by Mary Balogh
One thing was now very clear to her. She must not love William Mainwaring any longer. He was not worth the misery that she had suffered for the last week. She was ashamed now to think that she had given herself to a man of his character. For the first time she felt violated and sullied. But there was really no point in brooding on what could not be changed. Only she must be sure that from this moment she looked only ahead. She would not waste another sigh or tear on that man. She would enter wholeheartedly into her mother’s plans for the winter. Perhaps in London she would meet a real man, one she could respect as well as love. She doubted it, but she had to have something positive on which to focus her mind for the next several weeks.
Helen pulled her feet from the stream, rubbing them dry on the grass and the hem of her habit, and pulled on her stockings and boots again. She strode across to the hut and wrestled the door open. There was no use in leaving her paints, paper, and books any longer. She would not be coming back. After all, she was trespassing on the land of a man whom she was now pledged to hate. Even the hut belonged to him—she was returning the gift, even though he was not there to know it—and she scorned to use what was not hers.
When she came outside again, she placed her bundle of possessions carefully on the path and closed the door as tightly as the warped wood and crooked hinges would allow. Then she stooped to pick up her belongings again. But she did not do so. She remained bent over them for a while; then she straightened up and wandered with lagging steps and unseeing eyes to the edge of the stream again.
How could she be so self-righteous and so dishonest with herself as to put all the blame on William? She was the one who had led him to believe she was a village girl. She had not told him the truth even when he had asked her to tell him about herself. And what had happened to her was not seduction. She had been a willing partner. William had never treated her with disrespect. And he had never made any promises to her.
What promises had she expected, anyway? Marriage? How absurd! Gentlemen did not marry young girls in shabby dresses who ran around barefoot. Especially when those girls give away their favors freely. She must have been mad to have dreamed that he was falling in love with her.
Perhaps for the first time in her life Helen regretted that she was not like other girls of her class. She had learned correct behavior and attitudes, but she had not practiced them. Instead, she had lived in her incredibly unrealistic and childish dream world, where one could do as one wanted and not have to abide by the consequences.
Except that this time she was being hurled out of the world of dreams and childhood into the one where one’s actions had very definite and painful consequences. She had lost her virginity along with her innocence. She had a heart that was painfully bruised. She was beginning to grow up.
And she was beginning to realize that in the adult world one had to take responsibility for one’s own actions. She was painfully disillusioned by William’s behavior, yes, and she would never be able to trust him again even if he returned now. She still believed his abandonment without a word to her to be cruel. But first and foremost she had herself to blame.
Was she ashamed of what she had done? She was not sure. But she knew that she had done wrong, not just in lying with a man who was not her husband, but in deceiving him. She deserved the consequences that were causing her misery. She had learned a painful lesson.
When Helen finally picked up the assorted bundle from outside the hut, she left the clearing without once looking at her surroundings.
II
October and November
CHAPTER 8
T he Marquess of Hetherington entered the morning room of his home in London, where the marchioness was writing an answer to an invitation spread on the escritoire before her. She looked around, smiled, and lowered her head to the task again. He walked up behind her, bent, and planted a kiss on the back of her neck.
She looked up at him and smiled broadly. “If John proves to be as mischievous as his father,” she said, “I see I shall be forever scolding. Look what you have made me do, Robert.” She pointed to the letter in front of her, which was neatly written with the exception of the final character. It had a long upward curl that took it sharply through the two lines above it.
Her husband did not appear contrite. He grinned. “If all I get when I enter a room is a vague smile, my love,” he said, “then you deserve punishment. You will just have to start all over again.”
Elizabeth Denning put her pen down with exaggerated care, rose to her feet, and put her arms up around her husband’s neck. “Since I saw you at the breakfast table a mere half-hour ago, my lord,” she said, “I did not see the need of an elaborate greeting. But if you insist. There, is that better?” She kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Minx!” he said, still grinning. “Control your passion, Elizabeth, or I shall forget entirely why I came here.”
“So it was not just to see me?” she asked.
“That too,” he replied. “But mainly I wanted you to see this.” He held up a sheet of paper. “It is from William, love.”
“From William?”
“Yes,” he said. “From Scotland. It is no wonder we had no reply to our last letter. He seems not to have received it. He is glad that your confinement is now safely over and hopes that both you and the child are healthy.”
Elizabeth clucked her tongue. “And John is more than two months old already,” she said. “Will William never stay in one place long enough for a person to remain in communication with him?”
“He is coming to London after all,” Hetherington said. “That is why he has written. He should be here soon. He was almost ready to leave when he sent this.” “Oh, how splendid!” Elizabeth said, smiling with genuine pleasure. “Is he to stay here, Robert? I must have a guest chamber prepared for him immediately.” “No,” he replied. “He says here that he will take rooms as he has always done when in town. It is better to leave it at that,” he said, holding up a hand to silence the protest that his wife was clearly about to make. “We are both very fond of him, love, and I believe he returns our regard, but remember that this is likely to be a painful reunion for him. When I last saw him, I fought with him, and when you last saw him . . . well, we need not go into that.”
