeline had refused to listen to any of the advice she had been given, gently by her mother and older brother, scathingly by him. She was convinced that she loved the lieutenant and would be happy with him for a lifetime. And when Mad once got a notion into her head, Lord Eden had to admit at last, there was no shaking it.

  Perhaps she was right. Perhaps she really did love the man. And perhaps she would live happily ever after with him. Who knew? And who was he to judge? He was no great expert on love and happiness.

  He had been back in England for a month. Back in London. Getting himself out of the army and back into civilian life. It was unusual for his brother to spend much time away from Amberley, especially during the summer months. But on this occasion he did stay, with Alexandra and the children. And so did the dowager, with whom Lord Eden took up residence. And his uncle, Mr. William Carrington, was there too, with Aunt Viola and Walter and Anna. They had come to London in the spring for Anna’s come-out Season. They had stayed after the Battle of Waterloo in order to have news of him. And then they stayed until he came home. And now they were staying—as was the rest of the family—for Madeline’s return.

  His physical recovery was progressing daily. Provided he walked and rode and exercised in moderation, he could almost forget his injuries. It was only when he forgot and exerted himself too much that he felt the old twinges and aches in his side and the old breathlessness. And only when he caught sight of himself shirtless in a mirror that he was reminded of the ugliness of his wound.

  His emotional state he did not explore too deeply. In Brussels he had had to block thoughts of Ellen from his mind. They were too painful, and threatened his physical recovery. After the first week, when his mother finally informed him that she was no longer in Brussels but had gone home to England, he felt some relief. There was no chance that he would come face-to-face with her if he went outside.

  And back in England he kept up the mental block. He would not think of her. He would put her behind him with all the other pain and nightmare of the Battle of Waterloo. He would not think of Charlie because doing so reminded him that he had lost a friend so dear that he had felt almost like a brother. And he would not remember Ellen because doing so reminded him that he had lost what might have been the happiness of the rest of his life.

  He would not think of her.

  And when he did—as he inevitably did every single day and every single hour—it was to admit that she had probably been right. He had loved her because she had nursed him with such gentleness and devotion. Because they had been cut off together from the rest of the world. Because she was beautiful and had great strength of character. Because they had both been carrying the burden of a great grief that they were afraid to admit even to themselves and had turned to each other for comfort.

  It had not been love. It had not been lust either. But definitely not love. Not the sort that could last a lifetime through the daily routine of marriage.

  When the pain was gone and he could eventually think quite openly about their affair, he would be able to remember it and her with some pleasure. But it was an affair for memory only. It was not something that he would want to revive.

  He had promised Charlie, as his friend was dying, that he would look after his wife and his daughter, that he would see to it that they were never in need. It was very possible that Charlie had not heard. He had almost completed his journey into death when the words were spoken. But that did not matter. The fact was that the promise had been made and that it was binding.

  And so it nagged at Lord Eden’s mind for the month after his return to England. And he knew that he could never know peace of mind until he had called upon Ellen and Miss Simpson to satisfy himself that they were not in need. But always he would pay that call tomorrow. There was always a good reason why it should not be made today.

  It was Susan Jennings who finally decided him that the visit could be postponed no longer. Susan too had lost her husband at Waterloo. She was in London, staying at the home of Lord Renfrew, her brother-in-law. Her mother, Mrs. Courtney, had come up from the country to be with her.

  The two of them had called a couple of times on Alexandra while he was still in Brussels, and once since to inquire after his health. And they called again a month after his return, while he himself was also at his brother’s house.

  “It is so lovely to see you home safe and sound again, my lord,” Mrs. Courtney said in her motherly way, squeezing his hand and patting it. “And quite as handsome as ever. Though thinner, I believe. Is he not thinner, ma’am?” She turned to the dowager Lady Amberley for confirmation.

  Susan withdrew a lace handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her tears. She gazed at him with large soulful hazel eyes.

  “I would not have called, my lord,” she said, “if I had known that you and her ladyship were also visiting. I would not have intruded. Mama and I merely wished to hear how you did. I am very, very happy that you escaped the fate of my dear husband.”

  She dissolved into further tears and was comforted by her mama.

