by Mary Balogh
Her father continued to watch her broodingly, though he clearly had nothing more to say. She left him after a few minutes, hesitating a moment before deciding not to stoop down to kiss his head. She had not touched him since her return home.
HER NIECE WAS inclined to be friendly with the aunt she remembered as something of a favorite, probably, Grace thought, because she had spent more time with the children than any of the other adults during the four years of Jeremy’s life. And Priscilla was clearly charmed by Peregrine’s good looks and by his easy humor and teasing. She introduced her two special friends to him, and the three girls, giggling, dragged him off walking with them on more than one occasion, pretending to quarrel over how they were to divide his two arms among the three of them.
Grace found that she spent very little time alone with her husband during the daytime. She was happy to see him occupied and in his usual good humor—she had been very afraid that he would be oppressed by the atmosphere of her home and by the old, still-unresolved quarrels. And she was glad that her time was taken up so agreeably with her relatives, even if they had still not conversed on any matters that really concerned their relationships and even though there was much awkwardness still among them.
But it was strange not to have Perry’s continual companionship, strange not to be alone with him for large segments of the day. She found herself, as she viewed Ethel’s garden with her, looking back with a great deal of nostalgia on the previous spring when she and Perry had worked side by side in their own garden, often for long hours. And she often thought with some longing of their quiet afternoons and evenings, sometimes both of them reading, sometimes just Perry doing so while she sewed.
But there were still the nights, she consoled herself. There was something especially comforting about having Perry sharing the room that had been hers until she was six-and-twenty years old. She had always loved to leave the curtains back at night so that she might see the garden on her walls picked out by the moonlight. She liked to see it still, her head against his arm, just the two of them silent together.
She often lay awake long after he slept—and had done so even when they were at home—but she never minded, never fretted over what might have been called insomnia. She very consciously enjoyed every moment of their closeness. It could not last forever. There would come the time when he would tire of her, when he would want the greater freedom of a separate room. Kind as he was, the time would come, and she would let him slip away from her gradually so that he would not dream that she knew, that she was reluctant to accept the new arrangement.
Until that time came, she was happy to lie awake and enjoy the nights. And happier still when he woke, as he sometimes did, to turn to her with a sleepy smile and a gradually rekindled desire for her. He often apologized for troubling her when he took her for the second time in a night, and she would smile secretly to herself as she held him in her arms again.
AT THE END of the first week at Pangam Manor, there was only one thing Grace had not done that she fully intended to do. But the opportunity came finally when Martin had borne Perry off one afternoon to see something on the estate, Priscilla in tow, and Ethel had begged to be excused from any outdoor exertion as she had a headache. Grace assured her that she would leave her alone so that she would not feel obliged to make conversation. And she took herself off to the east end of the lake, where the private family burial ground was situated.
No one had objected to her having Jeremy buried there. No one had offered an opinion on the matter either way. But she had not wanted to have him put in the churchyard. The graves there were so close together, the tombs so elaborate. It was a place of death, heavy and black death. Jeremy was dead, of course. She had realized that. She had never, from the moment when Priscilla had come shrieking back from the lake with the news that Jeremy was drowned, been able to doubt the fact. But she had not wanted him in a place of death. She had wanted him in a place where he could become part of nature, part of the wild beauty of the universe.
There were no elaborate tombs in the family burial plot. Only neat headstones announcing essential information for the eyes of the living. And neatly mown grass and a neat wooden fence to keep out grazing animals.
The grass was short on Jeremy’s grave, as on the others, Grace saw at a glance, kneeling down on it and touching the marble headstone with its legend: “Jeremy Howard. Beloved son of Grace Howard. 1796–1800. R.I.P.”
Jeremy. She took her hand away from the cold stone and closed her eyes. Jeremy. A thin, wiry little boy. His father’s dark curls and dark eyes. Bright, eager eyes. Her own rather long, thin face. Small white baby teeth. A dimpled chin, another legacy from his father. A surprisingly low-pitched chuckle that could quickly give place to a shrieking laugh after a little tickling. Warm, soft clinging arms. A wet baby kiss. Wet, muddy hair and a dead face. She closed her eyes more tightly and clung to the grass on either side of her.
She was lying facedown on the grass when Peregrine found her half an hour later. He had guessed where she had gone when he had returned to the house with Martin to find Ethel sitting alone in a darkened parlor. He had been expecting it since their arrival. He asked directions to the graveyard of Martin, and declined his company, with thanks.
He stood at the fence watching her for a few minutes before climbing over it, ignoring the gate, and approaching her. She was not crying. He did not think she was sleeping, though she had not moved since she had first come into his sight.
She seemed to sense his presence. She turned her head, though she did not look up.
“Do you want to be alone, Grace?” he asked. “Would you prefer that I went away?”
There was no response.
“I shall wait for you over by the trees, out of sight, shall I?” he asked, stooping down and laying a light hand on her head. She was not wearing a hat.
She shook her head. “Don’t go.” Her voice was muffled by her arms, on which her face rested.
