by Mary Balogh
There was to be a ball at the assembly rooms in Tawmouth in honor of the new year. A number of his houseguests had already left, but a few of those who remained decided that the assembly might be amusing even if it could not possibly surpass the Christmas ball at Dunbarton. There was one young man, for example, who remembered the pretty Miss Penallen, and there were two young ladies who made some giggling references to the young Meeson sons. Ainsleigh and Helen were keen to go. Juliana really should see the inside of the assembly rooms, the countess told Lady Hockingsford in Kenneth’s hearing. They were quite tastefully designed even if somewhat austere.
Moira would be there, Kenneth thought. She would surely be there. But then, the assembly was not to be avoided on that account. He had been half expecting all week to run into her at the homes of people they visited in the streets of Tawmouth. She could not be avoided forever. And he had no wish to avoid her. Quite the contrary. There was some unfinished business between them, and he intended to see it properly finished. She would not be allowed to defy him.
The very thought of seeing her, of talking with her, irritated him.
Miss Wishart would travel in his carriage with Helen, Ainsleigh, and himself, it was arranged. Two other carriages were to be filled with those of his remaining guests who wished to attend. There was a mood of distinct gaiety as the carriages filled up and set off on their way to Tawmouth.
* * *
FOR the week following Christmas, Lady Hayes was convinced that her daughter had taken a chill during the walk home from Dunbarton Hall the morning after the ball.
“I really do not know what his lordship was thinking of to allow such a thing,” she said, “when the snow was too deep to allow of his carriage being called out. The weather is far too cold to be out walking. And the snow is too deep for your boots. At least you had that nice warm scarf to wrap about your face, but it was not nearly enough.”
“But I would not hear of staying any longer at Dunbarton, Mama,” Moira said. She smiled. “And you know how stubborn I can be when my mind is made up.”
“It was obliging of him to escort you in person at least,” Lady Hayes said. “But I cannot believe that Sir Edwin would have allowed your stubbornness to persuade him into condoning anything so foolish.”
“I was uncomfortable at Dunbarton,” Moira said. “Everyone else who was left there is a houseguest. Most of them are members of the earl’s family. I know none of them. I had to come home.”
Her mother looked at her in some sympathy. “I can understand that, dear,” she said, “but you do look unusually pale. I hope you have not taken a chill.”
“The walk was brisk and invigorating,” Moira said. She hated the lies and half-truths and outright deception she was being forced into. It might so easily come out at some later date that she had left Dunbarton before the end of the ball. It might so easily come out that Kenneth had not spent the night at Penwith. She did indeed feel ill, both on that day and on the days succeeding it, but not because she had taken a chill.
She could not write to Sir Edwin. At first the roads were impassable and no letter could be sent. She found anyway, though, that whenever she sat down to prepare the letter—and she tried a number of times—there was no easy or satisfactory way to express herself. No way at all, in fact. She never succeeded in getting beyond the first few stilted words of greeting. What exactly should she say? What reason could she give for what must be done? It was such a very shocking thing to do, to break off an engagement once it had been formally entered into. Doing so would expose Sir Edwin to ridicule and herself to scandal. She did not care about herself, but he did not deserve ridicule.
And then, when the roads did clear, a letter arrived with the first post informing her, in Sir Edwin’s usual flowery manner, that his mother was indeed very ill and that his great anxiety for her health was eased only by the assurance he was confident of feeling that Miss Hayes was kind enough to suffer a similar anxiety for her future mother-in-law. His sisters were similarly reassured.
It was clearly not the time to write her letter, Moira decided. It would be cruel to do so just now. She would wait a week or two until his mother was in better health. She knew that she was being cowardly, that she was making excuses, that no time would be a good time for such an announcement. The realization of her own cowardice only made her feel more ill, though it could not goad her into action. She seemed paralyzed by a massive lethargy.
The events of that night seemed unreal and nightmarish in retrospect, but she knew perfectly well that they had really happened. She was the one entirely to blame. It would have helped, she thought ruefully, if she could have heaped some of the blame upon him, but she could not do so. He had offered the hospitality of his home, despite the disapproval of his mother and sister, and she had spurned it. He had come out after her into the storm, purely out of concern for her safety, risking his own. When he had found her, he had done everything in his power to ensure her survival. She might have thought that the idea of not surviving a cold night was absurd if she had not experienced that particular night for herself.
He had not wanted to be intimate with her. He had been very practical and dispassionate about the whole thing. He had been merely keeping her—and himself—warm. She could burn with embarrassment and shame at the memory, especially over the fact that she had enjoyed what happened. She had done so on his instructions, of course, but since when had she done anything merely because he had suggested it? She even had a suspicion, which she tried to deny to herself, that she had enjoyed it because it had happened with Kenneth. She could not quite imagine that with Sir Edwin . . . She shook off the thought with some horror at herself.
No, she could not blame Kenneth. He had even been prepared afterward to marry her. She hated not being able to blame him or despise him or fault him in any way at all.
