by Mary Balogh
But her mother came hurrying into the room before she could reach the door. Lady Hayes was carrying an open letter in one hand.
“Oh, my dear Moira,” she said, “here is a letter from Christobel Baillie and it appears that we have been doing Sir Edwin an injustice. We have thought him oversolicitous for his mother’s health. But she is on her deathbed. They are Christobel’s own words. You may read for yourself. The physician has warned them all that her demise is imminent. Poor Sir Edwin is distraught with anxiety and grief and is quite unable to write himself.”
Moira took the letter from her mother’s hand and read it. It was quite true, it seemed. Mrs. Baillie was dying. Perhaps she had already passed on.
“It is only the assurance my brother feels that you, ma’am, and his dearly betrothed are as anguished as we are,” Christobel had written, “that will sustain him through the coming days. We will all have a dear mother to take the place of the dearest of mothers, Edwin tells us, and a new sister too. There is light beyond the darkness, as of course there always is.”
Moira bit her upper lip hard and was surprised to find that the page had blurred before her vision. You were prepared to marry Baillie, who is an ass by even the kindest estimation. And so a man had been callously dismissed last evening. And she had wronged him in one of the worst imaginable ways. Yet he was a man who loved his mother and his sisters and who, in his own way, perhaps, even loved her and her mother. Was that so very asinine?
“Yes, dear.” Her own tears had provoked her mother’s too. “We will dry our eyes and drink a cup of tea and then each write a letter. I shall write to Christobel and her sisters. I think it would not be amiss if you wrote to Sir Edwin. It will be quite proper under the circumstances, especially as he is your betrothed.” Only then did she notice the folded paper in her daughter’s free hand. “But you have written already?”
Moira crumpled the page into a ball. “But it is not appropriate now,” she said. “I shall write another, Mama. Poor Sir Edwin. I was inclined to make light of his anxiety, but it has proved to be well-founded. I feel very guilty.”
“I am just as guilty, Moira,” her mother said, pulling on the bell rope to order the tea tray. “We must learn to value that young man. He is fussy in his ways and a little tedious in his conversation, but I have come to believe that he will make an excellent and a loyal husband and son-in-law.” She smiled and dabbed firmly at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Poor Cousin Gertrude.”
She should have written six days ago, Moira thought. As soon as the Earl of Haverford had taken his leave the morning after the ball and as soon as she had washed and changed and had a hot drink, she should have written instead of making excuses. Now it was more difficult to send such a letter. It was almost impossible to do so, in fact—and would become even more so if and when news arrived that Mrs. Baillie had died. She would have to wait a suitable interval. How long? A week? A month? Longer? Sir Edwin would wish to postpone the wedding, of course, she realized suddenly, perhaps for a whole year of mourning. It felt like a reprieve—or a license for further procrastination.
She sat down hastily on the nearest chair, bowed her head, closed her eyes, and swallowed repeatedly. By a sheer effort of will she kept herself from vomiting. What if—? But she quelled the feeling of blank terror that threatened to wash over her. It was guilt pure and simple that was making her feel ill. Oh, how she wished she had written that letter five days ago.
* * *
BY the end of January, Kenneth was alone at Dunbarton again. His mother had been the last to leave. She had gone to spend a month or two with her sister before returning to Norfolk.
It felt good to be alone. He was able to concentrate on work. He knew very little about farming and the running of a large estate, he had realized over Christmas. But it was knowledge he was determined to acquire, and so he threw himself into weeks of intensive study, both indoors while he pored over the books and outdoors while he tramped about fields and meadows and spoke endlessly with farmers and consulted with his steward. Spring would be coming soon and he wished to be able to make most of the decisions concerning his own farms for himself.
The temptation to go away was not entirely absent. Although he was well received by his neighbors and never lacked for invitations to dine or to join an evening of cards or to go out shooting, he became aware, too, that he could not expect to make any close friends here. He was too well regarded, too highly respected. Perhaps he would not have felt the need of close peer friendships if he had not known them during his years with the cavalry—but he had known them.
Nat and Eden were both going to Stratton Park in Kent to spend some time with Rex. Both had run into trouble—entirely predictable—in town over Christmas. Eden had had the misfortune to be caught in bed with a married woman—by her husband, of whose existence he had not known. Nat had felt the noose tighten about his neck after he had kissed a certain young lady beneath the mistletoe and raised expectations in her family. Kenneth could relate to that situation, at least. So both had decided to rusticate for a while as the wisest course—and along with Rex, they wanted Kenneth to join them at Stratton.
The temptation to do so was strong. It would undoubtedly be good to see the three of them again. But he knew very well what would happen after the first few days. He would feel restless and idle again. Besides . . .
Besides, he thought with a certain gritting of the teeth a few days after his mother’s departure, a feud had been ended more than a month before, and the two families concerned had put themselves on visiting terms once more. Yet he had not been near Penwith Manor since the morning after his ball. And he had seen neither Lady Hayes nor Moira since the New Year’s assembly. He owed them a call—unpalatable as the thought was to him and unwelcome as the visit doubtless would be to them. Besides, he had learned something during a visit from the Reverend Finley-Evans the day before that made the courtesy of a visit quite necessary.
