Where the Heart Chooses

by Tinnean

  “I’m not interested in getting remarried.”

  “That damned Sebring curse,” he muttered under his breath. “Well, give it some consideration. He’s got excellent connections.” I folded my hands and regarded him thoughtfully, and he huffed out a breath, much as Tony was wont to do. “Keep in mind the Abberleys are a good family, an influential one with whom it would pay to be aligned.”

  “Father, what didn’t you understand about the words I’m not interested in getting remarried?”

  He ground his teeth but dropped the subject.

  “I’ve booked your flight out of Dulles for tomorrow evening. You’ll arrive in London at approximately six-thirty the following morning.”

  “Very well. I’ll return to Great Falls tomorrow afternoon and pack. Will you be flying with me, Father?”

  “No. I…er…need to remain here at Shadow Brook.”

  Was Mother that seriously ill? He didn’t usually exhibit his concern. “Will Jefferson be available to drive me to the airport?” Since the incident in 1980 when Chechen rebels had mistaken him for a simple businessman, Jefferson rarely went into the field.

  “Tony will.”

  “Isn’t the NSA rather busy?”

  “That’s immaterial. He’ll drive you to the airport as he’s always done.” And of course once at the airport, I’d be joined by one of his men or one of Father’s, who would keep discreetly in the background the entire time, until I was home again.

  “Yes, Father.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 17

  Unlike Lord John’s casket, Lady Portia’s coffin wasn’t closed. Whoever had done the embalming had done an exquisite job. She looked thirty years younger, and happy.

  In spite of the solemnity of the occasion, I enjoyed the time I spent with Jack. We had tea at Claridge’s and rode daily in Hyde Park. Eventually he asked if I’d help him clear out some of his mother’s letters.

  “Wouldn’t that be an invasion of her privacy?”

  “I hardly think it matters now. And these letters are from your mother. I think she might want them back.”

  “Oh?” But he wouldn’t satisfy my curiosity until we arrived back at the house in Hampstead.

  “Here.” The thick packet of letters was fastened with a faded, pink satin ribbon. “I stopped reading when I realized who they were from. The servants are off today. I’ll make us a pot of tea while you read them.”

  “Thank you,” I said absently. The first letter was to Miss Portia Fitzgibbons of Baltimore, and the return address was from Mary Blackburn, of the same city.

  Dear Gibsy,

  You’re getting married! I knew your John would come back for you! And he’s a viscount! You’re going to be a viscountess! Mother is livid that John never looked twice at me, but why should he when she ordered me to avoid him when she thought he was just an orphan with no connections at all? I’m relieved! You’ve loved him forever! And frankly, Gibsy, he’s old enough to be my…well…older brother! (I hope that made you laugh, as I’ve some unfortunate news to impart.)

  Mother claims we can no longer be friends! Can you imagine? We’ve been friends since Miss Haversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies! You were so kind to me when first I arrived there, when all the other girls treated me like a babe because I cried. Truly I couldn’t help it! I was eight, and it was the first time away from home, while you, at thirteen years, were very familiar with the ways of Miss Haversham’s and stuck up for me!

  I’ll have to sneak out to mail this. Well, fiddlesticks, say I!

  Remember your best friend when it’s time to choose your maid of honor!

  Love,

  Mistress Mary

  I smiled at all the exclamations. Who knew Mother had been such a lively young lady? Or that she’d been as contrary as her nickname implied. And then I was saddened. Life seemed to have wrung all the joy from her.

  As for Grandmother Blackburn, I remembered her only too well. She could be a horror.

  The next letters talked about “Gibsy’s” wedding gown and the clothes she would take on her honeymoon, where she would be married, her presentation to the queen, and how excited “Mistress Mary” was to learn that she, too, would have a season and be presented.

  That healed the breach between the two families, and until the day she died, Grandmother talked incessantly of Mother making her curtsy to Queen Mary.

  In a letter dated late in 1913, Mother wrote of meeting her English cousin Albert Victor Blackburn, who’d been in the States on a diplomatic mission.

