Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy)

by Mary Balogh

  “We are home, Nelson,” Kenneth said, his temporary irritation forgotten. It was home, too, and it was his. It was all his. For the first time in seven years, the reality of it struck him. Dunbarton was his.

  Nelson barked and raced ahead down the driveway toward the house.

  * * *

  MOIRA stood for many minutes gazing not out to sea but at the bare skyline about the hollow. She had heard the sound of hoofbeats receding into the distance but did not quite trust to her aloneness.

  She had not thought of him with hatred for a long time. Not even when Sean had been killed. Not really. There had been too much terrible, raw grief to be dealt with. After that, and after the loss of her father a mere few months later, there had been too much else to think of, too many practicalities of the present to be worried over. Life had changed so drastically that there had been no room in her memory for the rather confused passions of girlhood. Or for the heedless girl she had been.

  She should have expected him to return, of course. She should somehow have prepared herself—though there had seemed nothing really to prepare herself for. But ever since word had reached Tawmouth that he had sold his commission and was back in England, the conversations at tea and after church and at evening gatherings had inevitably included the topic that fascinated them all: Would he come home to Dunbarton? But even if the people of Tawmouth had not been too genteel to place wagers, there would have been little point in doing so. Everyone would have wagered in favor of his coming. Except for Moira. She had not really expected him to come. He had said he would never return, and she had believed him.

  How foolish of her. Of course he had come. He was the Earl of Haverford, owner of Dunbarton, lord and master of almost the whole of this corner of Cornwall. How could he resist coming back to exert his authority? He had liked power before he left. He had had eight years of practice in wielding it and she did not doubt he had done so with ruthless efficiency. There had been an air of cold command about him just now.

  The force of the bitterness and hatred she felt had taken her quite by surprise. She breathed in deeply, imposing calm on herself. He had every right to come back. Just as she had every right to avoid him at every turn. The Hayes family and the Woodfall family had become experts at avoiding each other over the generations. It was a pity that she had had to learn the hard way to conform to family rules.

  Throughout their conversation she had not seen his face clearly because of the sun’s angle behind him, but she had seen enough of him to know that he was magnificently built—as a very young man he had been handsome beyond words to describe but perhaps a little too slender for his height—and strong and healthy. She did not doubt that his face still had its aquiline, aristocratic beauty. Beneath his hat she had been able to see the gleam of his very blond hair. He had come home looking even more splendid than he had looked when he went away.

  And Sean was in his grave somewhere in southern France. She had not been bitter. Grief-stricken, yes, but not bitter. Soldiers fought, and soldiers died. Sean had been a soldier, an infantry lieutenant, and he had died in battle.

  But she was bitter now. And cold with hatred. Sean would never have become a soldier if it had not been for him. He had really had no alternative . . . She was cold. She looked up at the sky and was surprised to see that the sun was still shining.

  She must not hate him. She would not do so. Hatred was too strong an emotion. She had no wish to be pulled back into the past. She had no wish to experience again the extreme passions of the girl she had been. She had grown up since then. She was a different person. He was doubtless a different person. She must forget about him, as far as that was possible when he was going to be living within a few miles of Penwith. Would he stay long? she wondered. It did not matter. She had her own life to live and it was about to be yet another new life, one that would bring her further respectability. And fulfillment. She thought deliberately about the children she could now hope for.

  She climbed out of the hollow and looked cautiously about her, but of course there was no one in sight. Only then did she wonder why he had come here to the hollow instead of riding on past. He could not have seen her from the road. Why had he stopped here? And why had she chosen today of all days to come here herself? She could not remember the last time she had been here. It was a horribly unfortunate coincidence. Or perhaps not so unfortunate. Perhaps if she had merely heard of his having come, she would have dreaded seeing him for the first time. That ordeal was over now at least.

  She set off homeward, walking briskly. She should not have sat for so long when it was December, no matter how pleasant the day. She felt so very cold.