  She looked remarkably pretty, Lord Eden thought, even in her mourning. The unrelieved black of her dress made her look more fragile than ever and complemented the auburn of her hair.

  But it was not Susan he saw in his m
ind after she and Mrs. Courtney had taken their leave. He saw Ellen as he had seen her last, also in black, hiding herself in the shadows of her living room in Brussels. She would still be wearing mourning. So would Miss Simpson.

  He must call upon them. She had told him, of course, that she never wanted to see him again. But he had promised Charlie. Besides, she had spoken at an emotionally charged moment. Despite everything that had happened between them in those rooms, they were still friends of long standing. He owed her a courtesy visit. He must put it off no longer.

  Even so, he had to use all his willpower the next day not to make excuses yet again for staying away from the house on Bedford Square. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he handed his card to Lady Habersham’s butler and asked if he might wait upon Mrs. Simpson and her stepdaughter.

  It was strange, he thought as he left the house a few minutes later, having left his card and the message that he would call again the next day. He had rehearsed several scenes that might develop from his call. He had pictured Ellen upset or angry or cold or even glad, and he had dealt with all those possibilities in his mind. But he had not at all prepared himself for finding that she was from home. He had not prepared his mind for perhaps having to go through the same ordeal all over again.

  Or perhaps she was at home. Perhaps she would not see him. He would find out the next day, he supposed, when she would be expecting him. He mounted his horse and turned its head toward the stone gateposts and the square beyond.

  ELLEN STOOD LOOKING DOWN at him. He was wearing very fashionable civilian clothes. She had never seen him out of his officer’s uniform. Except in those last few weeks, of course.

  He looked strange. Different. And very, very familiar.

  She wished she could relive the past few minutes. She would not behave in the same way. She had been very foolish, very uncontrolled. But he had taken her by surprise. She had not expected him. And so she had reacted by instinct. And instinct had made a coward of her. She had run from him.

  She would not have expected to act that way. In two months she had worked him out of her system. Her grief at her loss of Charlie had outweighed all else in her life. It had been far, far worse than she had expected even in her worst nightmares. It had paralyzed her, taken away all her will to live, to do, and to plan.

  She had put Lord Eden out of her mind, out of her heart. And she had forgiven herself for what they had done together. In the absence of anyone to confess her guilt to—in the absence of Charlie—she had forgiven herself. He had been right about that one thing. Neither of them had been ready to face the truth, and so they had turned to each other. They had become lovers briefly.

  There had been no love involved, only a physical and emotional need. They had filled the void for each other for a few days.

  There was no point in carrying around a burden of guilt with her for the rest of her life. No point at all. And so she forgave herself. And him. She did not hate him. But she did not love him either. She had no feelings for him. He had been Charlie’s friend. That was all.

  But she did not want to see him again. She did not want to be reminded either of those days when he had been almost a part of their family or of the days after Waterloo. She did not want to see him again. And she had assumed that honor would make him respect her final refusal to allow him to see her.

  She had been taken by surprise. And instead of receiving him downstairs in Dorothy’s presence and conversing politely with him for half an hour, she had run like a frightened rabbit to hide in her room.

  Except that her room faced the front of the house and she had been unable to resist the temptation to cross to the window, standing well enough back so that she would not be observed from the outside, in order to see him when he left.

  Just like a lovesick schoolgirl!

  He looked so very familiar, despite the unfamiliarity of the clothes. Certainly no worse for his ordeal, though she could not, of course, see his face. He looked quite as splendidly built as ever.

  Would he come back? She must prepare herself. She must know very clearly how she would react next time. She must certainly not rush away like that again. Dorothy would think she had taken leave of her senses. Or would perhaps suspect the truth. And Jennifer might begin to wonder. It was a good thing she had not been at home this first time.

  She must prepare to meet him as an old acquaintance. She must inquire about his health and about the members of his family. She must prepare herself to look him squarely and coolly in the eye.

  It should not be difficult. She had known him and been on friendly terms with him for more than three years. There had been only six days of the other. No more.

  Of course there was a good deal more. Ellen’s hand was spread below her waist as she watched horse and rider leave the square and disappear from sight.

  A great deal more.