“Yes, you are right,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, seating herself sideways on the chair before the escritoire. “Poor William. But surely that episode has passed into history by now. Perhaps he has already found someone else, Robert.”
“Unlikely, if I know William,” he said.
“We will have to take him about with us and do some entertaining here,” she said, “and make sure he meets some eligible ladies.”
“You are not going to turn matchmaker, are you, love?” he asked with an expression of some pain. “Heaven help us when we have daughters! Come to the nursery with me. I have not seen John yet this morning. I want to see if I can make him smile again. You would not believe me yesterday.”
“You are being quite absurd, Robert,” Elizabeth said, rising to her feet and smiling at her husband. “Two-month-old babies do not smile. They have wind. And you forget that I am quite a successful matchmaker. Lucy Worthing and Mr. Dowling were married during the summer, were they not? And it was I who first suggested to her that she talk to him when she sat next to him at a dinner party. ’Ask him about his hogs,’ I suggested. She did so, and a beautiful romance began at that very moment.”
The Marquess of Hetherington snorted inelegantly. “I dread to think what poor William’s fate will be,” he said. “Come. To the nursery, woman.”
“Yes, my lord,” she replied meekly.
* * *
William Mainwaring was indeed on his way to London. He had set out two days before the letter arrived in his friend’s hand. He was traveling slowly, in a closed carriage that could also convey his valet and his luggage. He was in no hurry to arrive. Although he had made the decision to come after long and careful deliberation, he was still not sure that he was
doing the right thing, and he was certainly not looking forward to the weeks ahead with any great eagerness.
He had done a great deal of thinking during his two months in Scotland. There he had found the solitude he had craved since leaving London earlier in the year.
It seemed that his neighbors had been accustomed to the hermit habits of his grandfather and him for so long that they did not consider the possibility that now he might be of a more sociable disposition. Mainwaring was quite happy to let them continue thinking so.
He had spent a great deal of time outdoors, sometimes riding up into the hills north of his estate, more often walking endless miles over the empty moors south of the hills. The bleakness of the landscape suited his mood. Although there was an austere beauty in the place, there was nothing of prettiness to distract the mind from its own inner workings.
He had tried to consider the state of his own life and make some plan for his future. He was past thirty already, and as unsettled as he had been when his grandfather died. He had lands and wealth. He even had friends. But he had nothing but regrets for the past, unhappy situations that he had fled from, and uncertainty about the future. He had no goal, no plans. What did he want of life? The question could not be avoided forever. Or if it were, then he would end up like his grandfather, a recluse, with nothing of purpose or of love in his life. More and more he understood why the old man had clung so much to him after the death of his parents. He must have been desperately lonely and unhappy.
Mainwaring did not really want such a life for himself. It was true that he did not find it easy to make friends or even to mix with other people on a social level. He had even somewhat resented the friendly advances of his neighbors at Graystone. Yet now, the more he was alone, the more he realized that people had become important to him. He would never be an outgoing person and would probably never have a large number of friends. But he needed some, and he already had friends whose company and whose love he valued and needed. Robert and Elizabeth Denning were uppermost in his mind, but he could not escape thinking even of Nell. She could have been a friend if only circumstances had been different.
Where had he gone wrong in the last few years? Why was he still so rootless? Why had he come skulking back here, like a wounded animal to its den, to lick his wounds? He knew that, much as he needed this quiet breathing space in his life, staying here was not the answer. He would have to face life again if he hoped ever to achieve a measure of contentment.
And the more he thought of it, the more Mainwaring came to realize that the first thing he would have to do would be to face his past. He could not be always running away. He had greatly valued Robert Denning’s friendship. Although their personalities were as different as it was possible for them to be, they had shared a bond. Each of them had suffered; each of them had developed a character somewhat deeper than that of most men about town. And quite apart from his emotional feelings for Elizabeth, he valued her friendship too. And these friendships could not thrive on letters alone. He would have to find the courage to face them.
And it would take some courage. He had loved Elizabeth with all the ardor of a first love, and he had never fully recovered from her loss. To see her again under any circumstances would be painful. But to see her with his best friend, to see her with Robert’s child, would be an ordeal that he dreaded. But face her he must. He must see the reality of her marriage with his own eyes. He must torture himself by being in their company for a goodly length of time. He would have to winter in London. Perhaps once the reality was finally impressed upon him, he would be able to come to terms with his feelings, put them behind him, and start a new life. Only one thing he would not do. He would not stay at their home. He could not do that.
Another person was on Mainwaring’s mind at least equally as much as the Dennings during those two months. He found that he could not put Nell out of his mind. Whenever he went out-of-doors he could see her. He could see her in the hills, running lightly with her bare feet to the top so that she might see over. He could see her on the moors, stooped down in the heather, examining with intense interest the tiny purple blooms. He could see her among the trees that surrounded his home, her body pressed against a trunk, her cheek against the living bark, her slim hands exploring with sensitive interest its rough contours.