  * * *

  THE people of Tawmouth and its surrounding properties had not been so blessed with exciting events in many a long year. One could not count the passing of poor Sir Basil Hayes fourteen months before as an exciting event, after all, Miss Pitt told the Reverend and Mrs. Finley-Evans in hushed and pious tones when she took tea with them and Mrs. Meeson and Mrs. and Miss Penallen.

  No sooner had everyone recovered from the news that the Earl of Haverford had arrived at Dunbarton Hall so unexpectedly that Mrs. Whiteman, his lordship’s housekeeper, had scarcely had a day’s notice of it herself, than word followed that his lordship’s mother, the Countess of Haverford, was expected for Christmas as well as a whole host of houseguests. Mothers with marriageable daughters began to dream of eligible male guests. Mothers with marriageable sons did the like for female guests.

  The gentlemen began to call upon his lordship. The ladies waited in breathless anticipation for him to return the calls. After all, as Mrs. Trevellas commented to Mrs. Lincoln and Mrs. Finley-Evans, one could get little satisfaction from one’s menfolk. All they had come back from Dunbarton with was word that his lordship had indeed fought at Waterloo and that he had seen the Duke of Wellington with his own eyes. As if that could be considered interesting news, though it was said that his grace was a fine figure of a man.

  “Nothing,” she concluded, having worked herself into a passion of indignation, “about how his lordship looks. Or about how he dresses. Mr. Trevellas, if you please, could not even remember what his lordship wore even though he conversed with him for all of half an hour.”

  The other ladies shook their heads in sympathetic disbelief.

  When the gentlemen were not discussing what each of them had learned about the earl’s war experiences and the ladies were not wondering if he was as handsome now as he had been as a boy, all of them were speculating on what Christmas might have in store for them by way of entertainment. With the old earl there had always been the tradition of the Christmas ball at Dunbarton.

  “And with the earl before him,” Miss Pitt added. She was one of the few among them who could remember the present earl’s grandfather. “He was a handsome man too,” she added with a sigh.

  “And perhaps there will be some Christmas entertainment at Penwith, too, this year,” Mrs. Meeson said when she took tea with Mrs. Trevellas, “with Sir Edwin Baillie expected daily.”

  Sir Edwin Baillie had slipped down on the roster of exciting events anticipated in Tawmouth, though he had headed the list before the earl’s sudden appearance. But his arrival at Penwith was still eagerly anticipated and speculation was rife on the purpose of his visit at this particular time of year. Would he offer for dear Miss Hayes? And would Miss Hayes accept if he did? They had all been deeply shocked when she had refused Mr. Deverall four years before. But then, everyone knew that Miss Hayes had a mind of her own and could sometimes be just a little too independent for her own good.

  Some of the ladies turned to Mrs. Harriet Lincoln for her opinion since she was a particular friend of Miss Hayes. But Mrs. Lincoln would say only that if Sir Edwin did indeed make an offer and if Moira Hayes accepted it, then doubtless they would all hear about it soon enough.

  There was another question that consumed the curiosity of ev
eryone. What would happen between Penwith and Dunbarton when Sir Edwin Baillie arrived? Would the feud continue for yet another generation?

  All these topics of conversation had to be avoided, of course, whenever Lady Hayes or Moira Hayes was part of the company. Then the weather and everyone’s health were discussed in long-familiar detail.

  “Poor Miss Hayes,” Miss Pitt commented on one occasion when that young lady was not present. “And Lady Hayes too, I daresay. If the feud is to continue, they will not be able to attend the Christmas ball at Dunbarton. If there is a ball, of course.”

  “There will certainly be a ball,” Mrs. Finley-Evans said firmly. “The Reverend Finley-Evans has agreed to speak to his lordship about it.”

  “Poor Miss Hayes,” Miss Pitt said.

