by Mary Balogh
“I daresay he thought the same about his when he started out,” she said.
“You would miss your family if you were separated from them by an ocean,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she said, “though Papa has been back and forth to England for years.”
He stopped walking suddenly and pulled her awkwardly into his arms. He kissed her just as awkwardly and so hard that she could feel her teeth cutting her lip. He released her as abruptly as he had seized her.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said. “You will find my advances offensive. I am seen as a dull and plodding fellow, I know. And the description is accurate. That is what I am.”
“I see you rather as sturdy and amiable, sir,” she said. “And I am not offended.”
He had her hands in his and was holding them so tightly that Jean had to concentrate on not wincing.
“Then Mr. Purnell will doubtless challenge me if he sees us,” he said. “You are to marry him? It is fitting. He is a gentleman.”
“I am not going to marry Mr. Purnell, or anyone else that I know of,” she said.
“If I just had more to offer you,” he said. “If I were a gentleman of wealth and position. Or if I were more of a dashing fellow. I had better take you inside. I ought not to have brought you down off the terrace.”
“I don’t want a gentleman of wealth and position,” she said. “I would be uncomfortable with such a husband, Mr. Courtney. My father has worked hard all his life to make a respectable living. I grew up in an atmosphere of industry. And I don’t want a dashing fellow. I would not be comfortable with him. I want a cozy home of my own and a husband whose company and devotion I can depend upon.”
“You don’t want me,” he said firmly, squeezing her hands a little harder, so that she bit her lower lip.
“I can’t answer that unless I know I am being offered you,” she said.
“Would you?” he asked hesitantly. “If I asked you?”
“Marry you?” she asked.
“Would you?”
“Yes, I would, sir,” she said.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes, I will, Mr. Courtney,” she said, wasting a dazzling smile on the darkness.
“But perhaps your father will not allow it,” he said.
“And perhaps he will,” she said.
“But you are to return to him tomorrow,” he said, “and sail for Canada next week.”
“Yes.”
Somehow his arms were about her waist and hers about his neck.
“I’ll travel to London tomorrow,” he said with sudden reckless decision, “before you. You must tell me where to find him. I have never been there before.”
“Oh, will you, Mr. Courtney?” she asked. “You will ask Papa?”
“I’ll leave in the morning,” he said. “ Shall we go inside and tell my parents, Miss Cameron? They will be very happy, I assure you.”
“Had you not better kiss me again first?” Jean asked shyly. “You have not kissed me since we were betrothed.”
“I am afraid I don’t do it well,” Howard said. “I have never …”
“Neither have I,” Jean said. “We will learn together, shall we? Will you call me Jean?”
He kissed her fiercely again until he felt her fingertips against his cheeks. And then they explored each other’s lips awkwardly and tentatively and gently.
“I may be a dull fellow, Jean,” Howard said at last, “but you will always have my devotion. I can safely promise you that because my father has always been devoted to my mother, and it has always been my goal to emulate him.”
“I love you, Howard,” Jean said.
He looked at her, arrested, in the darkness. “Do you?”he asked in some surprise. “Do you really?”
IT WAS AN EVENING to be proud of. She had moved through it with the dignity of her years—not with determined and forced gaiety, and with no flirtatiousness. She had been cheerful and gracious. She had talked with all their neighbors and friends and danced every set with a different gentleman.
But there were limits to one’s endurance. Madeline was proud of herself, and she knew that she would not break but that she would go on to live her new life, and be happy with it too, for it was not in her nature to be unhappy for any length of time. But there were times for unhappiness, and there was one such time looming very close ahead.
The next few days would be ones of excruciating pain. She knew it and accepted the fact. If she tried to deny it, then she would not be able to endure. She would be her former bright and flighty self and she would be out of control of her own life.
She must live through the next few days and weeks with as much fortitude as she could muster. But she must expect to be submerged in misery on occasion.
One such occasion came toward the end of the ball, when she realized that it was well past midnight and that this already was the day of his departure. Soon the ball would be at an end and they would all go to bed and sleep until late in the morning. And then there would be a great hustle and bustle, and Lady Beckworth and Alexandra would be crying. And he would be gone.
She could not stay to dance anymore. She could not. Perhaps if she slipped away and went to bed and slept, she would sleep too long. And when she got up, he would be gone already. Perhaps she would be that fortunate.
But she could not go to bed either. It would be worse there in the silence of her own room, counting off the hours.
She went to the only place she could go, the place where she supposed she had known all evening she would go eventually. She left the ballroom by the French doors and walked around to the front of the house and the formal gardens. And she walked along the gravel paths until she reached one of the stone fountains. It was where she had danced with him and kissed him the last time. The place where they had not said good-bye because she had not known that he was going.
She stood looking down into the water of the basin, its ripples sparkling in the moonlight. And she trailed her hand through the water, noting its coolness. She did not turn when she heard the crunching of the gravel behind her. She knew who it was. There was no doubt in her mind at all. She did not need to turn.