He rode down to Penwith the following afternoon, Nelson loping along beside his horse. It was a particularly sunny, deceptively springlike day. Perhaps, he thought, the weather had taken the ladies from home. He almost hoped it was so until he realized that he would only have to do this all over again tomorrow.
Lady Hayes was at home; Miss Hayes had walked into Tawmouth, the servant who answered the door informed him. He felt a certain relief, but it was short-lived. He spent an awkward fifteen minutes conversing with Lady Hayes, expressing his condolences on the recent death of Sir Edwin Baillie’s mother. She did not say a great deal and was easily as uncomfortable as he was, but she did make one significant comment. Sir Edwin had thought it only proper to postpone his nuptials until at least the autumn, perhaps for the full year of his mourning.
Moira Hayes had still not ended the betrothal, then.
He took his leave after declining the invitation to take tea and rode slowly back along the valley. He was trying to make up his mind whether to cross the bridge above the falls when he came to it and take the road to the hilltop on the other side or whether to ride right down the valley to Tawmouth. Even then he might miss her. And what purpose would be served by seeing her? He had left a message of sympathy for her with her mother. And if she chose to marry Baillie despite everything, who was he to interfere? He doubted Baillie had a great deal of sexual experience. Perhaps he would not even notice that he had a less-than-virgin bride. Perhaps she would get away with her deception.
He would not even try to see her, he decided when he reached the bridge. He turned his horse onto it and whistled to Nelson, who had run ahead. And yet he found himself stopping and dismounting when he came to the middle of the bridge. It really was a beautiful day. One might even imagine that there was warmth in the sun. The sunlight was sparkling off the water as it fell over the short waterfall and continued on its way to the sea. This was surely one of the most beautiful spots in all England. Heavy ferns overhung the banks on either side
of the river. The baptistry was up on the hill above the trees, overlooking it all. He turned his head and looked up at it after leaning his arms along the mossy stone wall of the bridge.
He could not remember how many times he had met her in all, after that first unplanned encounter in the cove when he was a boy. Ten times? A dozen? Certainly not many more than that. It was not easy for gently bred young ladies to get away on their own, to escape from the close chaperonage of mothers and maids and governesses. And he had had a strong conscience—stronger than hers. She had used to laugh at him when he became nervous about what would happen to her if she was caught. She had used to pull the pins from her hair and shake it free. If they were on the beach, she would pull off her shoes and stockings and toss them aside before running barefoot over the sand. In her naïveté she had not realized, perhaps, how such actions had inflamed his passion for her. But in all essential ways he had been a proper young gentleman. A few stolen kisses . . .
Nelson was barking joyfully and racing down the wrong bank of the river—racing to meet someone. She was wearing the gray cloak and bonnet he had seen before. She was quite alone. He drew breath to bellow at Nelson, but his dog had recognized her and had clearly abandoned any idea of her as a possible enemy. His tail was waving gleefully. She stood very still for a moment, but she dropped her hand to pat the dog’s head when he halted in front of her and nudged his nose at her in greeting. She looked up and ahead to the bridge.
He did not go to meet her as she walked closer. He stayed where he was and watched her. She moved with her customary grace. She also, he thought as she reached the end of the bridge and stopped, looked very pale. Quite ill, in fact.
“Hello, Moira,” he said.
“My lord.” She regarded him with steady, unsmiling eyes.
“I have been calling on Lady Hayes,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows but did not reply.
“With my condolences,” he said. “I understand that Sir Edwin Baillie lost his mother less than a week ago.”
“She had been ill since before Christmas,” she said, “severely so since just after. But despite the fact that Sir Edwin was expecting this outcome, it has been a severe blow to him. He is very close to his family.”
“And you,” he said. “Are you still planning to marry him?”
“That is my concern, my lord,” she said, “and his.”
He was still leaning on the wall of the bridge, looking at her sideways. Even her lips were pale. “You have been ill,” he said.
“Not ill so much as housebound by the inclement weather for most of this month,” she said. “Fortunately, spring is coming.”
His eyes had been moving assessingly down her body. But if anything, she was slimmer than usual. He asked the question anyway. “Are you with child, Moira?” he asked.
Her chin jerked up a notch. “Of course not,” she said. “What a ridiculous notion.”
“Ridiculous?” he said. “Have you never been told about the birds and the bees?”
“If you still worry that you will be called upon to make the supreme sacrifice,” she said, “allow me to reassure you. I am not increasing. You are under no obligation to me. You are quite free to go in pursuit of Miss Wishart and make her your offer. I suppose that I have delayed it. Delay no longer. Spring is said to be a good time for a wedding.”
“I will remember that,” he said. “And it is enormously comforting to know that I have your blessing.”
They stood looking at each other while Nelson ambled across the bridge and joined his horse, which was cropping the grass beside the bank.
“Good day to you, my lord,” she said at last.
“Good day,” he said, “Miss Hayes.”