She did not take a chill from the night’s adventures, but she felt quite ill, nevertheless. There was no one to confide in. The loneliness was perhaps worst of all, and it was compounded by two facts: the weather remained chilly and the snow was slow to melt. When it began to do so and turned to slush, going out was even more difficult. Taking a carriage into Tawmouth was out of the question. Normally, she would have scorned to remain at home just because of a little slush and would have walked to the village, but this week she felt too ill, too lethargic to do so. And there was that other fact that kept her away from Tawmouth and the homes of her friends and neighbors too. She was terrified of running into Kenneth—into the Earl of Haverford somewhere. She would never again be able to look him in the eye. How could she possibly do so without remembering . . . Even the thought of it could bring a hot flush to her cheeks.
She despised her cowardice.
And she hated him for causing it.
“Perhaps we should stay at home, Moira,” Lady Hayes suggested on the day of the assembly in Tawmouth. They had both planned to attend the New Year’s ball as they did every year. They had both looked forward to it with some eagerness. “You have still not recovered from that long walk from Dunbarton, and I daresay you are missing Sir Edwin, though we are both agreed that his conversation is sometimes a trial to the patience. I still believe we should summon Mr. Ryder and get him to have a look at you.” Mr. Ryder was a physician who had retired from a fashionable practice in London in order to set up a smaller one in Tawmouth three years before.
“I do not need a physician, Mama,” Moira said. “But I do need the assembly. We both do. The weather has kept us cooped up here for the best part of a week and has plunged us both into the dismals. An evening of dancing and conversing with our neighbors will be just the thing.” It would, too. She could not bear the thought of staying at home any longer. And the New Year assembly was one of her mother’s favorite occasions of the year. If Moira stayed at home, then her mother would stay too. It would be most unfair.
“Well, if you are quite sure, dear,” Lady Hayes sa
id, sounding quite noticeably cheered. “I am rather eager, I will not hesitate to confess, to discover from Mrs. Trevellas if her daughter-in-law’s confinement has been brought to a happy conclusion yet. It is her first, you know.”
And so they went to the assembly in the evening. The assemblies were not grand affairs when judged by Dunbarton standards. The rooms were plainly decorated and the music was provided by Miss Pitt on the pianoforte, sometimes with the accompaniment of Mr. Ryder on the violin. One very seldom saw any new faces at the assemblies and the program was quite predictable, as was the food served at supper. One did not approach the Tawmouth assemblies in anticipation of any great excitement, but it was pleasant to be in company with all one’s neighbors at once and to be able to dance. It was always a good way to begin a new year.
Moira felt quite comfortable about going to the assembly. The cook at Penwith had heard from the butcher’s boy, who had heard from the butcher’s wife, who had heard from one of the servants at Dunbarton that the guests there had begun to leave. Those who remained would doubtless be entertained royally to their own New Year celebrations. A mere village assembly would be quite beneath the notice of the Earl of Haverford and any other member of the Woodfall family. None of them had ever attended a ball in Tawmouth.
She sat beside Harriet Lincoln after seeing her mother settled between Mrs. Trevellas and Mrs. Finley-Evans, and proceeded happily with the business of catching up on the week’s news. The Meesons’ eldest son danced the opening set with her and Mr. Lincoln the second. She shook off the gloom of the preceding week and the dreadful burden that still hung over her, the knowledge that soon—tomorrow—she must write her letter to Sir Edwin. She would think of it tomorrow. Tomorrow was not only a new day, after all, but a new year. Tonight she would simply enjoy herself.
And then, just after she had seated herself beside Harriet again, there was a stir about the doors, which had opened to admit new arrivals. Both she and Harriet looked up in some curiosity. Everyone who had been expected had already arrived. Moira felt a dreadful premonition even before her mind started to work properly or her brain accepted the message her eyes had sent it.
“Well, this is a very pleasant surprise,” Harriet said quietly while the whole room seemed to buzz with increased animation. “More young people to make those already in attendance ecstatic. And Viscount Ainsleigh and his wife. And the earl himself, Moira. How very gratifying. Will they find one of our humble assemblies to their taste, do you suppose?”
“I do not know,” Moira said lamely. She looked at him aghast, and felt her mouth go dry and her stomach turn queasy. He looked tall, elegant, handsome, aristocratic—remote. He looked like a stranger from a world far above hers. And he had been inside her body.
“He is quite sinfully handsome,” Harriet murmured, unfurling her fan and waving it in front of her face, even though the room was not overwarm. The new arrivals were being made much of by a self-appointed welcoming committee. There was a great deal of hearty laughter. “More handsome than I expected, though I had been warned.” Harriet had come to Tawmouth only six years before on her marriage to Mr. Lincoln. “Do you not admire his looks exceedingly, Moira? Will he marry Miss Wishart, do you think? He has been paying her marked attention since she came to Dunbarton with her mama and papa. It was quite noticeable at the Christmas ball. And he was showing her the shops and the harbor two days ago—with his mama and hers as chaperones, of course. They make a quite handsome couple, do they not?”
“Yes,” Moira said.
