by Mary Balogh
“Talk?” he said. “Talk? I would ask you to turn about and return to the house, ma’am, and stay away from what does not concern you.”
“So that you can continue to hurt each other?” she said, drawing nearer. “Men are so foolish. They think themselves the superior sex, but whenever there is a difference between two of them or two groups of them or two nations of them, the only solution they can see is to fight. A fistfight, a war—there is really no difference between them.”
Good Lord!
She had thrown her clothes on hastily, at a guess. She was not wearing either gloves or a bonnet, and her hair had been gathered into a rather untidy knot at the back of her head. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright.
She was the most abominable female it had ever been his displeasure to know.
“You are quite right, Vanessa,” Con said, his voice shaking with laughter. “And I have always believed that in fact it is the female sex that is the superior of the two. But you see, we men enjoy a good bout of fisticuffs.”
“You are not going to persuade me that this was to be a friendly sparring match,” she said. “It was not. For some reason the two of you hate each other—or think you do. If you would just talk to each other, perhaps you could patch up your quarrel far more easily than you think and could be friends again. I suppose you were once friends. You grew up five miles apart and are cousins close to each other in age.”
“If Elliott will agree to it,” Con said, “we will kiss and make up.”
“Mrs. Dew,” Elliott said, “your impertinence knows no bounds. But I am sorry to have disturbed your walk. Allow me to escort you back to the house.”
He glared fiercely at her to show her that he was very aware of the fact that she had not been out innocently walking. Like him, she must have been looking out of her bedchamber window and had seen first Con and then him disappear in this direction. She had drawn her own conclusions and come after them, the interfering baggage.
“Not,” she said, standing her ground, “until I have had your assurance—and Constantine’s—that you will not fight later today or tomorrow or some other time when I am not present to stop you.”
“ I will return to the house,” Con said. “You must not upset yourself over this, Vanessa. As you have guessed, Elliott and I have been friends and enemies—mostly friends—all our lives. And whenever we have fought— even the time when he broke my nose and I blackened his eye when I was fourteen—we have always laughed immediately afterward and agreed that it was all great fun.”
She clucked her tongue, but Con kept on talking.
“I must be leaving within the next few days,” he said. “I have business to attend to elsewhere. I promise not to initiate any fight with Elliott in the meantime.”
He laughed, made her a bow, threw Elliott a mocking glance, and turned to stride away in the direction of the house.
“Which would put the blame squarely on your shoulders,” Mrs. Dew said, turning to Elliott with a smile, “if there is a fight. It was cleverly done. Has he always been able to cast you in the light of the villain?”
“I am severely annoyed with you, ma’am,” he said.
“I know” Her smile became more rueful. “But I am annoyed with you too. This is a happy week for my brother. And for my sisters too. I do not want that happiness marred by the quarrel that is between you and Constantine. How would they feel if the two of you were to appear at the house with blackened eyes or bloody noses or raw knuckles? They are already fond of Constantine, and they respect you. They do not deserve to be upset by some petty private quarrel.”
“It is certainly not petty, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “But your point is taken. Has your happiness been marred?”
“Not really” She smiled again, the bright, sunny expression he remembered from the Valentine’s assembly. “Is this where my ancestors are buried? Constantine did not bring us here when he showed us the park.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “he thought it too gloomy a spot.”
“Or perhaps,” she said, “his grief for his brother is too new and too private a thing to be shared with cousins who did not know him. I wish I had. Was he as sweet as Constantine described him?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “He may have been handicapped in many ways and he may have looked different from other people, but we could all learn from persons like Jonathan. He was unfailingly affectionate, even toward those who were impatient with him.”
“Were you?” she asked him. “Impatient, I mean?”
“Never with him,” he said. “He used to hide from me when I came here—after my father died and I became his guardian, that was. Sometimes, if he could keep from giggling, I would have to waste precious time finding him. But he was always so delighted when I did that it would have been churlish to be annoyed with him. It was Con who put him up to it, after all.”
“To amuse him?” she asked. “Or to annoy you?”
“Always the latter,” he said.
“Did he resent the fact that you were Jonathan’s guardian,” she asked him, “even though you were not much older than he, if you are older at all, that is?”
“He did,” he said curtly.
“But surely,” she said, “he must have understood that it was not really you who had been appointed guardian, but your father, who was older and wiser and more experienced than either of you.”
“I suppose he did,” he said.
“Could you not,” she asked, “have shown some sensitivity and turned over the guardianship to Constantine, even if only unofficially?”
“I could not,” he said.
“Oh, dear.” She looked steadily at him, her head tipped to one side. “You really are a most inflexible, uncommunicative man. It is just that it seems to me that the enmity that has grown between the two of you is unnecessary And now you are demanding that Constantine leave here though it has always been his home. Can you feel no compassion for him?”