  Her mind had been in a deep torpor for two months. She had made no plans whatsoever for her future apart from the ones she had made on the boat home. It was as if life had been suspended. And yet all the time—a great irony indeed—life had been developing. New life. Her future.

  There was no doubt left in her mind. And there was no panic and no fear either, though perhaps there had been a little of both at the end of the first month. No thought to how she would cope with the reality, how she would explain to other people. To Jennifer and to Dorothy.

  She was going to have his child. Lord Eden’s child. There. She had said it in words in her own mind. Charlie and the army surgeon had been right. It had been something to do with him. Not with her. She was able to conceive, and she had conceived at some time during those six days.

  She was going to have a child. And she must be taking leave of her senses—she was glad! There was an excitement in her that she had not until this moment admitted to herself.

  Here was her future. Something—no, someone—to live for now that there was no longer Charlie. She could wish fiercely that the child were his, but it was not, and it could not have been. And so she could not after all feel as sorry for that affair as she should have felt, for without it she would be without this child growing in her. She would be without a future. No, not that. She did not think she was the sort of person who could ever give up entirely and permanently on life. But without the child she would be starting at the age of five-and-twenty with a blank life ahead. A frightening prospect.

  She would have her child to live for. And it did not matter that it was not Charlie’s. It did not matter that it was Lord Eden’s. What did matter was that it was a living being and growing in her, that it would be hers, and that it had been conceived at a time when her love for Charlie had been too great for her mind to be willing to let him go. And at a time when she had felt a great tenderness for its father.

  For the child had not been conceived out of lust. She had been wrong to say that. There had been a closeness, a tenderness. Nothing that would last. Nothing that could be called love. But not just lust, for all that. Nothing ugly. Nothing sordid, despite what she had said to him at the time.

  Ellen’s free hand joined the other over her abdomen.

  LORD EDEN WAS RIDING along Oxford Street when he spotted his cousins Anna and Walter Carrington walking along toward him, Walter’s arms loaded with parcels. Anna saw him, smiled dazzlingly, and waved.

  “Dominic,” she called when he drew rein beside them. “You wretch. You have been going to take me walking this age. But I might be sitting at home gathering dust for all you care. So I have come shopping with Walter.”

  “And I can see why you need him,” Lord Eden said, grinning down at them. “I suppose you can’t balance something on your head too, Walter, so that Anna can buy a few more things?”

  Walter grimaced.

  “And besides, Anna,” Lord Eden said, “once when I called, you were entertaining a dozen guests, at least half of whom were male and young. And another time you were out driving with young Pendleton. I concluded that a mere cousin was of no ac
count now that you have grown into the beauty I always told you you would grow into, and have been the belle of a London Season.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” she said. “You know that I would have consigned Mr. Pendleton to the bottom of the sea, Dominic, if I had known you were going to choose just that afternoon to come for me. And you really must not smirk at me in that odious way, Walter, as if I were a child still.”

  Walter turned and smirked instead at his cousin, who grinned back.

  Three young ladies were coming out of a shop just behind Anna and Walter, one of them wearing deep mourning. Miss Jennifer Simpson, by some strange coincidence, Lord Eden saw when he looked more closely. She saw him at the same moment, smiled uncertainly, and blushed. He swept off his hat, which he had returned to his head after greeting Anna.

  “Miss Simpson!” he said. “Well met. I have just come from your aunt’s house, but neither you nor your stepmother was at home.”

  She curtsied and looked up at him. “You have been to call on us, my lord?” she said. “But Ellen is at home. She had no intention of going out.”

  “I left my card,” he said, “and told your aunt’s butler that I would return tomorrow.”

  “I shall look forward to that,” she said, her voice breathless. She looked over her shoulder, but her two companions had strolled on. “And I am sure Ellen will too.”

  “May I present my cousins?” he said. “Anna Carrington and her brother, Walter. Miss Jennifer Simpson is the daughter of an army friend, Anna. She was in Brussels earlier this spring.”

  Anna smiled. Walter dropped two parcels and took Jennifer’s hand in his. She looked at him and blushed anew.

  “I have not had a chance to express my sympathies,” Lord Eden said. “I do so now, Miss Simpson. Your father was a fine man.”

  “Yes.” She smiled briefly up at him and stooped at the same time as Walter, to pick up one of his parcels.