He sat on the ground cross-legged beside her, his hand still on her head, and waited for her. She moved eventually and sat beside him. She did not look up.
“I don’t know who it was who dragged me away from here after the funeral,” she said. “I cannot remember if it was Martin or Paul. It was not my father, because he did not come. But someone took me away, very much against my will. And I did not come again. Not until now. It was terrible to leave him all alone here. He was only four years old.”
He took her hand and held it in a firm clasp.
She laid her head on his shoulder. “I loved him, Perry,” she said. “For four years he was my life. No, for five. I loved him every moment I carried him.”
“I know,” he said. “You must not feel guilty, dear.”
“Do I?” she said. “Do I feel guilty? For letting someone else care for him when I should have been with him? But he was an independent little lad. He wanted to be with his older cousins. A mere mother was a nuisance when they were there to be played with.”
“For having him,” he said. “You feel guilty for having him, Grace. Don’t. It is never wrong to give life, dear. And love.”
“Isn’t it?” she said. “That is a dangerous moral statement, Perry. It is not wrong to bear a bastard?”
“Don’t use that word,” he said. “Don’t punish yourself with it. Children die every day, Grace. It is no judgment of God on the parents when they do. Your son was one of the fortunates of this world. He was dearly loved from the moment of his conception to the moment of his death. Not all children are so loved, not even those born in wedlock. Forgive yourself, dear. If you committed a sin, you have also atoned for it a thousandfold. And you have suffered for it. Let him rest in peace now. And let yourself live in peace.”
Grace sat for many minutes with her eyes closed, her head resting on her husband’s shoulder. She was letting Jeremy go again and wishing and wishing one thing. She was wishing that Perry had been his father.
Perry, who had been twelve years old when Jere
my was born! She sat up and smiled wearily at him.
“I am ready to go now,” she said. “Thank you for coming, Perry. It must have been a dreary afternoon for you. And thank you for your words. I am not sure I can quite accept them. It is far easier to forgive others than oneself, you know. But thank you. Paul would have disagreed with you. Paul forgave me and never mentioned my sin to me after we left here. But his very silence told me that he thought it a very great sin, nevertheless.”
“Yes.” He smiled as he got to his feet and pulled her to hers. “Paul and I disagreed most noisily on the nature of sin. You were oppressed by his forgiveness, weren’t you? You were so very quiet and withdrawn during those years, Grace. You need not fear my forgiveness. You gave love—to a man and to a child. I can only honor you for doing so, dear, and feel sad for the pain that those loves still cause you.”
What had she ever done to deserve Perry? Grace wondered as he drew her arm through his and began to walk back with her to her father’s house. But she could not forgive herself for all that. She never would, despite what she had said to her father. Jeremy would not have drowned if she had not lain with Gareth.
5
A FEW OF HER FORMER ACQUAINTANCES CALLED upon Grace during the first week. She returned some of those calls with Ethel and Peregrine and sometimes Priscilla. But she had not expected the invitation to attend a dinner and evening party at the home of Viscount Sandersford. Gareth’s father had ignored her very existence after his son had gone away. He had never acknowledged his grandson by any sign whatsoever.
“Perhaps the invitation is really for you and Martin and Priscilla,” Grace said uneasily to Ethel when the latter told her of the card that had arrived that morning. “Perhaps he does not know that I am here. Or perhaps he does not recognize my name and believes himself to be inviting two unknown guests.”
“No,” Ethel said, looking at her sister-in-law briefly but searchingly, “he specifically named you in the invitation. I can refuse for all of us if you would prefer it, Grace. We are not on intimate terms with him ourselves, as you may imagine.”
Grace thought for a moment. “No,” she said, “don’t refuse. We will go.”
After all, she thought, she had come home in order to confront her past. She might as well face all of it. There had been a time when she had liked the viscount, who had indulged Gareth as much as her father had her. She told Peregrine of the invitation. She did not explain that their host was Gareth’s father. She had meant to, but did not add the information when the time came. Perry must be tired of hearing of her former lover and her son. It seemed almost an insult to his good nature to be constantly referring to them.
Peregrine was in his usual good humor when he crossed from his dressing room to join Grace in hers before they left on the evening of the dinner.
“Perkins’s chest has just swelled by a good two inches,” he said, grinning at Grace’s image in the mirror. “He has finally succeeded in tying a mathematical. You see?” He indicated his neckcloth. “Don’t you think the folds quite magnificent, Grace? I feel I should be on my way to St. James’s or Carlton House at the very least.”
“Quite splendid,” she agreed.
“Ah,” he said, “you are wearing a blue gown. I think you are right that it is time to leave off our mourning gradually. You look delightful in color again. Did you enjoy your walk with Ethel this afternoon?”
“Yes,” she said. “We called on two of the sick cottagers. I remember them well. It was good to see them again.”
Peregrine grinned. “How delightfully silly young girls can be,” he said. “I swear those three did not stop giggling all the time I was with them this afternoon. One of them had to purchase ribbons and another lace. And they all had to try on a dozen bonnets each at the milliner’s, though they did not buy one between them. And they found the eating of ices and cakes at the confectioner’s an enormous joke. The new curate saw us through the window and came inside to pay his respects. And they all blushed and giggled behind their hands. The curate didn’t giggle, by the way, but he did blush to the tips of his ears.”