  Oh heavens, Gibsy, he’s the most charming man! His hair is russet and his eyes are green. And best of all, Mother likes him! He treated us to an ice cream while he was in Baltimore!

  Gibsy, he’s the man I’m going to marry! I know it! Of course not just yet, and Father won’t hear of it. He says I’m too young, but you met your John when you were even younger! Mother says Father wouldn’t permit me to marry before I turn sixteen at the least. But I’m certain I’ll still feel this way about Albert, and of course that he’ll feel the same toward me.

  Albert’s had to return home, but he’s promised to answer if I write to him. If I’ll write! The silly dear! As if I could resist!

  I’m so giddy, I could dance on the ceiling!

  Love from your

  Mistress Mary

  P.S. Have you and John set the date yet?

  Less than two weeks later, she wrote again.

  Dearest Gibsy,

  What a wonderful idea to wed on Valentine’s Day! John is so romantic to have thought of it! Mother has approved of the design for the dress you chose for me, and as soon as the fittings are complete, we sail to Liverpool!

  I can’t believe that within two months’ time, you’ll be a married lady! Indeed, that you’ll be a Lady!

  Oh, Albert answered my letter! Perhaps I’ll be able to see him while I’m in England!

  Love,

  Mistress Mary

  * * * *

  My very dear Lady Portia,

  You’re married! I don’t expect you to answer this, since you’re on your honeymoon, but I simply had to tell you!

  A few days after the wedding, Albert took me for an outing to Gunter’s, (of course Bessie, my maid, accompanied us, so don’t frown at me!) and as I was dipping my spoon into the ice cream, he asked if I would wait for him! There’s something horrid happening across the Channel, and he fears there may be War!

  Of course I told him I’d wait! And on our return home, he asked Father for my hand! Father insisted we wait until my sixteenth birthday and my darling Albert agreed!

  So in two years, six months, and twenty-five days, I shall be a married woman too!

  Love,

  Mistress Mary (for even though I’m becoming too mature for such a name, I’ll always be your Mistress Mary!)

  * * * *

  Certainly Lord John must return to his properties in Africa, and you must go with him! How simply wizard, as Albert would say! Ride an elephant and think of me!

  P.S. I kissed Albert! Is kissing John as wonderful?

  * * * *

  Albert has enlisted! I pray nightly to God that He keep my darling out of harm’s way. I know that’s wrong. Albert is an honorable man who’ll do his duty. I pleaded with him to marry me before he received his orders, but he kissed me tenderly and promised he’d return to me.

  There was a gap in the letters, probably due to difficulties in mail delivery, and they became sporadic.

  This horrid, horrid, War! Mother insisted we return home and Father agreed with her. We sailed on the Mauretania on 11 August.

  * * * *

  I hear from Albert as often as he has time to write. He tells me amusing tales, but I’ve taken to reading the newspapers, and I understand what’s happening on the Western Front. Oh, Gibsy, I’m terrified something will happen to him. Thank God you and your John are out of harm’s way in Africa!

  * * * *

  The Huns are attempting to solidify their hold in Afric
a. Gibsy, you must promise me you’ll be safe!

  * * * *

  Other letters spoke of Mother’s worry for her friend; her sorrow for the loss of Lady Portia’s first child when they were forced to abandon their homestead and little Mary was bitten by a viper.

  Father brought home a Mr. Sebring, who works for the government. He must be Father’s age, and I didn’t like the way he regarded me; I excused myself as soon as I could.

  * * * *

  She must be talking about Grandfather, I thought. Well, it made sense, since she wound up marrying Father. I wondered if her letters would explain that.

  * * * *

  The next letter was dated January, 1919.

  Forgive me for not writing, my dearest Gibsy, but I’ve been filled with grief. Albert was killed on 11 November. That’s right, the very day of the Armistice. I cried and cried, but my tears did no good. Nothing will bring my Albert back. And I will never cry again.