  * * *

  SIR Edwin Baillie came alone to Penwith Manor one week and one day after the Earl of Haverford returned to Dunbarton Hall. Sir Edwin took tea with Lady Hayes and Moira in the sitting room before retiring to the master suite—Lady Hayes had vacated it in deference to the new master—to supervise the unpacking of his bags. He never allowed anyone, even his valet, to perform the task without him, he explained. But apart from that brief explanation, he spent the half hour of tea apologizing to Lady Hayes for the absence of his mother, who of course would have accompanied him on such an important occasion—he inclined his head in Moira’s direction—had it not been for the fact that she was suffering from a slight winter chill. It was not a severe attack, Lady Hayes would be relieved to know, but as a precautionary measure he had insisted that she remain at home. Thirty miles of travel might well have been permanently injurious to the delicate health of a lady.

  Lady Hayes assured him that he had made a wise decision and had shown admirable devotion as a son. She would write the next morning to inquire after Cousin Gertrude’s health. She trusted that the Misses Baillie were all in good health?

  The Misses Baillie were indeed, it seemed, though Annabelle, the youngest, had suffered from earache a mere few weeks earlier after going out in the carriage on a particularly windy day. They would all be waiting anxiously for word that their brother had arrived safely at Penwith Manor. All had advised him against traveling such a distance during December, but such had been his eagerness to bring about a happy settlement of his affairs—another bow in Moira’s direction—that he had taken the risk of traversing winter roads. His mother, of course, had understood and had urged him not to stay at home merely on account of her health. If he was a devoted son—a bow to Lady Hayes—then he had merely learned from a devoted mother.

  Moira watched him and listened to him without participating to any active degree in the conversation, but then, an occasional word or smile of encouragement was all Sir Edwin needed to keep the conversation in happy progress. At least, Moira thought, she would have a husband for whom family was a high priority. She might have done worse.

  During dinner Sir Edwin announced his intention of remaining at Penwith Manor until after Christmas, although it would be a severe disappointment to both himself on the one hand and his mother and sisters on the other to be separated for the holiday. But it was time he became more familiar with the property he had inherited on Sir Basil Hayes’s demise, if Lady Hayes and Miss Hayes would excuse such plain speaking—a separate bow to each—and called upon his neighbors so that they might become acquainted with the new baronet of Penwith. And of course he would delight in the opportunity of giving his company during the Christmas celebrations to his two relatives—yet another bow—one of whom he hoped would have formed a closer relationship to him by the morrow. He smiled almost coquettishly at Moira.

  In the drawing room after dinner, Sir Edwin asked Moira to play the pianoforte for her dear mama’s entertainment and his own. He loved nothing better, it seemed, than listening to a recital on the pianoforte performed by a lady of taste and refinement. After Moira had started to play, he raised his voice and explained to Lady Hayes that all three of his sisters were accomplished on the pianoforte, though Cecily’s talents lay more in her voice, whose sweetness she had inherited from their mother. Miss Hayes’s performance was commendable though it might be found, if put to the test, that Christobel’s touch was lighter. Nevertheless, Lady Hayes must be proud of her daughter.

  Yes, Lady Hayes was.

  And he, too, Sir Edwin assured her, leaning toward her and inclining his head in an elegant half bow, would be proud of Miss Hayes when he had a right to be proud and not merely delighted by her display of musical talent. By then, of course—he smiled conspiratorially—she would no longer be Miss Hayes but would have been elevated to a superior rank.

  Sir Edwin retired to bed at a respectable hour, having bowed over the ladies’ hands and assured them that the following day was surely to be the most important day—and perhaps the happiest—of his life.

  It would be the most important day of hers too, Moira thought after she had retired and throughout a largely sleepless night. She doubted it would be the happiest. She did not want to marry Sir Edwin. He was even more pompous and dull and fussy than she remembered. When she had met him the first time, of course, she had not been looking at him as a prospective husband. She feared that living with him for the rest of a lifetime would be a severe trial. And his mother, she recalled, was in many ways similar to him. But sometimes in life, one’s choices were cut to almost none at all. If she had only herself to consider, perhaps there would still be some choice. But there was Mama to think about and so there was no point in thinking in terms of choices. She fixed her mind on her future children.

