Only Beloved

by Mary Balogh

  Or was she imagining that there was deep darkness inside him?

  “I have a wedding gift for you,” he said after setting his empty cup and saucer back on the tray.

  “George!” She spoke reproachfully. “You do not need to keep lavishing gifts on me. Your wedding gift was a diamond pendant and earrings, and they were more than enough. I have never owned anything half as precious.”

  “Jewels!” He made a dismissive gesture with one hand as though they were nothing of any real value. “This is something more personal, something I believe you will like.”

  “I like my diamonds,” she assured him.

  “You will like this more.” He got to his feet and took her hand in his. “Come. Let me show you.”

  He looked like an eager boy, she thought.

  He took her downstairs and past the door to the room she knew was the library, though she had not seen inside any of the ground-floor apartments yet. She might be exploring for the whole of the next week before she saw everything, or so it seemed. He stopped outside the door next to the library.

  “It is the music room,” he told her, his hand on the doorknob. “It overlooks the rose garden rather than the sea, and I have always thought that a particularly clever touch. There has always been just a grand pianoforte in here apart from the chairs awaiting an audience. It has an excellent tone, and you will enjoy playing it, I believe, whenever you can tear yourself away from your own pianoforte in your sitting room.”

  She tipped her head sideways and looked up at him. He was deliberately delaying opening the door.

  “It is neither the rose garden nor the grand pianoforte that is your wedding gift, though,” he said.

  “The chairs, then?”

  He smiled and opened the door, standing to one side so that she could precede him into the room.

  The grand pianoforte, standing almost alone in the middle of a large, high-ceilinged chamber, was indeed a magnificent instrument. That was immediately apparent to Dora. It had elegant, pleasing lines, and its high gloss gleamed even in the dull light that came through the windows. It was reflected in the highly polished wooden floor. Roses were blooming outside. But it was upon none of those beautiful things that her eyes focused.

  “Oh.” She stood rooted to a spot just inside the doorway.

  A full-sized harp, intricately and elegantly carved and looking as though it might well be made of solid gold, stood to one side of the pianoforte, a gilded chair drawn up to it. “Mine? It is mine?”

  “Only on condition that you allow me to listen occasionally whenever you play it,” he said from behind her shoulder. “No, correct that. There are no conditions. It is a gift, Dora—my wedding gift to you. Yes, it is yours.”

  Memories of last year and her first meeting with the Duke of Stanbrook came rushing back to her. When she had entertained Viscount Darleigh’s guests at Middlebury Park, she had played the harp first before moving on to the pianoforte. Everyone had been kind and appreciative, but it was the duke—George—who had got to his feet when she had finished at the harp and drawn the stool back from the pianoforte for her. It was he who had led her upstairs to the drawing room for refreshments afterward and filled a plate for her and brought her a cup of tea before seating himself beside her and speaking in warm praise of her talent.

  She had fallen a little in love with him that evening, foolish and presumptuous though it had seemed at the time.

  “I have never seen anything more magnificent. It is a work of art,” she said, crossing the room toward the harp and touching the solid beauty of its frame with reverence before running her fingers lightly across the strings. A mellow ripple of sound followed their movement. She dared not even hazard a guess at how much it had cost.

  And it was hers.

  “When I was a girl,” she said, “I was enchanted by an old battered harp that no one ever played at the home of one of our neighbors. I could not stop running my hand over its strings just to hear the sound that came from them. More than anything in the world I wanted to coax real music from it. My mother arranged with those neighbors to allow my music teacher to accompany me there on certain days and teach me to play. Sometimes they allowed me to go there alone and practice. Mama persuaded Papa to buy me the little harp I still have, the one I used to take with me when I visited the sick and elderly at Inglebrook. I did not encounter a real harp again until Viscount Darleigh—Vincent—employed me to give him pianoforte lessons and I saw it there in the music room at Middlebury Park. Even in my dreams I did not imagine that I would ever own one.”

  “But now you do,” he said.

  She swung around. He was still standing just inside the door, his hands clasped behind his back, beaming with pleasure.

  “What have I done to deserve this?” she asked him.

  “Let me see.” He looked up at the painted, gilded ceiling as though deep in thought. “Ah, yes.” He looked back at her. “You agreed to marry me.”

  “As if any woman in her right mind would have refused,” she said.

  “Ah, but you are not any woman, Dora,” he said as he crossed the room toward her, “and I believe you would have refused me if you had not liked me just a little. I purchased the harp for you because I thought it would make you happy. And also for selfish reasons. For if you are happy, then I am happy too.”

  Dora felt suddenly uneasy again. For the thought had occurred to her yet again as she gazed into his smiling eyes that he was a terribly, terribly lonely man. Still. And it occurred to her that he could deal with his loneliness only by giving, by making other people happy. Not by receiving. He did not know how to receive.

  Who had taken that ability away from him?

  He had not needed to have her pianoforte brought here. He had not needed to spend a fortune on a harp for her. He had married her and was kind to her. That was sufficient. Oh, that was more than sufficient.