He looked down into the water again as she walked on. He waited for the feeling of relief, which was going to be quite overwhelming when it came. The suspense, the fear, had been there at the back of his mind all month. He could feel nothing. He had always—almost always—tried to do what was right and proper. He had befriended Sean against his father’s orders, of course, but he had shunned the friendship when Sean had grown older and wilder. He had kept trysts with Moira despite the fact that she was a young lady and a Hayes in addition. But he had never tried to coax her to any intimacy beyond relatively chaste kisses, and he had fully intended to put his love for her to the test, to bring it into the open, to assert his firm intention of marrying her. For the sake of an old friendship he had turned a blind eye to Sean’s criminal activities, persuading himself that smuggling in the area of Tawmouth was not a very serious business, anyway. Only when he had learned that Sean was dallying with Helen had he acted. Perhaps wrongly. Who knew? Who could ever know? He had gone with his conscience, and in the process he had discovered things about Moira he would rather not have known. He had broken his own heart.
He could not feel the relief he should have felt in the knowledge that he had not impregnated Moira on the night of his ball. You are under no obligation to me. Her voice had been quite steady when she had said it. She had meant it. But he could not believe it, much as he might wish to do so. He had ruined her, but she would not allow him to salve his conscience.
Foolishly he wished—and how he wished it!—that he had not gone down onto the beach and into the cove on that long-ago day of his youth to sit and think. If they had not met on that day, the whole course of his life might have been different.
He laughed rather harshly as he pushed himself upright at last and turned toward the bank and his horse. What a ridiculous notion. What a ridiculous notion. She had spoken just those words a few minutes ago. Making light of what had happened. As if it was quite impossible for his seed to take root in her.
He wondered how he was going to cope with the burden of guilt in the weeks and months ahead.
* * *
WHY had she denied it? Moira asked herself as she walked on up the valley. The perfect opportunity had presented itself, and she had rejected it.
Are you with child, Moira?
Of course not. What a ridiculous notion.
Did she imagine that by continuing to deny it, the whole thing would just go away? Mama had been wanting to send for Mr. Ryder, and she had kept assuring Mama that she was feeling indisposed merely because the weather had been consistently dreary since the beginning of the month. In the past week, of course, since news of the death of Mrs. Baillie had reached them, Mama had not questioned her lack of color or appetite. Moira had looked at her own symptoms, even to the absence of her monthly flow, and had given herself a dozen explanations—a dozen over and above the one her mind had skirted around.
She had known for some time, of course—perhaps in some strange way even from the start—why she was feeling constantly off color.
She would have to tell him.
He had just asked right out without any circumlocution. And she had denied it.
She would have to write to Sir Edwin.
His mother had just died, and he had written her a long letter full of pomposities and absurdities and raw grief.
She would have to tell Mama.
Tomorrow.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” she muttered aloud. That was a quotation. Pope? Shakespeare? Milton? Her mind would not function. It was not important, anyway.
Tomorrow she would do it all—speak to Mama, write to Sir Edwin, send for Kenneth.
But tomorrow she had promised to accompany Harriet on a visit to the ailing Miss Pitt.
* * *
LORD Pelham and Mr. Gascoigne came down to Cornwall in March to spend some time with their friend. Rex Adams, Viscount Rawleigh, had not come with them though the three of them had been together for some time, first at Stratton Park and then at Bodley House in Derbyshire, home of Rex’s twin brother.
“We left there in something of a hurry,” Lord Pelham explained with a chuckle as the three fr
iends talked at Dunbarton on their first evening together. They were still at the dining table, drinking their port, though they had been there for several hours and the food had long ago been borne away. “The predictable reason.”
“A woman?” Kenneth raised his eyebrows.
“A woman,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “A real looker, Ken. And a widow to boot. Unfortunately, she was the only looker in the whole of Derbyshire, as far as we could see.”
“I take it,” Kenneth said with a grin, “that she was not looking at you, then, Nat? She fancied Eden or Rex more than you?”
“None of us, actually,” Mr. Gascoigne said with mock gloom.
“Though to be fair to our handsome and charming selves,” Lord Pelham said, “it should be added that Nat and I were not given the chance to try our charms on her. Rex fancied her and warned us off before we could put in our own claims. We believe she gave him his royal comeuppance.”
“Rex?” Kenneth was still grinning. It felt enormously pleasurable to be with his friends again. “That must have been an insufferable blow to his pride. It is rare for a woman to thumb her nose at him.”
“He left Bodley with scarce a moment’s notice,” Mr. Gascoigne said, “dragging us along with him. Mrs. Adams, his brother’s wife, you know, must have had an apoplexy when she found Rex gone. She has a marriageable sister and had definite designs on his person.”
“He would not come here with us, though,” Lord Pelham said. “He was going home to Stratton bearing a distinct resemblance to a whipped cur eager to lick its wounds. I would give a king’s ransom to have been able to eavesdrop on his final conversation with the delectable—and doubtless virtuous—Mrs. Winters.”
They all laughed heartily, though not out of callousness for their friend. For eight years they had supported one another, laughed at and with one another, fought alongside one another, helped one another bear the burdens of a difficult and dangerous life. All of them at varying times during those years had had dealings with women, usually wildly successful, occasionally not. They had never allowed one another to become despondent over the failures. They had teased and insulted until the loser came out of his doldrums if only to hit back.