Harriet looked at her sharply and laid a hand on her arm. “Oh, poor Moira,” she said. “It must be quite distressing to see young love when you are being forced by circumstances into a marriage that is less than palatable to you. You will pardon my plain speaking, but friends speak plainly to each other.”
Moira frowned. “I have never said—” she began.
“I know you have not,” Harriet said quickly, squeezing her arm. “And I ought not to have mentioned it. Sir Edwin Baillie, I am sure, has his good qualities. It will be an eminently respectable marriage for you. And if one is to be quite truthful and perfectly spiteful, one might remark that Miss Wishart is too young for our earl and will doubtless bore him to death within a month. There, that should make you feel better.” She laughed.
Moira forced a smile. And then her eyes met the Earl of Haverford’s across the room. It was a dreadful moment, quite as bad as she might have imagined. He regarded her coldly, unsmilingly, and for her part she could not seem to withdraw her gaze even though that queasiness gripped her stomach again and she could feel the blood draining from her head. Her breath felt cold in her nostrils. She felt that she was about to faint.
He looked away, said something to Miss Wishart, and smiled at her.
Self-contempt saved Moira from ignominy. The sight of a man had almost made her faint? The sight of Kenneth? Never! Never on this earth. She found herself doing what Harriet had done a minute or two before. She spread her fan and cooled her face with it. She suddenly felt as hot as she had felt cold a few moments before.
10
KENNETH’S young relatives were in remarkably high spirits. The young ladies giggled; the young gentlemen talked rather too loudly and laughed rather too heartily. Ainsleigh, the self-proclaimed elder statesman of the group, had undertaken to chaperone the youngsters with his wife. Both were clearly prepared to enjoy the evening and the company of people Helen had known during her youth. Juliana Wishart was sweet and shy and smiling. The people of Tawmouth and its surrounding properties seemed genuinely delighted to have their numbers so unexpectedly augmented—especially by so many young people, Mr. Penallen assured them, smacking his hands together and rubbing them as if he washed them. And of course they were especially honored to have the Earl of Haverford in their midst for their humble assembly, the Reverend Finley-Evans was hasty to add.
Kenneth inclined his head graciously to the people who had gathered about to greet them, but only half heard the impromptu speeches of welcome. His heart was thumping uncomfortably against his rib cage and made him short of breath. He felt far more nervous than he would have expected. Indeed, he had not considered nervousness as a possibility—he associated nervousness with the imminence of battle. His palms felt clammy. He knew almost immediately that she really was at the assembly—he saw Lady Hayes sitting close by, beside Mrs. Trevellas.
And then he saw Moira Hayes herself across the room, and his eyes met and held hers. Her deep blue dress was far more demure than the one she had worn to his ball. Her hair was dressed more severely. She looked like a perfectly genteel member of this particular society. She blended into her world just as if she had never stood watch on the clifftop in the dead of night, pointing a pistol at his heart, while below her on the beach, smugglers plied their trade. Just as if she had never lain in the hermit’s hut on the hill and traded her virginity for survival. Just as if she had never thumbed her nose at convention by refusing to take the consequences of that night’s deeds.
She held her chin high and would not look away from him. If he held her gaze any longer, he knew, people would begin to notice and remark upon it. She was pale. Even across the room and in candlelight she looked noticeably pale. He looked away and down at Juliana Wishart. He forced himself to smile at her.
“Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?” he asked.
She smiled her acquiescence and he wondered why he had not fallen in love with her. He had not been blind to the looks of wistful admiration some of his young cousins had directed at her. But of course none of them had even tried to engage her interest. She was perceived as being his property. Poor Juliana—she might have had a more enjoyable Christmas if his mother and hers had been less meddlesome.
It was a minuet, the music played on the pianoforte rather more slowly than it was intended to be played. He was able to converse a little, and did so to distract his mind from the sight of Moira Hayes da
ncing with Deverall, one of the wealthier landowners from the other side of the valley. Kenneth kept his eyes on Juliana.
“You will be spending the Season in town?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe Papa intends to take us there, my lord.”
“You will take the ton by storm,” he said, smiling kindly at her. “You will be the envy of every other young lady. You will have all the gentlemen falling over their feet in a race with one another to pay their respects to you.” He had finally verbalized in his mind his feelings for her. They were avuncular.
She blushed and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
He might as well make clear to her what she must already suspect, he decided. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that before the Season ends one of those fortunate gentlemen will have won both your hand and your heart. He is to be envied.”
He could see from her eyes that she understood. She looked—grateful? “Thank you,” she said again.
He suspected something suddenly. “Has he already been identified?” he asked. “Is there already someone special?”
“My lord—” Her blush deepened and she looked anxiously about her for a moment. But her mother was not present to dictate to her how to speak and how to behave.
“There is someone,” he said. “I suspected it. I should force his name from you and challenge him to pistols at dawn.” He spoke with a twinkle in his eye so that she would know that he teased—and also that he was not nursing a broken heart. “I will wish you joy instead. And the approval of your parents.”
“Thank you.” Her voice came on a whisper and for the first time she smiled at him with unaffected charm. She laughed and the sound was delightful. “Thank you, my lord.”