  What makes this even more painful was the letter I received shortly before I was notified by his family of his death. He wrote of his relief that the War would soon be ending, and that we would be together before my next birthday.

  It’s been made all the more difficult, in that Mr. Sebring has come around more and more frequently. I’ve realized he wants me, not for himself, since he’s married to one of the most beautiful society women I have ever seen, but for his son.

  Anthony Sebring is as handsome as his mother is beautiful, with blond hair and eyes the color of blue ice, but I could see he had no interest in me. Rumor has it he’s enamored of a Ziegfeld girl. Frankly, it matters little to me one way or the other.

  I told Mother and Father to leave me in peace.

  * * * *

  Dear Lady Portia,

  I’m so pleased to learn you’ll be able to return to England shortly and that Lord John has possession of his lands in Africa once again.

  I’m writing to ask that you alter your journey slightly to make a stop in Baltimore. On 23 May, 1920, I will be marrying Anthony Sebring. He’s a cold man, but not a bad one. He’s explained he doesn’t love me—

  Well…well, couldn’t he have lied?

  —but I don’t need love from him. I need peace from my parents, who won’t stop hounding me about the necessity of me being married and providing them with grandchildren.

  At any rate, this won’t be the marriage I dreamed of, but perhaps the wedding shall. Please consider being my matron of honor, my dearest Gibsy.

  Love,

  Mary

  The remaining letters lost the spark of the earlier ones. Mother wrote of their move to the nation’s capital and the births of my first two brothers. She congratulated Gibsy on the arrival of a healthy son, and then announced the move to Shadow Brook. From the date on that letter, I knew it was after Grandmother Sebring had suffered a stroke and been forced to retire from society, and she and Grandfather had moved to the guest cottage on the property.

  There was a brief note that a third son had been born, and a longer letter when I arrived, in which she described her pleasure that she finally had a daughter she could name after her friend.

  She went into detail about the functions and inaugurations she attended, but little about Father beyond the fact that he wore a tuxedo well.

  She wrote most frequently of my middle brother, of how his coloring reminded her of someone, but how he was always getting into mischief. And as he grew older, sometimes more than mischief.

  One of Jefferson’s young ladies—and believe me I use that term loosely—sent me a note informing me she’d caught Jefferson in a compromising position. She tried to be coy, but I was aware of what she was trying to allude to, and I dealt with her. Jefferson’s shenanigans are not something I care to discuss in a letter, but one day when we’re together, we must have a conversation about our sons.

  * * * *

  Tony’s engagement had been called off. I knew he didn’t love the girl, but apparently she’d been under the misapprehension that he did. When she discovered otherwise she had a tantrum. I have no idea what she thought that would be in aid of, but the upshot was she threw the ring in Tony’s face.

  I don’t believe I told you of what my husband deems the “Sebring Curse.” Sebrings love once, and only once, and either my oldest son has yet to meet his love, or like his father, he loves someone utterly inappropriate.

  The Ziegfeld girl? Mother had taken me aside shortly before I’d married Nigel the second time. “You’re not going to tell me about the birds and the bees, are you, Mother?”

  “Portia, if you’re not aware by now, then I have no hope for you. No, the thing is, you’re an excellent horsewoman, so I’m simply going to say, keep a light hand on the reins when it comes to your husband. He may look elsewhere for…amusement…but he’ll return to you as long as you don’t make a huge fuss that he’s strayed.”

  I’d do more than make a fuss. I’d make him regret he’d ever chosen to go to another woman. However, I trusted Nigel not to do something that would break my heart.

  “Forgive me for asking, but is that what you’ve done with Father?”

  Her lips tightened. “Your father and I have an agreement, which isn’t any of your concern.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mother.”

  And the subject was never brought up again.

  I’m sorry putting my Portia and your Jack together didn’t work as we planned, but at least they seem to like each other.

  I must ask you, Gibsy—did Portia strike you as frigid?

  Oh God, was there anything more embarrassing than having a parent discuss a child’s sex life?