Indoors he could escape her no less. The house was cold, as it always had been. He spent his indoor hours almost exclusively in the room he had made into a library. And when he read the songs of Robert Burns, which he loved, hearing the melodies with his mind as his eyes read, he thought of her. She would love these songs, and she could be the subject of many of them. Many times his hands strayed, almost against his will, to his volume of Lyrical Ballads, and he would read all the poems he had meant to read aloud to her. He had read her only one very short one, and there were so many that he would like to have shared with her. He regretted that he had not had the opportunity to do so.
He felt heavyhearted whenever he thought of her, his little wood nymph. Had he made her unhappy by his desertion? Did she grieve for him still? Had he done the wrong thing to leave without a word? Would it have been kinder to have met her again, to have explained as gently as he could why they could not continue seeing each other?
He found that he missed her. Frequently he would find himself storing some little observation or small anecdote in his mind to share with her, only to realize almost immediately that he would not be seeing her again. Sometimes he would lie down in the heather on the hills, allowing his horse to graze unshackled beside him. He would clasp his hands behind his head and gaze up at the sky and find himself wondering, as she had done on one occasion, why the clouds seemed to move at such speed across the sky, though there was no wind on the ground. And he would find himself wanting her with a yearning that brought an ache to his throat.
He even thought of going back to her. Surely he could make a marriage with her work. He had a great deal to offer her—not so much material things as his friendship and his ability to teach her and to open to her the world of books and of art. And he had a great deal to gain. She would be a sweet and a cheerful companion and always full of vitality and a fresh originality, he believed. And she could bring him great sensual satisfaction. He could not imagine ever growing tired of making love to her, or caressing her to that peak of ecstasy that she had reached during their second time together, and of burying in her sweet, soft depths all his own needs.
But always he would dash the thoughts ruthlessly from his mind. He was being selfish to think in that way. He was not thinking of what was best for her. The truth was that he could not offer himself to her unless he had all of himself to offer. And he could never offer that to any woman except one. Marry he must. He recognized the need in himself for a wife, for the companionship and the sense of belonging that marriage would bring. He recognized his need for children, who would give him a sense of his own identity. But his wife must be a woman who would not expect his love. He must choose for himself a woman whom he could respect and esteem and one whom he could not hurt. And she must be a woman of his own class, one who would not have to adjust painfully to his way of life.
So William Mainwaring traveled toward London, knowing that it was that it was the only course open to him if he was to make anything meaningful out of his life. But he felt no eagerness, no impatience to be there. In a few days’ time he would see Elizabeth again, and he would see her child. And the wound would be raw and painful again. A man does not willingly hasten toward certain pain.
* * *
The Countess of Claymore and her three daughters were all in the drawing room of the rather shabby but undoubtedly imposing mansion they had rented on Charles Street when the earl arrived home late in the afternoon. His wife was all aflutter, he noticed as soon as he let himself into the room, and the older girls, too, were looking more animated than they had appeared in the three days since their arrival in town.
How provoking that you have been away until now,” the
countess said by way of greeting. “We have but now bade farewell to Lady Medbourne and her daughter. Charlotte Hinton that was, my love. Do you remember her? She made her come-out the same year as I did. We all felt quite sorry for her at the time —such a scrawny little thing, you know, and almost nothing for a dowry. But she did quite well for herself after all. Married Lord Medbourne the year after you took me north.”
“Medbourne?” the earl said, brow furrowed in thought. “Old fellow, was he? Red-faced and always wheezing?”
“Yes, indeed,” his wife agreed. “I would not have considered him much of a catch myself. He must have been close to his sixties at least, and not at all an imposing figure. But he had the title, you know, and a not inconsiderable fortune, it seems. Charlotte did quite well. She has been a widow these fifteen years, and she has a son and and daughter who accompanied her this afternoon. Pasty girl. Rather like poor Charlotte was as a girl.”
“Lady Medbourne has invited us to dinner tomorrow night, Papa,” Emily said in a matter-of-fact voice. She believed in getting to the important point. “Mama says that she must have suitable connections. Soon, it would appear, we will have a circle of acquaintances suitable to our station.”
“Lady Bridgemoor left her card this morning too while we were out,” the countess added. “Celia Thompson that was, you will recall.”
“Well, I do hope that invitations begin to arrive soon,” Melissa added petulantly. “It is too provoking to be in London at last and have nothing to do.”
“Nonsense, my love,” her mother said. “Of course, we will be on everyone’s invitation lists once it is known that we are here. But it must take a few days. Papa and I have been absent for so long, you see.”
“You are very quiet, child,” the earl said, turning to his youngest daughter, who was sitting very upright in the window seat, her hands clasped in her lap. He was finding himself becoming as irritated with the girl’s listlessness as he had used to be with her restlessness. “And are you longing for the parties to begin too?”
