by Mary Balogh
“I feel rather like a naughty child,” Ellen said to Lord Eden a few minutes later, when she had hold of his hand and was moving slowly upward, “doing the forbidden.”
“There is a broad ledge a little higher,” he said. “We will stop there for a while.”
It was quite magnificent, Ellen decided when they stood on the ledge. They already seemed high up, though they had not come very far. The breeze was a wind up there, and was whipping her cloak against her. The tide was coming in fast. There were several lines of breakers stretched across the miles of the beach, those closest to the sand white with foam. The sun was sparkling on the water.
“There is not a lovelier sight on earth, is there?” she said. “The sea always makes me want to cry.”
“It is a lovely sight and yet it makes you want to cry?” he said.
She turned her head to smile at him. “With the wonder of it,” she said. “Not from misery.”
“We are island people,” he said. “The sea is in our blood.”
“I suppose so.” She set her hands against her abdomen and stood very still.
“You are all right?” His voice was anxious.
“Oh, yes, quite all right,” she said. “He moved, Dominic. Oh, and again.” She looked at him and smiled in delight. “Feel for yourself.”
He stood behind her and put his arms about her, one hand stretched over her ribs beneath her breasts, the other lower. She took that hand in hers, set it flat against her, and waited, very still.
“There. Oh, there,” she said. “Did you feel it?” She held up a silencing hand and waited again. “Oh, did you feel it, Dominic? Do you think he is protesting the climb?”
“That bubble?” he said. “Was that it?”
She laid her head back against his shoulder and laughed softly. “Yes, that bubble,” she said. “A tiny foot or fist. He is really there, you see, making his presence felt.”
He wrapped his arms about her and held her against him. “Was it wise to come up here?” he asked. “Would you prefer to go back down?”
“No, indeed,” she said. “Your son and I, sir, are not so chickenhearted. I think he is merely signaling his protest because I have stopped.”
“Is he?” he said. “Sooner or later, I am going to have to teach him that he may not give orders to his mother.”
“He is wise, you see,” she said. “He is doing so while he still may. While you cannot get your hands on him.”
He laughed softly, stopped himself just in time from kissing her cheek, and gazed quietly out to sea with her for a few minutes more before releasing her, taking her hand in a firm clasp, and resuming the ascent.
Walter and Jennifer had scarcely paused in their climb, and emerged hot and panting on the clifftop long before anyone else. The two gigs that Lord Amberley had had sent from the house were waiting there, Lieutenant Penworth sitting in one of them.
Jennifer walked across to him, trying to catch her breath. “You came,” she said. “What a good idea. Can you see the view?”
“I have seen a lot of sheep,” he said. “Do they qualify as a view?”
“No.” She laughed. “Oh, I can’t talk. I am so breathless.”
“You will doubtless be disappointed to know that I drove this gig here myself,” he said. “It was not quite as exhilarating as galloping a fast horse, of course. But infinitely preferable to an afternoon spent at a pianoforte keyboard.”
“And I am supposed to be disappointed?” she said. “I do not follow your meaning, sir. But I can’t argue. No breath. I am going to tell Madeline you are here. She must be close to the top.”
She somehow found the energy to walk back to the clifftop while Walter climbed into the gig beside Allan Penworth.
Madeline and Lord Agerton were indeed almost at the top, she saw. So were most of the others. Except for Ellen and Lord Eden, standing on the broad ledge far down, wrapped in each other’s arms. She was unable to remove her eyes from them for a few startled moments. Then she turned and half-ran back to the gig, her message undelivered.
“Oh, do look at them, Edmund,” the countess said. “Is there nothing you can do to persuade them that they were made for each other?”
“They seem to be doing quite nicely on their own,” he said, looking obediently down.
“But they will persist in making difficulties for themselves,” she said, “mark my words. And in another two weeks she will go back to London and he will go to Wiltshire, and they will both be miserable.”
“If they do anything so foolish,” he said, “it will be by their own choice, love. It almost happened to us, if you will remember. But being the sensible people we are, we worked out our own problems without anyone’s help, and here we are living happily ever after.”
“Is there nothing you can do?” she asked.
“Nothing whatsoever,” he said firmly, looking down again at his brother, who had his arms about Ellen Simpson from behind and was gazing with her down to the beach and the breakers below.
MADELINE FOLLOWED ALLAN PENWORTH into the green salon when they arrived home in the gig. She clasped her hands behind her and did not help him to lower himself into a chair even though she could see that he was very tired.
“It was lovely to see you up there on the cliffs,” she said, “and to know that you had driven the one gig yourself. I am very proud of my patient, Allan.”
“And so you should be,” he said with a smile that she knew hid pain. “If it were not for your bullying, I would probably be lying comfortably staring at a ceiling in Brussels now.”
She laughed. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I credit you with far more spirit than that.”
“I am going to go home,” he said. “To Devonshire, I mean. It is time I faced the music.”
“I’m so glad,” she said. “Your mother will be happy.”
He grimaced. “I can just imagine it,” he said. “She will not be willing for me to lift a spoon for myself.”