Grace smiled at him in the mirror and dismissed her maid. “Priscilla and Miss Stebbins will be going to London soon,” she said. “And there they will join dozens of other giggling girls, Perry. It is the Season, the marriage mart.”
He was laughing, she saw, his eyes dancing in merriment, his teeth very white and even. “Life there will certainly not be dull,” he said.
Their group were not to be the only dinner guests. That was clear as soon as they approached Lord Sandersford’s drawing room behind the straight back of a footman and heard the buzz of voices coming from inside the room. Grace was nervous. She drew Peregrine back behind Martin and Ethel and Priscilla—her father had declined to come—and tried to calm her thumping heart. The viscount was greeting two other guests, who stood between him and her view.
But finally he was able to turn to greet the new arrivals. He bowed to Ethel and Priscilla, shook Martin’s hand, and turned to Grace and Peregrine. He was a tall man of military bearing, fit and well-muscled, extraordinarily handsome. His hair was dark and wavy, rather long, his face tanned even though March had scarcely begun. A slight cleft in his chin added to his attractive appearance. He regarded his guests with keen, rather mocking eyes.
“Ah, Lady Lampman,” he said, taking her cold hand and bending over it as he raised it to his lips. “As lovely as ever, I see. Sir Peregrine Lampman, I assume?” He took Peregrine’s hand in a firm clasp and stood exchanging pleasantries with him for a couple of minutes.
But Miss Stebbins and her mama attracted Peregrine’s attention and beckoned him away. He must, it seemed, admire the ribbons that he had witnessed the girl purchase just that afternoon.
“Well, Grace,” the viscount said when they were relatively alone, “are you going to faint, or are you going to scorn to do anything so weakly feminine?”
“Your father is dead, then, Gareth?” she asked, her voice sounding far away to her own ears.
He laughed. “Had you not heard?” he said. “Did you not know it was I you were to meet tonight? How famous! My father died six years ago.”
“I did not know,” she said. “I had not heard. Or that you had come home. Where is your wife?”
“Dead too,” he said. “She was a poor thing, Grace. Weak. Following the drum was just too much for her constitution. She died in childbed more than nine years ago. And even the child did not survive.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“You need not be.” He shrugged. “It was all a long time ago. Come. My butler is summoning us to dinner, I see. I will lead you in. Take my arm, Grace. You are not going to faint, are you?”
“No.” By sheer effort of will Grace dragged herself back along the dark tunnel that had been sucking her toward oblivion for the past several minutes, and lifted a hand that felt as if it were not quite part of her to rest on Lord Sandersford’s arm. She looked around for Perry and saw him across the room offering his arm to Miss Stebbins and saying something that had both the girl and her mother laughing merrily.
PEREGRINE WAS RATHER enjoying himself. It had amused him since his arrival at his father-in-law’s to find that he had been adopted as a favorite by three very young ladies, his wife’s niece among them. It had always been so, he thought entirely without conceit, ever since he had grown past boyhood. He had never had to make any effort at all to attract the attention of young ladies or the liking of their mothers and older female relatives.
He had never been able quite to explain to himself his success with the ladies. And perhaps it was not any great success either, he thought. Very rarely, if ever, had he felt that one of his admirers was languishing with love for him. They merely seemed to enjoy his company and do a great deal of giggling and flirting when he was by.
Perhaps they sensed that he liked women a great deal. He had always found it a good foil to his more serious and introspective side to amuse the ladies and devise
new ways to draw their laughter and their blushes.
And it was amusing to find that he could still surround himself with giggling girls and their smiling mamas even though he was a staid married man. It amused him even further to note that the same girls who derived great merriment from his company tended to blush and sigh over the thin and romantic figure of the young curate, who looked as if he could do with a good square meal. Doubtless they all dreamed of feeding his stomach and finding a way into his heart. None of them seemed at all smitten by the very handsome figure of the evening’s host, who was apparently widowed and therefore perfectly eligible. But then they were very young ladies and Sandersford must be close to forty.
Peregrine stood patiently and good-humoredly behind the pianoforte stool turning pages of music as his regular trio of young girls each in turn tried to impress both him and the rest of the company with her musical talents. And he grinned across the room at Grace, who was seated with some of her former acquaintances. She looked so very suited to her name and so very lovely without the usual black mourning gown that he gazed rather too long at her and missed his cue to turn a page.
A few minutes later a delegation of young ladies asked the viscount if they might dance, and the servants came in to roll up the carpet, and a plump matron took the stool in order to play for those eager to exert themselves. And Peregrine found that he had hardly a moment even to think of his wife. He laughed and danced his way through one vigorous set after another, assuring two young ladies that, yes, their dancing skills would be quite up to the standards of Almack’s and a third that, yes, dancing in Lord Sandersford’s drawing room was every bit as splendid as dancing in the grandest ballroom in London.
