It Happened One Season

by Stephanie Laurens

  As though it had been a gesture of pure charity. It had not been.

  He had seen her and was smiling and raising his tall hat.

  “Mrs. Pritchard,” he said.

  The mother on the grass, she could see now, was the Countess of Waterton. A nurse nearby was rocking a baby in her arms.

  “Major.” Cleo smiled. “May I present my sister, Mrs. Darbyshire? Major Gilchrist, Elizabeth.”

  Gwinn and Lord Kerby had strolled on ahead, but they stopped and waited when they realized their companions were delayed.

  The weather was soon exhausted as a topic, and Cleo and Elizabeth would have resumed their walk, leaving Major Gilchrist with his sister-in-law and nieces. But Elizabeth had mentioned that they were with their sister and Lord Kerby, and he had glanced toward them and then back.

  “Perhaps, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, “since they will not be left without any chaperon, I may escort you home?”

  Elizabeth looked at him in obvious astonishment. Cleo felt her cheeks grow hot.

  “You will be all alone,” she said to her sister.

  “No, of course I will not,” Elizabeth assured her. “I shall join Gwinn and Lord Kerby. It is time we went home anyway. I will be saved from having to call out the carriage for you if you go with Major Gilchrist. Not that I would mind, of course.”

  “Then I would be delighted,” Cleo said, turning back to him.

  And she was given all the novel pleasure of slipping her hand through the offered arm of a tall, handsome gentleman for all the world to see.

  “Why are you not strolling here with a pretty young lady?” she asked as they walked away, back in the direction from which she had just come. She injected mock severity into her voice.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, looking down at her. “But I thought that was precisely what I was doing.”

  Cleo laughed and felt suddenly and deliriously happy again.

  “It was a fortunate coincidence, meeting you here,” he said. “I had just come from your house, where I was told that you were out.”

  “You came to call upon me?” she asked. “Oh, Major Gilchrist, your brother will be in deep despair again today.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said, and for a mere moment he set the fingertips of his free hand lightly over the back of her hand as it rested on his arm.

  She would be very surprised if she did not discover five small scorch marks there when she got home and removed her gloves. What a foolish fancy!

  “I was wondering, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, bending his head closer to hers, “if you would be good enough to marry me.”

  He had not intended to come out with it quite as abruptly as that. He had had very few dealings with ladies even before he retired to the country five years ago, and no experience at all with courtship. It even occurred to him now that perhaps he ought to have spoken with her brother first.

  But he had been agitated since last night.

  Since two o’ clock this morning, to be more precise.

  He had been lying awake, his hands laced behind his neck, gazing up at the canopy above his head as he relived the evening’s events. He had met a number of young ladies, all of them eligible, most of them pretty, most of them seemingly happy to be introduced to him and to dance with him. All of them appeared to know who he was—apart from just Mr. Jack Gilchrist, that was. A few of them gazed admiringly at him. One or two gazed adoringly. One asked him how it had felt getting shot and knowing that he had saved the life of the great Duke of Wellington—who had been simply Viscount Wellington at the time, of course, but Jack had not pointed that out.

  It had seemed to him that any one of those young ladies would welcome his suit. In addition to his supposed heroism, there was, of course, the fact that he was heir to an earldom.

  And there were a number of other eligible young ladies with whom he had not danced, simply because there were not enough sets in one evening.

  Surprising and ridiculous as it seemed to him, it appeared that he was very eligible indeed. He would have no difficulty at all in accomplishing the task Matthew had set him.

  But the trouble was, he had found as his eyes followed the pleats of silk over his head to the rosette behind which they all met in the center of the canopy, that he was having a hard time remembering the faces even of the young ladies with whom he had danced, though he had spent about twenty minutes with each. And if he could remember, then he could not recall the name that went with the face. And he could not recall what made each young lady different from all the others.

  They all seemed the same to him in memory. Which was quite unfair to them, of course, for they were all individuals with lives and hopes and dreams of their own. They deserved to be remembered.

  He could remember everything about Mrs. Pritchard. He had even noticed her gown, which had been of pale blue silk or satin overlaid with a silver net tunic. He could remember the way her brown hair had been piled high with tendrils of curls trailing over her temples and before her ears and along her neck. He could remember how her smile had softened the rather severe squareness of her face. He could recall the low sound of her laugh and the glow of happiness on her face as she waltzed. And he could remember thinking that he had not mistaken the matter on that embarrassing day in the Peninsula—she really did have startlingly beautiful blue eyes. It was a pity she kept them lowered much of the time.

  Intimidation had caused that during her marriage, of course. And surely a natural shyness, too. But she had forgotten her shyness last evening. She had been genuinely glad to see him. If she remembered that embrace, then she had forgiven him.

  He was spending too much time thinking of her, when he ought to be trying to remember if there was something about one of the young ladies with whom he had danced that would help him choose which one to court.