“It’s hard to believe that four years have passed,” she said when the footsteps finally stopped.
“Yes,” he said.
“But this time you are to do things properly,” she said, turning to face him and smiling. The moon was behind him. His face was in darkness. “The proper farewells tomorrow instead of the riding off into the darkness.”
“Yes,” he said. “The good-byes tomorrow. Most of them. But not you. I would rather not see you tomorrow.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her pain to herself. But there was no offense to be taken. She did not want to see him the next day either.
His right hand was extended. “Good-bye, Madeline,” he said.
She looked at it for a long time before placing her own in it and feeling its strong clasp. “Good-bye, James.”
But he did not turn to leave when their hands parted company. He stood looking at her, and she fixed her eyes on the whiteness that must be his neckcloth and concentrated on committing him to memory. For she knew she would feed on this moment for weeks to come. Perhaps for months or years.
When his fingertips traced lightly the line of her jaw and came to rest beneath her chin, she closed her eyes and felt them there with every nerve ending in her body.
“I wonder if we might have been friends had we tried,” he said softly. “Or does the antagonism go to the very roots of our characters? As does the attraction.”
She could not answer. She could not have forced a single word past the rawness of her throat if it had been necessary to save her life. She kept her eyes closed and shook her head slightly.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose the question is academic now.”
She could no more open her eyes than she could speak. His fingertips remained beneath her chin. His mouth when it touched hers did so so
ftly and lingeringly.
And then hand and mouth were gone, and she could hear the quiet crunching of gravel again. But she did not open her eyes. She had all the food for her memories that she would ever gather.
THE EARL OF AMBERLEY was bidding farewell to his guests, his wife beside him.
A lovely ball, Edmund,” Sir Peregrine Lampman said, shaking hands with his friend. “Though I am mortally offended that your wife had no dance free for me.”
“An undiscriminating lady, Alex,” the earl said with a grin. “She accepts the hand of any partner who asks. Try again next year, Perry. Grace, my dear, we must thank you for bringing your niece with you tonight and her husband and brother. The young ladies have been particularly pleased with Sir Gordon, as you will have seen for yourself.”
“Splendid ball, splendid ball,” William Carrington said with a beaming smile and a smacking kiss on the cheek for his niece by marriage. “But I plan to post up to town within the week, Edmund, and spread the latest gossip. You danced only once with your wife. Shocking, my boy.”
“Oh, William!” his wife said, flushing and clutching at his arm. “Take no notice of him, Edmund. He does like to tease. Anyone knows that it would not be at all the thing for you to dance with Alexandra all night.”
“A wonderful evening, as usual, my lord,” Mr. Courtney said, taking the earl’s hand in a bruising clasp and nodding genially to the countess. “Wonderful evening. I can speak for my whole family, and only wish that my Susan were here too. She will be sorry to have missed it. But her mama will be able to tell her all about it.” He beamed at his host and hostess and leaned toward them conspiratorially, though his lowered voice was still several times louder than the normal voice of any of his neighbors. “Sooner than expected.”
“You are leaving for London very soon?” the earl asked, smiling at Mrs. Courtney. “You must give our regards to Susan, if you please.”
“It’s very good of you to say so, I am sure, my lord,” Mr. Courtney said, still in his lowered voice. “Mrs. Courtney will be leaving tomorrow. Mr. Purnell has graciously consented to her riding in the carriage with Miss Cameron instead of a maid. And Howard is to ride along with Mr. Purnell. I can whisper to present company, my lord and lady, though there can be nothing official, of course, until the young lady’s papa has given his consent.”
The earl looked with polite interest at his neighbor and at a flushing Howard behind him.
“Miss Cameron has this very night accepted the offer of our Howard,” Mr. Courtney announced in triumph. “And Mrs. Courtney and I are brimful of pride and pleasure.”
“Why, Howard!” The earl stretched out a hand to his tenant and shook his heartily. “My congratulations. I am sure you have made a wise choice. Where is Miss Cameron?”
She was standing a short distance away, her arm drawn through James’s, looking anxious and embarrassed. She seemed considerably more relieved after the earl had kissed her cheek and the countess had hugged her.
“I hope you will not think I have taken advantage of your hospitality,” she said.
“I have been scheming for all of a year to get Howard suitably married off,” Edmund said. “My tenants need wives, you know, if they are to have prosperous farms and comfortable homes and contented hearts. I could not have chosen better myself.”
Jean looked up at James, who was smiling reassuringly down at her, and shyly across at her betrothed. He hovered in the background while his mother and father felt constrained to hug her once more before taking their leave. She felt rather as if every bone in her body had been squeezed almost to breaking point when she emerged from Mr. Courtney’s fond and fatherly embrace.
“Another daughter to love soon enough,” he said, chucking her under the chin. “And for you another papa as soon as ever you leave the altar, my dear. I am well blessed indeed. Well blessed.”