  “You do not need to cry,” he said softly. “It is only a harp, Dora, and you do not even know for sure yet that it is a good one.”

  She raised both arms and cupped his face in her hands.

  “Oh, it is,” she said with conviction. “Thank you, George. It is the most wonderful gift I have ever received. I shall treasure it all my life, mainly because you gave it to me. And you may listen to me play whenever you wish. You have only to ask—or to come when I am playing alone. I am your wife. I am also your friend.”

  She did what she had never done before. She kissed him. On the lips. He stood very still until she was finished, though his lips softened against her own.

  “Play for me now?” he asked her.

  “I am very rusty,” she warned him. “It is well over a month since I last played the harp at Middlebury. But yes. I will play for you. Of course I will.”

  He adjusted the position of the chair for her and stood a little behind and to one side of it as she drew the harp against her shoulder until it felt comfortable. Then she spread her hands over the strings. Of her harp.

  She closed her eyes and played the simple, haunting melody of an old folk song. Like most ancient folk songs it was beautiful, and tragic.

  But life did not need to be tragic.

  Did it?

  14

  George’s life changed gradually but perceptibly over the next few weeks.

  For one thing, he was marvelously contented. His life followed the old routine to a large extent—he spent a few hours most days out on his land, sometimes in company with his steward, sometimes alone. His crops had grown into a ripple of green promise and the lambs were becoming small sheep and the sheep were looking as though they would soon be in dire need of shearing. He spent time in the office at the back of the house too since he liked to know exactly what was going on with his farms despite the fact that he had a competent, trustworthy steward.

  The difference was that all the time he was busy abou
t his own business he knew that his wife was busy too in the performance of her duties as mistress of Penderris Hall, even though she admitted that the housekeeper and chef could function very well without her, not to mention the butler. Like him, though, she needed to know and understand the inner workings of her home, and she still maintained that the servants would despise her if she did not show an interest. And his favorite foods were surely served a little more frequently than before, George thought, though he had never had any complaint about anything his chef served up.

  The real difference was that when he was not at work, the hours were no longer long and empty. For he had a constant companion, one with whom he could discuss the day’s events and any other topic that occurred to either of them. He had a companion with whom he could sit quietly for hours at a time while they both read or while he read and she, more productive than he, embroidered or crocheted or tatted. Sometimes he read aloud to her. He had a companion who shared his pleasure in the letters that often appeared beside his breakfast plate—and now hers too. They fell into the habit of reading most of the letters aloud to each other.

  Sophia and Vincent had had another children’s book published—another adventure of Bertha and Blind Dan; Sophia’s second pregnancy seemed to be proceeding well—as were Chloe’s and Samantha’s and Agnes’s; Imogen and Percy had lingered in London for a while longer than they had planned since his numerous relatives, almost to a man and woman, assumed they would be delighted to be feted in their post-honeymoon bliss even though they were by now an old and staid married couple—Percy had written that particular letter; Melody Emes was cutting her first teeth and Hugo was wondering if he would ever again in this life know what it was to sleep—apparently he walked the floor with the baby at night so that the nurse who was paid to perform the task could rest; Samantha’s Welsh grandfather had recovered from the chest cold that had dragged him down since before Christmas; Mrs. Henry, Dora’s former housekeeper, had been offered temporary employment at Middlebury Park; Dora’s mother was still basking in the wonder of that day when both her daughters had called on her, and had sent two letters so far. In both, she had expounded on how happy she had been to see that they had grown up to be such lovely ladies and that both had made happy, advantageous marriages.

  Percy had reported in a postscript to his letter that George would have kept from Dora if she had not been the one reading it aloud that the Earl of Eastham, having recovered from his indisposition, had taken himself off home to Derbyshire. George wondered to himself if that would be the last he heard of from his former brother-in-law. Dora made no comment except to raise her eyebrows and ask a one-word question.

  “Indisposition?”

  “Apparently,” George said vaguely, and, apart from a long, hard look, she was contented to leave it at that.

  And there was the music that now filled his life. Scarcely a day passed in which she did not play the pianoforte in her sitting room or the harp in the music room—or both. Sometimes she played the grand pianoforte, though she soon pronounced it slightly out of tune, something that was not apparent to his own ear. He never read while she played. The music she produced was pleasurable in itself, but the soothing effect it had upon him was pure joy. And that had more to do with her than with the music itself. There was true talent in her fingers, but there was a deep beauty in her soul. He had never seen anyone so totally absorbed in her playing as his wife was as soon as she began. He doubted she had any idea how very graceful a figure she presented as she moved slightly to the music—or how beautiful her face as she played.

  His nights were filled with pleasure and contentment. They did not always make love, and when they did it was not always with fierce passion. Indeed, it rarely was, though it always brought him unalloyed pleasure, as it did her, he was sure. But even when they did not make love, she was content to lie in his arms and to sleep all night curled into him. Sometimes he would hold back sleep just so that he could savor the warm feel of her, the smell of her hair and skin, the soft sound of her breathing. His own wife in his own bed—but not as impersonal as that. Dora in their bed.