  And then the answer came like a fist out of the darkness to punch him beneath the ribs, almost literally robbing him of breath.

  Of course!

  Mrs. Pritchard was young. The fact that she was a widow whom he had known for so long had clouded his realization of that fact. He did not doubt she was several years younger than his own thirty. She was free. She liked him. They knew each other. Well, perhaps that was something of an exaggeration, but at least they were acquainted with each other, and they had been relaxed in each other’s company last evening. They had talked with ease. They had laughed together. They had even been comfortably silent together.

  They could be friends, he had sensed while they were together. He had planned to cultivate her friendship, to keep alive their acquaintance.

  Why not marry her?

  There was only one impediment. She had declared herself to be happy with her life. And he could believe that after a marriage that surely could not have brought her much happiness, she was glad to be free and intended to remain free.

  Would she marry him?

  There was only one way to find out, he had concluded, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, and running the fingers of both hands through his hair.

  He would ask her.

  He did not know her well, but he was sure she would suit him.

  And perhaps he would suit her.

  And so, when he saw her in Hyde Park after the setback of finding her from home, he was so delighted and then so pleased that she agreed to allow him to escort her home that he blurted out his question without giving her any chance at all to guess where his conversation was leading and prepare herself mentally to deal with his proposal.

  Dash it all, he was still just a gauche military officer, even though he had sold out more than five years ago.

  “If it would suit you to do so, of course,” he added to what he had already said.

  He had shocked her. She had stopped walking, snatching her hand from his arm as she did so. She looked up at him with wide, startled eyes. Her lips were parted.

  “Marry you?” she said in a near whisper. She cleared her throat. “Marry yo
u?”

  “I hoped you might.” He clasped his hands at his back and leaned slightly toward her, noting in some relief that they had drawn clear of the crowds about the Serpentine and were not likely to be overheard. “Indeed, I hope you will, though I ought not to have blurted out the question as I did. I ought to have waited until we had reached your house. Shall we wait and discuss the matter there?”

  “But whyever,” she asked, looking bewildered now, “would you wish to marry me, Major Gilchrist?”

  He felt embarrassed—as he deserved to. She might as well have asked why he thought she would want to marry him. That was what she surely meant. He had been presumptuous. And he had been arrogant, assuming that any woman would be glad to marry him. Though he was not normally an arrogant man. At least, he did not believe he was.

  “It occurred to me last night,” he said, “that if I must marry, I would rather marry you than anyone else I met at Lady Claremont’s ball or anyone else I am likely to meet at the next ball. Indeed, I would rather marry you than anyone else at all.”

  “If you must marry,” she said.

  “And it seems I must,” he said, but suddenly he understood her meaning. He was offering for her, she was telling him, only because he must marry.

  And the devil of it was that she was right.

  Though he did like her. And now that he had thought of marrying—something he had always intended to do one day anyway—he really could not think of anyone he would rather marry. Or, since he did not know many ladies, he really did not think he would ever meet anyone he would rather marry than Mrs. Pritchard.

  “May we discuss this further at your house?” he begged her. “If you will allow me inside, that is. If you will not dismiss both me and my suit out of hand. In which case, I suppose there is nothing to discuss anyway. May I take you home now?”

  “I shall positively die,” she said, “if I do not have a cup of tea soon.”

  And when he offered his arm, she took it, and they resumed their walk to her house at a slightly brisker pace than before.

  They walked in silence.

  All she could think about was tea?

  It was all she wanted to think about, and all she would have thought about if other thoughts had not been buzzing about in her head like a swarm of angry, trapped bees.

  He wanted her to marry him.

  She was parched.

  No, he did not want it. He needed to marry, yet he did not relish the process of choosing a bride from among the myriad strangers he had seen in the ballroom last evening. He had a previous acquaintance with her and so it seemed less daunting simply to choose her.

  When she swallowed, there was nothing to swallow. She almost choked on dryness.

  He wanted to discuss his proposal further. She must concentrate her mind upon what she would say.

  She had no idea what she would say.

  Mrs. Evans usually kept a full kettle humming on the fire in the kitchen. It was to be hoped there was one there this afternoon, that her housekeeper had not used the hot water for something else, that she had not forgotten to fill the kettle. Or put it on the fire.

  It was with such flitting, fluttering thoughts that Cleo occupied herself while she walked home with Major Gilchrist. And she wondered if she would wake up soon. But she must be awake already. She did not remember any dream this bizarre.

  Mrs. Evans did have the kettle on to boil. She brought a tray of tea and sweet biscuits into the parlor a scant five minutes after Cleo and Major Gilchrist had entered the house. Cleo had busied herself in the meanwhile, removing her bonnet and gloves and arranging them neatly on the chair just inside the parlor door though usually she took them straight upstairs.

  Major Gilchrist meanwhile had gone to stand close to the fireplace, his back to it. He clasped his hands behind him and stood with his booted feet slightly apart, like a soldier at ease on the parade ground.