Alexandra was looking at her brother with a pale face, which showed clearly that she had lost all interest in any conversation going on around her. And he looked back, his smile fading.
JAMES PURNELL AND DUNCAN CAMERON WERE standing side by side on the deck of the Adeona. They were both leaning on the rail, looking out across the river to the city of London. The ship would sail with the tide.
“I am glad I have had a look at it, even if only once,” Duncan said. “But I can’t say I am sorry to be leaving. Give me a quieter life any day.”
“Yes,” James said. “I have never been overfond of London.”
“Yet my father has chosen to stay here for yet another winter,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could stay even for one.”
“You must admit he has good reason to change his mind,” James said. “It would be a very lonely feeling for Jean to wave the both of you good-bye when she is not even married yet.”
“You think she will be happy with Courtney?” his friend asked. “I must confess I think she could have done better for herself. She certainly has all the looks in our family, anyway.”
“The Courtneys are quite prosperous,” James said, “and very industrious. They are well respected. And there seems to be a great deal of family affection among them. I think she stands as good a chance for happiness as she would in any other marriage.”
“Well,” Duncan said, “it’s her choice, I suppose. For myself, I have a hankering to get back to my woman and our son. I confess to having found English beauties insipid. Next spring I’ll be on my way back with the brigades. You too, James?”
His friend shrugged. “I daresay,” he said. “One can do much worse with one’s life.”
They lapsed into silence, the one allowing his thoughts to slip ahead of him to the country he was going to and ahead in time to the following spring when he could join a canoe brigade again and leave civilization behind him until he found the small trading post he would call home and the black-haired woman and the chubby black-eyed child he had left behind him well over a year before.
James could not think ahead. His thoughts were still firmly anchored in the island he was leaving. He watched idly the little boats on the river, each busy about its own business. And he saw his mother with a handkerchief pressed to her eyes and Alex pale and smiling and hugging him close. And his father, who had surprised him by coming outside to the carriage when he left and shaking hands with him, though his face was as if carved out of marble and his eyes cold.
He had not asked himself too closely what it had meant. He preferred to assume that there was after all love for him in his father, a love that could not or would not express itself in words. There was a small measure of peace—very small—in the assumption.
Madeline had been noticeably absent, though she had been standing at the front window of the long gallery. He had seen her there when he looked up, desperate for one more sight of her. She had not ducked back out of sight. And she had not smiled or made any acknowledgment of his half-raised hand.
One of the small boats appeared to be making its way toward the Adeona. James watched it without interest or curiosity.
He should have tried, perhaps, to make a friend of her. He had known as soon as he first set eyes on her again that he had not worked her from his system. He had known that his attraction to her was many times stronger than it had been before, because it had had four years in which to grow. He should have tried to make something of it.
Instead, he had allowed resentment and attraction to war inside him every time he had been in her presence. Resentment and fear.
Fear that he would love her too dearly and bring her to love him, and then find that he could not offer her a whole heart, a guiltless heart. Fear perhaps that if he acknowledged his love, it would be taken away from him as the first had been. Fear that she would be destroyed by his love as Dora had been.
He would not think of it. He was going away for good this time. He would never see her again.
“He looks familiar,” he said to Duncan, frowning and pointing to a man wrapped in a cloak and sitting in the midd
le of the little boat that was approaching. “Who is he?”
But the answer came to him before his friend could look and shake his head and declare that he had never seen the fellow in his life. He was one of the servants at Amberley Court.
His father! Something had happened to him. He could feel his heart pounding and the blood beating against his temples.
He was at the head of the ladder when the servant finally climbed on board. He looked questioningly at the man, who merely handed him a letter in silence.
“Is anything the matter, James?” Duncan Cameron asked a minute later.
“It’s my father,” James said, staring down at the brief and hastily written note in his hand. “He has had a heart seizure.”
“Oh, man,” Duncan said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Bad, is it?”
“Amberley seems to think so,” James said. He gazed down at his letter for another minute before crumpling it in his hand and looking at Duncan with sudden decision. “Do you think you can see to having my trunks brought up here while I talk with the captain?”
Duncan clapped him on the shoulder again before disappearing below.
Less than half an hour later, James Purnell was sitting in the little boat beside the servant from Amberley, raising a hand in a final farewell to his friend, who stood at the rail of the Adeona again.
“ALEX.” The earl took her by the shoulders and spoke quietly into her ear. “You must come and rest, my love.”
She was sitting beside her father’s bed, listening to his loud and labored breathing, watching his half-closed eyelids and his white, cold hands on the covers. Her mother was sitting behind her at the window, weeping, the dowager Lady Amberley at her side.
“What?” she said.
“You must come and rest,” the earl said again. “You have been sitting here for five hours.”
She rose obediently and allowed him to lead her from the room, one arm about her shoulders. “I think he is better,” she said. “His breathing is steadier.”
“You must rest,” he said, leading her to their bedchamber. “You have not slept, Alex.”