“Mrs. Dew.” He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned a little toward her. “Life is not such a simple thing as you seem to believe it to be. Perhaps it would be as well for you not to try to advise me on matters about which you know virtually nothing.”
“Life is often simpler than we give it credit for,” she said. “But if you wish me to mind my own business, I will. Where is my great-grandfather buried?”
“There.” He turned and pointed and they both moved toward the grave.
She gazed at the headstone and its flowery praise of the earl who was buried there.
“I wonder,” she said, “what he would say now if he could see us here—the descendants of the son he cast off and the woman his son married.”
“Life is never predictable,” he said.
“And it was so unnecessary,” she said, “all the conflict, all the suffering and loneliness there must have been on both sides. Here we are anyway, but with so many precious years missing.”
Her eyes looked wistful. Con had been right about one thing, Elliott thought. She did have fine eyes —even when they were not laughing.
“Where is Jonathan buried?” she asked.
He took her to the newest grave. Its headstone was immaculately clean, the grass around it short and free of weeds. Someone had planted spring flowers there, and snowdrops were blooming and crocus leaves were pushing up through the soil.
Someone cared. Con, he supposed.
A guilt offering?
“I wish I had known him,” she said. “I do wish it. I believe I would have loved him.”
“One could not help being fond of him,” he said.
“But not of his brother?” she said, turning her head to look at him. “Perhaps if you had laughed at his attempts to needle you every time he had Jonathan hide from you, you could all have laughed together and been friends. Perhaps what you need as much as anything is a sense of humor.”
He felt his nostrils flare.
“A sense of humor?” he half barked at her. “In the ha
ndling of serious duties? In dealing with a rogue? In looking after the interests of a slow-witted innocent? And in dealing with impertinence too, I suppose?”
“The impertinence being mine?” she said to him. “I could not simply let you fight, you know, without at least trying to stop you. And now I was merely attempting to point out a way in which you might make your own life happier as well as easier. Constantine at least smiles much of the time even if there is sometimes an edge of mockery in the expression. You never smile. And if you continue to frown all the time, as you are doing now, you will have permanent lines between your brows before you grow old.”
“Smiles,” he said. “Ah, now at last I understand the great secret of life. If one smiles, one will have an easy, happy time of it, no matter how much of a rogue one is. I must learn to smile, ma’am. Thank you for the advice.”
And he smiled at her.
She looked steadily at him, her head cocked to one side again.
“That is not a smile,” she said. “It is an angry grimace that makes you look a little like a wolf—though I have read that in many ways wolves are the gentlest, most admirable of beasts. You have twice referred to Constantine as a rogue. Just because he resented your guardianship and encouraged Jonathan to play tricks on you? And because he ignored your ultimatum and remained here until we came? Rogue is rather a harsh word to describe such a man, is it not? If there is no more to his perfidy than what you have told me, you cannot expect me to accept your opinion without question.”
“It is a desirable thing, ma’am,” he said, “to know whose word you can trust and whose you cannot.”
“And I am supposed to trust yours?” she asked him. “I am supposed to take your word for it that my cousin is a rogue? I am supposed to disregard everything he says? I have no reason to trust you or to distrust him. I will make my own observations, my lord, and draw my own conclusions.”
“I believe,” he said, “our breakfast awaits, ma’am. Shall we walk back to the house?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “Oh, goodness, I have no gloves.” She touched her head. “And no hat. Whatever must you think of me?”
Wisely, perhaps, he refrained from telling her.
So he had no sense of humor, did he?
Good Lord, he thought as they walked side by side in silence, was one supposed to be cracking jokes at every turn and laughing like a hyena even if no one else did?
Or was one supposed to ooze false charm as Con did?
8
ELLIOTT stayed for three more days before he returned home to Finchley Park. And it was during those days that he began to consider seriously the idea of marrying Miss Margaret Huxtable.
The sisters, even though they were more refined than he had at first feared, were desperately in need of some town bronze and some connections suitable to their new status. They needed it all now, this year, this Season. And the Season would be beginning in earnest as soon as Easter was over.
As it was, they were all very countrified and naive and an easy prey to practiced charmers like Con Huxtable.
Con left Warren Hall the day after the averted fight. He had mentioned leaving the evening before, insisting when there was a chorus of protests from his cousins that he really did have important business to attend to elsewhere. He left without fanfare, early in the morning before anyone was up.
Elliott was greatly relieved. But he did not trust Con to stay away The Huxtables needed to be taken away instead, at least temporarily, to be educated in the ways of the ton.
Elliott observed them all during the days following Con’s departure. And he was pleased with what he saw of Miss Huxtable. She was learning fast—from her consultations with the housekeeper and the cook— how to run such a large household. She was taking her duties seriously.
She was an intelligent and sensible woman.
She was also, of course, almost incredibly beautiful. With some grooming, which she would quickly acquire in town, she would be nothing short of stunning.