  I know she’s had boyfriends while she was away at Tidewater and then at Wellesley, but lately she’s been refusing to go out on a date unless it’s with a group of her friends. Tony mentioned something about her having to slap down a young man. Anthony would do well to leave her alone to work through the matter, but he’s arranging for a young man to be transferred to Tony’s office. I have no idea what his motivation is.

  I could have told her. Apparently, word had been going around the Capitol that not only was I the ice princess, but I was a lesbian as well. So Nigel was to prove to the world that while I might be cold, I still preferred men?

  Well, I preferred Nigel.

  * * * *

  Portia has married that young man with whom Anthony was at such pains to see she became involved. Now he’s unhappy about it. I told him to leave well enough alone, but of course he wouldn’t listen. Portia has gone with her husband to tour Europe…Of course she’d say nothing of our real destination and purpose for going there…and I made her promise to introduce you to Nigel if the opportunity should arise. He’s quite a charming man, but I’ll be interested in your opinion.

  The wedding was a quick affair, just a drive to a South Carolina justice of the peace. I was so disappointed, but she’s promised that I may plan their official wedding, so expect an invitation as soon as I have the details firmed up.

  We’d managed a flying visit, and Lady Portia had invited us to stay in the room she’d given me during my season in London. Making love on that soft, thick mattress had been a lovely experience, although I’d had to bite Nigel’s shoulder to muffle my cries, and he’d buried his face against my breast to do the same.

  Lady Portia had seemed captivated by him, and Jack, who’d returned from Africa for a brief stay, had shaken Nigel’s hand, kissed my cheek, and informed his mother he’d be staying at his club.

  * * * *

  Dearest Gibsy,

  I wish you could be here. Your goddaughter has given birth to the most delightful baby boy, who’ll be christened Quinton Anthony. At the moment his eyes are blue, but Portia has told us her doctor said most likely they’d change to hazel, which, as you know, is the color of Nigel’s eyes. As for his hair—I’ve never seen a baby with such platinum locks. Already he’s sleeping through the night and he’s able to focus!

  Bryan is engaged to a young widow with two small
children. Of course Anthony is pleased, and Bryan seems happier than I can remember him being in too many years.

  Frankly, Gibsy, what do I know of my children? They’re more Anthony’s than they were ever mine.

  She was right in that. I felt so bad for Mother. She was married to a man who didn’t love her and her children afforded her respect but not much else.

  I took out the next letter.

  * * * *

  Portia’s husband Nigel was killed on New Year’s Day when the jet he was in crashed…

  I didn’t need to look at the date on this letter. It was 1978, nine years ago. Would the pain ever get better? I folded the letter and put it into its envelope, unable to continue reading.

  “Portia?” How long had Jack been sitting there?

  “I’m sorry. I…” I took a handkerchief from the pocket of my riding habit and dried my cheeks. “I think I’d better return home.”

  “Of course. But have your tea first.”

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “I appreciate your presence here more than I can say.”

  “Lady Portia was always so kind to me.”

  “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we’d fallen in love?”

  I raised the teacup to avoid responding, because frankly, I’d never wondered.

  Apparently Jack had. “We’d have had a half dozen children, boys with black hair and gray eyes, girls who were blue-eyed and blonde—”

  “How is it you never married?” I didn’t want to think of all the children that Nigel and I never had. “Didn’t you ever find the right woman?”

  “The right woman chose someone else.”

  “Jack—”

  “Do you know why I never made a push to engage your affections when you were staying with Mother? You were so ethereal. You looked as if a strong wind would knock you right over. Mother could never help Father as much as he’d have wanted, and I…I didn’t want to make that mistake. By the time I realized that I’d succeeded in making an ever bigger mistake, you’d returned home. Before you return home this time, I want to make sure you know how I feel. It’s been almost ten years since you lost your husband. I’m not asking that you forget you were ever married to Nigel Mann—well, you couldn’t, considering you have his son to remind you of him—but perhaps one day?”