  Though she did not suppose he was at ease.

  Mrs. Evans set down the tray, glanced curiously at the visitor, and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  Cleo seated herself behind the tray and busied herself with pouring the tea and setting a few biscuits on each of the small plates. She handed one and a cup and saucer to the major.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking them and going to seat himself opposite her.

  It was against Cleo’s nature to take the initiative in a social situation. But on this occasion it was what she must do. Some sensible thoughts had been mingled with all the bees.

  “Major Gilchrist,” she said, “have you forgotten your main reason—indeed, your only reason—for wishing to marry? Is it not for the production of an heir?”

  “Yes,” he said, “though—”

  She did not let him finish.

  “I was married to Aubrey,” she said, “for five years. I had no children with him. And no miscarriages. Would it not seem foolish even to consider marrying me under the circumstances?”

  She did not look at him. She rearranged the teapot on the tray and remembered that she had not asked him if he took milk or sugar.

  There was a short silence.

  “I did not hear of Colonel Pritchard having any children,” he said. “Yet you were his second wife, I believe. How long was he married to the first?”

  “Twelve years,” she said. “And no, there were no children.”

  She raised her eyes to his.

  “It is altogether possible, then,” he said, “even probable, that you are not barren.”

  Cleo felt her cheeks flush.

  “But it would surely be unwise to take the risk of marrying me,” she said, “when I was married all that time without once conceiving.”

  “There are no guarantees with any marriage,” he said. “Any lady I choose to marry may prove barren. Or she may produce only daughters. Or I may be incapable of begetting children.”

  She felt suddenly dizzy at the intimate nature of their conversation. They had never conversed at all before last night. They were really little more than strangers.

  “I wish to marry you, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said. “I realize that it is perhaps selfish of me to ask when you made it clear last evening that you lead a full and happy life as a widow. It has occurred to me that you may intend never to give up your freedom again, that your happiness depends upon that freedom. And if that is so, I will not pester you. I hope we may be friends, but I may have made that impossible now. I decided to take the risk of asking you anyway. You would do me a great service as well as an honor by marrying me.”

  A service. Major Gilchrist certainly did not have a golden tongue. But she was glad of it. He spoke plainly, and so she could plainly understand.

  He needed a wife. She was available, and he knew her slightly and did not have to start at the very beginning with her. He needed a son, and she might be fertile if the fact that neither she nor Aubrey’s first wife had conceived was not simple coincidence. He was willing to take the risk since marrying her was more convenient than embarking upon any other courtship.

  Did any of it matter?

  She could be married. She could marry the only man she had ever loved. She knew him to be a kind man. As an officer, he had been everything he needed to be. He could be a firm disciplinarian when occasion called for it, but mostly it had not been necessary. His men had worshiped him and obeyed him simply out of their perfect trust in him and their desire to please him. In return, he had loved them and protected them and risked their lives only when it was absolutely necessary—as it often was in war, of course.

  And he was a handsome man and an attractive one too—and there was sometimes a difference. His kiss had been by far the most wonderful experience of her life. She could have far more than his kisses for the rest of her life.

  There was only one problem—well, two really.

  The first was that she feared dreadfully that perhaps she was barren, that she would not be able to provide him with the one thing for which he had married her. Ye
t he would be stuck with her for life. And she with him. It would be dreadful indeed to know that there was no foundation left upon which to build anything positive—affection, friendship, a shared life.

  But far more important than that fear was her second problem. He did not love her. He did not pretend to. He was not marrying for love and he was being quite open and honest about it. She might have accepted that fact, knowing that he was a good and kind man and that she might expect a comfortable marriage with him. But the trouble was that she did love him. And she did not know if she could bear to be married to him when there was no hope of having her feelings returned and when she must spend every day and every night disguising the way she felt.

  It might be better not to be married to him at all.

  Or maybe she was being very foolish. Was it better to be without him for the rest of her life when she might be with him?

  Might she spend the rest of her life bitterly regretting her decision if she refused? And knowing when he married and whom he married? And knowing about their growing family?

  Of course she would bitterly regret her foolishness.

  But perhaps she would bitterly regret marrying him if that was what she decided to do.

  How was she to decide?

  A rather lengthy silence had fallen on them.

  “I am a clumsy fellow, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said. “And not just at the waltz. I ought to have spent some time cultivating your acquaintance and gradually making my intentions known to you. Do forgive me. Would you like some time to consider your answer? Or is it simply no? Do tell me if it is. I would not distress you.”

  She had been running one finger over the handle of the teapot and watching its progress. She raised her eyes to his again.

  “Yes,” she said. “I would like some time, Major Gilchrist. My answer ought to be no and perhaps will be no. But I— yes, I would like some time if you are prepared to give it.”

  He got to his feet.

  “May I return tomorrow?” he asked her. “Or is that too soon? Two days from now? Three?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “At this time. I will remain home.”