  She ate breakfast the next morning with a determinedly calm and cheerful aspect. She really had no viable alternative than to accept the offer that was about to be made, she told herself yet again. She and her mother had no independent means. At the age of six-and-twenty she had no other matrimonial prospects. It would be thoroughly irresponsible, both for her mother’s sake and her own, to refuse Sir Edwin Baillie. And his faults, though many, were at least not vices. She could be faced with having to accept a gambler or a drinker or a womanizer or all three. Sir Edwin was without a doubt thoroughly respectable.

  And so, when he presented himself to her, after a great deal of pomp and ceremony and bowing and smirking, in the morning room when morning was almost over, she quietly accepted the marriage offer, which he was sure would not surprise her but which he was consoled into believing would gratify her. She allowed her newly betrothed to pronounce himself the happiest of men and to kiss her hand, though he apologized profusely for allowing happiness to drive him to such levity.

  The wedding, he informed Lady Hayes and Moira over luncheon, although personal inclination would urge him to have it solemnized tomorrow or even—he smiled at his own playfulness, surely excusable in a newly successful lover—today, would take place later in the spring, when his mother’s health could be expected to be more robust and when the weather would be more clement for the long, thirty-mile journey she and his sisters would be required to make. In the meanwhile he would do himself the honor of remaining at Penwith Manor until Christmas was over and would then return home in order to see that his affairs were in order prior to the permanent move to Penwith to claim his bride.

  Moira breathed a silent sigh of relief. She would have a few more months in which to prepare herself for the new life that was to be hers. Her mother touched her hand on the table and smiled at her. Sir Edwin expressed his pleasure at this sign of happiness in his future mother-in-law for the good fortune of her daughter. Moira knew that her mother understood, and that she realized as well as her daughter did that the sacrifice must be made. Though it was unfair to think of her approaching marriage in terms of sacrifice. It would be no worse than the vast majority of marriages that were solemnized every single day, and it would be considerably better than many.

  3

  SIR Edwin introduced another topic of conversation before luncheon was over, one that animated him
even more than that of his own wedding. In questioning the butler about the neighbors of sufficiently elevated rank that they merited a call from him during his stay at Penwith Manor, he had discovered an extraordinary fact. Doubtless Lady Hayes and Miss Hayes were already aware of it, since apparently it had occurred all of a week earlier. The Earl of Haverford had returned to Dunbarton Hall to take up his residence there.

  “Yes, Cousin Edwin,” Lady Hayes assured him, “we have heard. But—”

  But Sir Edwin scarcely paused for breath. He smiled at the ladies. “It is a conceivable truth that less generous, more petty-minded gentlemen than myself might resent the fact that I no longer outrank everyone else in the neighborhood, ma’am,” he said, “but I must pronounce myself deeply gratified to be given this chance to claim the Earl of Haverford as a neighbor. And as an acquaintance, of course. Was his lordship not a war hero? A major in one of the finer regiments? One can only assume that he would have reached the rank of general had the wars continued for a year or so longer. I must regret even more deeply than I did yesterday that ill health prevented my dear mother from accompanying me here. But she will be happy for my sake, and for yours, ma’am. And yours, Miss Hayes. She has a generous heart.”

  “But Cousin Edwin—” Lady Hayes tried again.

  Moira knew it was hopeless. It had been a wretched week. Not a word had been spoken at Penwith about the Earl of Haverford after her first abrupt announcement of his return when she had come back from her walk that day. Not a word had been spoken about him during any of the visits they had paid any of their neighbors during the week or during any of the visits paid them. And yet she—and surely her mother too—had been fully aware that conversation when they were not present must center about nothing else. Dunbarton had been without its master for seven years, after all. It was almost a relief to hear Sir Edwin finally speak openly on the forbidden topic.