“I’m quite sure you will soon show them that you are perfectly capable of wielding not only a spoon but also a knife and fork,” she said.
“I’ll be leaving here within a few days, Madeline,” he said.
She smiled rather sadly. “Will you?”
“Do you want me to have a word with your brother before I go?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ll tell him after you have left. Allan, I feel that I want to cry, and yet this is the only way, is it not? Will you write to me at least? I don’t want to lose my star patient altogether.”
“I’ll write,” he said.
“I will not offer to help you to your room,” she said. “But that is where you must go, Allan. You do not quite know what to do with yourself, do you?”
He smiled. “I’ll go, nurse,” he said, “without argument.”
She walked out into the hallway with him and watched him make his slow progress up the first few stairs. She turned toward the library. Edmund had gone in there after their return with a bundle of letters in his hand. Perhaps there was one for her.
There was one—from Lady Andrea Potts, who was in Paris with the colonel. But Madeline had scarcely broken the seal and read the first paragraph before having her attention effectively diverted by the hurried arrival of her sister-in-law.
“I had just sat down with Christopher on my knee,” she said breathlessly, eager eyes directed at her husband, who was leaning against the mantel, smiling indulgently at her. “Where is it, Edmund?”
“Where is what?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, don’t tease!” she said. “My letter from James. Where is it?”
“Oh, that,” he said. “Now, let me see. Where did I put it?” He looked about him before patting the breast of his coat and withdrawing a letter from an inside pocket. “Is this it? Ah, yes. Addressed to the Countess of Amberley. You, my love. From Mr. James Purnell in Canada.”
“Oh, Edmund, give it to me!” she said in exasperation, snatching it from
his hand and ignoring his grin. “This is two in one year. How splendid. Do you suppose he is all right?”
“I suppose he is still alive if he can write you a letter,” the earl said. “And I suppose you will find out the rest when you have opened and read the letter. How am I expected to know?”
“Oh!” the countess said, turning away from him while Madeline read over again for the seventh time the last sentence of the first paragraph of her own letter.
“He is in Montreal,” the countess said. “He has come out of the interior this year and is to work in Montreal for the winter.” She read on. “He says it is very strange to be back in Lower Canada after being inland for three years. The people and the buildings and the noises are difficult to get used to. Imagine, Edmund!”
Madeline no longer read the sentence. She merely directed her eyes toward it.
“Oh, Edmund!” The countess spun around to face her smiling, lounging husband, her eyes shining and excited. “He is coming home next summer.” She looked back to the letter. “He is bringing the furs to auction. He will be here for a few months. Oh.” She looked at him, speechless for a moment. “I am so excited.”
“Yes,” the earl said, “I had noticed. I imagine Madeline has had her suspicions too. Would you say Alex is looking forward to seeing her brother again, Madeline?”
“What?” Madeline said. “Oh, yes, I think so.”
“He has never seen the children,” the countess said. “I wonder if he even knows about Caroline yet. Or about Papa. Perhaps he does not even know that.”
“The physician only suspected heart trouble, Alex,” the earl said. “Your father has seemed quite well since last winter.”
“Oh,” she said, holding the letter against her and twirling around. “He is coming home at last. I must go and tell your mama. And Dominic if he is back yet.”
The Earl of Amberley chuckled as his wife left the room. “I suppose a mere husband will have to take second place for a while next summer,” he said. “Do you remember Purnell, Madeline? But of course you do. He was here for a while during the summer of my betrothal to Alex. And who could forget the strange way he left in the middle of the night and the middle of a ball? Rather a strange character, wasn’t he? But very fond of Alex and she of him. Did you like him?”
Madeline considered. “He was very quiet,” she said. “I did not have a great deal to do with him. I scarcely remember him.”
“How is Lady Andrea?” he asked, nodding toward her own letter.
“What?” she said. “Oh, I haven’t finished it yet. I was listening to Alexandra. I am very happy for her. I think I’ll take this upstairs with me.” She smiled and left the room.
He was coming home. Oh, dear God, he was coming home. Or to England, anyway. Probably not to Amberley. His parents, Lord and Lady Beckworth, lived in Yorkshire. He would doubtless go there. Alexandra would travel there to meet him. Edmund and the children would go with her.
It was unlikely that he would come to Amberley.
If he did, she would stay away. She would go to Dom in Wiltshire, perhaps.
She would not have to see him even if he came. She did not want to see him.
Oh, God, he was coming home. Perhaps to Amberley. Perhaps she would see him again.
ELLEN WAS SMILING to herself as she unpinned her hair and shook it loose. She had been given her orders, and she would obey them. She would lie down and rest for an hour.
She would have done so anyway. She really was feeling quite tired. But it had been amusing and rather touching to have Dominic tell her in the gig on the way home that she must promise him to go to her room without delay, or he would carry her there. And to have his mother meet her in the hallway, take her arm through hers, and escort her to her room, scolding her gently along the way.
But she was not sorry she had made that climb. And really, they had done it in such slow stages that there had been very little exertion involved. And then, when they had reached the top and had to wait for one of the gigs to return for them, Dominic had made her lie down on the grass, spreading his coat beneath her in case there was any dampness left in the ground.