  And then there were the other changes in his life.

  Apart from a small core of neighbors whom George had long considered friends, no one had called upon him uninvited for years, just as he had called upon no one except those friends. Now a large number of people came, as was only proper, to pay their respects to the new Duchess of Stanbrook. His friends came, as did those who were friendly acquaintances he met regularly at church or on the village street. People he scarcely knew came, and so did a few of those who were his enemies, though enemy was far too harsh a word in most cases. They were mostly ladies who had been Miriam’s friends, though less friends, perhaps, than hangers-on, sycophants, women who had basked in her high rank and beauty and preened themselves before their neighbors because they were the special friends and confidantes of the dear duchess. They were the same ladies as those who had hung upon Eastham’s words after Miriam’s death—though he had been Meikle then, not having inherited from his father until later—and had looked upon George himself as a villainous murderer. Perhaps they still did.

  All these people came, and according to Dora the calls needed to be returned. He questioned the point, but she insisted that being a duchess did not set her above the dictates of courteous social behavior.

  “Besides,” she explained to him, “neighbors are important, George. One should always cultivate their good opinion when one can do so without compromising one’s principles. Sometimes neighbors can become friends, and friends are precious.”

  Her words gave him an insight into the loneliness she must have felt when she moved to Inglebrook, an unmarried female, at the age of thirty. Yet when he had met her years later, she had been well established and well respected in the community.

  He did not accompany her on all the return visits, but he did on some. And though there was tedium in making polite conversation with people with whom he had little in common, he was touched by the gratification with which they were received almost everywhere. And he was proud of his wife, who behaved with the dignity of her new rank and yet with the warm accessibility of the Miss Debbins she had been until very recently. She was generally liked, he saw, and the realization warmed him. Miriam had not been. As always, he shook off the unbidden comparisons.

  And she made two real friends. One was Mrs. Newman, the vicar’s wife, a slightly faded creature about her own age who somehow blossomed into warm animation when Dora spoke with her. The other was Ann Cox-Hampton, the wife of one of George’s own friends. At their first meeting the two ladies discovered similar interests in books and music and needlework and chattered happily while seated side by side on a sofa while George and James Cox-Hampton, freed of the necessity of keeping the conversation general, talked about crops and cattle and markets and the horse races.

  During those weeks of change and contentment following his return to Penderris, George pushed aside the memory of that first afternoon, when he had made the mistake of taking Dora to the portrait gallery. They had not been there since, and they had not referred to the past since. Perhaps, he sometimes thought, it really could be put behind him and forgotten, or, if that was impossible, at least consigned to a remote corner of his memory where it would have no impact upon his present.

  The present was really very sweet.

  * * *

  On one particular afternoon Dora was paying an afternoon call alone. While she knew George had visited far more of his neighbors with her than he had ever done before, she also knew that it was something he did not really enjoy. She might not have come herself today since the sun was shining and the air was warm and the beach beckoned. But she had mentioned to Mrs. Yarby at church on Sunday that she would call today if it was convenient, and the lady had assured her that indeed it was and she would look forward to Her Grace’s visit. Dora’s first amused thought upon her arrival was that it was a
very good thing George had not come with her, for clearly Mrs. Yarby, forewarned, had made an Event with a capital E out of the prospective visit.

  The housekeeper, looking as though every inch of her uniform had been ruthlessly starched, led Dora to the sitting room, threw open the door, and announced her. Standing proudly in the middle of the room, as though she had been anticipating the moment for some time, was Mrs. Yarby, dressed in afternoon finery that would not have afforded a second glance in a London drawing room but certainly did in a country village. Seated about the room but rising to their feet almost as one with a rustle of silks and muslins were five other ladies, looking as though they were about to set off to a garden party with royalty.

  Three of the five had called at Penderris Hall, but perhaps they had not realized that Dora intended eventually to return the call of each. Perhaps Mrs. Yarby had persuaded them that she had been singled out for special attention.

  Dora accepted the rehearsed greetings of her hostess with a smile—Mr. Yarby, she guessed, had taken himself off somewhere else or had been banished since Dora had made it clear that the duke would not be with her. She smiled too at each of the other ladies and inclined her head as she was introduced to the two she had not met before. It still felt a bit strange to her to be addressed as “Your Grace” and to be treated as though she was a creature apart from them.

  Yet George, without any conscious arrogance, took such deference for granted.

  The greetings all finished with, Dora was ushered to the seat of honor close to the fireplace with its unlit coals, and the tea tray was carried in almost immediately—or, rather, the tea trays. A silver tea service gleamed on the first with what was surely the very best china. Sumptuous foods covered the other, including crustless sandwiches with several different fillings and cakes and pastries and apple tarts smelling of cinnamon and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam. The Yarbys’ cook must have been busy since Sunday, Dora thought.