It was a dispassionate observation. He felt no stirring of desire for her. But then he had never expected to feel any such thing for his chosen bride. One married for reasons other than passion.
Marriage to Miss Huxtable would be convenient in a number of ways. And there was no point in paying any attention to the slight depression he felt at the prospect. Just the thought of marriage itself was depressing. It was also unfortunately necessary and could be delayed no longer.
He was still not sure when he left Warren Hall that he would make the offer, but he was seriously considering it.
Young Merton had concentrated more of his attention on his position once the distraction of Con’s presence had been removed—though he was clearly disappointed to lose someone he admired a great deal. He and Samson took well to each other, and Samson was just the man to teach his young master much of what he needed to know. Elliott had talked with the boy about the necessity of hiring a tutor to teach him the rest—of hiring two tutors, in fact, one to teach him to be an aristocrat, the other to instruct him in the academics he would need in order to go to university The boy had been somewhat taken aback by the suggestion that he continue with that plan, but Elliott had pointed out to him that a true gentleman was also an educated gentleman. Miss Huxtable had agreed with him, and Merton had succumbed.
Elliott was not displeased with the boy.
George Bowen had been sent on to London to interview suitable candidates for tutor, as well as one for the position of valet. Merton had protested that he did not need a personal servant since he had always looked after his own needs. But it was one of the first lessons he must learn. An earl must look the part when he went into society, in deportment and manner as well as in dress, and who better to see that he did than an experienced valet?
Finally Elliott felt it possible to leave Warren Hall, at least for a few days. He wanted to go home. He also wanted to give full consideration to what he had rejected out of hand a mere couple of weeks ago when George had first suggested it. But he thought he would probably decide to offer for Miss Huxtable.
There was really only one consideration that might give him serious pause. If he married her, he would be acquiring Mrs. Dew as a sister-in-law.
It was a depressing thought.
It was enough to cause him to live in a permanent bad temper.
The woman had smiled sunnily at him for three days, as if she thought him something of a joke.
It felt good to be home at last.
His youngest sister was the first person he saw when he arrived. She was on her way out of the house, dressed dashingly for riding. She smiled warmly and turned her cheek for his kiss.
“Well?” she asked him. “What is he like?”
“I am delighted to see you too, Cece,” he said dryly. “You mean Merton? He is cheerful and bright and seventeen years old.”
“And handsome?” she asked. “What color is his hair?”
“Blond,” he said.
“I prefer men with dark hair,” she told him. “But no matter. Is he tall? And slim?”
“Is he an Adonis in fact?” he asked her. “You will have to decide for yourself. Mama will doubtless take you over there soon. His sisters are there with him.”
She brightened still further. “Are any of them my age?” she asked.
“I believe the youngest must be close,” he said. “A year or two older, probably”
“And is she pretty?” she asked.
“Yes, very,” he told her. “But so are you. And now you have had your compliment from me and can go on your way. You are not going to be riding alone, I hope?”
“No, of course not!” she said, pulling a face. “One of the grooms will ride with me. I am going to join the Campbells. They asked me yesterday and Mama said I might go provided it did not rain.”
“Where is Mama?” he asked.
“In her rooms,” she said.
A few minutes later he sank gratefully into a soft upholste
red chair in his mother’s private boudoir and accepted a cup of coffee from her hands.
“You really ought to have let me know that you were bringing Merton’s three sisters as well as him, Elliott,” she said in response to the brief report he had delivered as soon as he had hugged her and asked after her health. “Cecily and I would have gone to call on them yesterday or the day before.”
“I judged that they needed some time to adjust to their new surroundings and circumstances, Mama,” he said. “Throckbridge is a very small village quite off the beaten track. They lived there in near poverty in a small cottage. The youngest sister was teaching at the village school.”
“And the widow?” she asked.
“She was living at Rundle Park, home of a baronet, her father-in-law,” he said. “But it is not large, and Sir Humphrey Dew is a foolish, garrulous man, albeit good-natured and harmless. I doubt he has ever been farther than ten miles from home.”
“They are all going to need to be brought up to scratch, then,” she said.
“They are.” He sighed. “I hoped to bring just Merton himself for now The sisters could have followed later— preferably much later.”
“But they are his sisters,” she said, getting to her feet to pour him another cup. “And he is just a boy.”
“Thank you, Mama,” he said, taking his cup from her hands. “How peaceful it is in here.”
He wished she did not have another daughter to bring out this year. It would save him from having to …
But he was going to have to marry someone this year.
“They are a noisy family?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.” He sighed again. “It is just that I felt so—”
“Responsible?” she suggested. “You have done ever since you inherited that obligation, Elliott. Is the boy intelligent? Serious-minded? Willing to learn?”
“Definitely intelligent,” he said, “though with something of a restless nature, I believe. He has wings and desperately wishes to use them without having much idea of how it might best be done.”
“He is, then, a typical young man,” she said with a smile.