“But you will be cold,” she had protested. “This is October, Dominic.”
He had stretched out on the grass beside her, the dampness notwithstanding, and propped himself up on one elbow.
“I have survived worse,” he had said. “So have you.”
“Do you remember…?” And they had been off again into shared reminiscences, so that the arrival of the gig had finally taken them by surprise.
Ellen got into bed beneath the top cover and closed her eyes. She imposed relaxation on her body. They could surely be friends after all. And that would be enough. She would make it enough. It had been a happy afternoon. Blissfully happy.
The door to her room suddenly opened without any knock to herald someone’s arrival. Ellen turned her head to find Jennifer standing there, her face white, in obvious distress.
“What is it?” She pushed herself up on an elbow.
Jennifer closed the door and stood against it. “How long has it been going on?” she asked. “Since before Papa died?”
“What?” Ellen frowned.
“You and Lord Eden,” the girl said. “Were you lovers even when Papa was still alive? Were you?”
Ellen closed her eyes briefly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Jennifer…” she said.
The girl’s voice was shaking. “I suppose it is his baby you are expecting too,” she said, “and not Papa’s at all. It is, isn’t it?”
“I was never unfaithful to your father,” Ellen said. “Never, Jennifer. I loved him.”
“He never suspected, did he?” Jennifer said. “And neither did I. Papa thought that Lord Eden was always visiting because they were friends. But it was you and him, wasn’t it? And it is hardly surprising. I am only amazed that I was naive enough not to see it. Papa was not a handsome man, and he was much older than you. Lord Eden is the most handsome man I have known. How long has it been going on, Ellen? For years?”
Ellen shook her head. “Listen to me,” she said. “I know you are distraught and that you will not believe anything I say now. But listen, please. And when you have calmed down, you will know that I have told you the truth.”
She had never seen Jennifer sneer before. But she saw it now. “Papa believed your lies for years,” she said. “And I have always believed them. Let me see if I believe this one. I am listening.”
“Lord Eden—Dominic—and I are betrothed,” Ellen said. “And you are right. It is his child. I conceived it a month after your father’s death. While Dominic was recovering from his wounds in my rooms.”
“A remarkable recovery!” Jennifer said.
“There was nothing between us before that,” Ellen said. “He was your father’s friend. I was his wife. And I was faithful to him entirely from inclination. I loved him. Afterward, when Dominic was with me, we turned to each other for comfort, and this child was conceived. What we did was wrong. We both owed your father’s memory better than that. I have lived through terrible pangs of guilt, and even accused myself of infidelity at first. But I was not unfaithful, Jennifer, and I would not have been if your father had lived. Neither would Dominic. He is a man of honor.”
“You’re a slut and a whore!” Jennifer said quietly.
Ellen got hurriedly to her feet. A shaking hand came up to cover her mouth. “You will know when you have had time to think,” she said, “that you are being unfair, Jennifer. I wish you had not found out like this. Did you suspect when we were together this afternoon? I have been trying to find a way to tell you. Your grandfather and your aunt know already, though they do not know the identity of the father. I will talk with Lady Amberley or her mother-in-law. Perhaps they can help you. I know I can’t at the moment. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help,” Jennifer said. “I am not a child to be comforted with a hug. I lost Papa just a few months ago. But I st
ill had you. I loved you as if you really were my mother, though you are young enough to be my sister. I am glad you are neither, Ellen. And I am glad at least that Papa never knew what was going on under his very nose. His wife and his best friend! It would have killed him.”
Ellen bent her head and closed her eyes. After a few moments she heard the door of her room open and close again.
Half an hour passed before she felt calm enough to go in search of the dowager Countess of Amberley.
LIEUTENANT PENWORTH FOUND JENNIFER half an hour after that in the music room. She was sitting at the pianoforte depressing keys seemingly at random with one finger.
“You are going right back to basics?” he said. “Wouldn’t scales be more productive?”
She put her hands palm-up, one on top of the other, in her lap and looked down at them.
“I must have said something particularly clever,” he said, hobbling closer to her on his crutches, “if I have silenced you.”
“Go away,” she said quietly.
He stopped behind the bench and looked down at the cluster of dark ringlets at the back of her head. “Why do I have the feeling that what you are really saying is ‘please help me’?” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“Go away,” she said.
He sat down slowly and carefully on the edge of the bench. “I have lost some of my body parts,” he said. “But I still have two perfectly serviceable shoulders left. Do you want to use one of them?”
She put one hand flat along the keyboard and pressed down all the keys beneath it. Then she slammed the hand down twice more. “Leave me alone,” she said. “Just leave me alone!”
He looked at her hand for a few silent moments before positioning his crutches under his arms and starting to get up.
“Don’t go!” she said. And she spread both arms along the keyboard and laid her forehead down on her hands. The noise was quite deafening until it faded away.
He set one hand lightly against the curls and sat quietly.
“Ellen’s baby is not Papa’s,” she said. “It is Lord Eden’s and they are going to be married. And Papa has not been dead four months yet. And I have no business saying this to a near-stranger.”
