by Mary Balogh
“I daresay,” Eve said, “the park will be too wet in the morning, Aunt Mari. The rain shows no sign of easing.” Indeed it was drumming against the windows.
The colonel was sitting in a relaxed pose in a deep armchair, his elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled. Eve had the feeling he was watching her as she worked. It was a strange, very physical feeling as if there were some string stretched between them on which an invisible finger was pulling ever so gently. She was feeling slightly breathless. It was a relief to hear a tap on the door. Agnes opened it just wide enough to poke her head around it.
“You are needed in the nursery, my lamb,” she said, glancing rather venomously at Aidan, who had reminded her before dinner that her mistress was now “my lady.”
“I'll come immediately,” Eve said, threading her needle through the cloth, folding it, and getting to her feet.
“The children do not have a nurse?” the colonel asked.
“They are usually sleeping by now,” Eve explained. “There must be a problem.”
“Eve spends a great deal of time with them,” Aunt Mari was saying as she left the room. “She would be a wonderful mother to her own children.”
Eve grimaced and hurried up the stairs. Neither Nanny Johnson nor Thelma would interrupt her while she was entertaining unless they felt they had no choice.
Sounds of sobbing greeted her as she opened the nursery door. Nanny Johnson was seated on a chair, Becky curled up on her lap. Davy was standing in the middle of the floor in his nightshirt. It was Becky who was sobbing, inconsolably by the sound of it. Thelma was in Benjamin's room, rocking him in her arms. He was making sleepy noises of protest, obviously disturbed from his sleep.
“She is finding it hard to believe that you will not be going away again,” Nanny said, “and that Mr. Morris will not be coming back to make us all go away. He made the children stand in the servants' lines too, Miss Eve, when he gave us our notice.”
Eve hurried across the room and scooped Becky up into her own arms. “Oh, my sweetheart,” she said, her cheek against the top of the child's head, “I am not going anywhere. I went away only so that I could make all safe for you. And all is safe. Ringwood is mine, and this is where you will grow up, you and Davy. This is your home and always will be. And I will always love you. Always, no matter what. Come, let's sit down and I will show you something.”
The child's sobs had quietened to hiccuped gasps by the time they settled in a chair. Although she was attached to both Nanny and Thelma, it was understandable that it was Eve she needed tonight. It had been brought home to her child's mind in the cruelest of manners yesterday that it was Eve who stood between her and the terror of abandonment again. Oh, how dare Cecil have so demeaned and so frightened children who were his own relatives!
“Look.” Eve extended her left hand and spread her fingers. “Do you see my ring? It is a wedding ring. It means that I am married. And that means that I can stay at Ringwood all my life. It means that you can stay at Ringwood too.”
“And Davy?” the child asked.
“And Davy.” Eve kissed the top of her head. “You are both safe. You are my very own children. I love you both and will love you forever and ever.” Though love was not always enough, she admitted to herself. Love would not have protected them if she had not married. She was glad she had married. She would endure all the consequences of having had to take such a drastic and painful course.
She looked up to smile reassuringly at Davy, but he was looking away from her toward the door, his bare feet braced apart, his hands clenched into fists, his whole body tensed as if to spring. The colonel was standing in the doorway.
“Easy, boy,” he said quietly. “I am not your enemy. Or your sister's. You would defend her to the death, would you? Good lad. Men protect the women in their lives.”
“Go away!” Davy's voice was trembling.
“Davy—” Eve began, but the colonel held up a staying hand without removing his eyes from the boy. Nanny did not move.
“Miss Morris came to London with me two days ago,” he said, “so that I could marry her yesterday. She is now Lady Aidan Bedwyn. I married her to give her my protection, so that she can stay here and so that you can have a home and be safe until you grow up and make your own way in the world. I married her because I am a man of honor and protect women whenever it is in my power to do so. I am a military officer and must return to my battalion soon. Lady Aidan is safe here—I have seen to that—but I will be easier in my mind knowing that she has another honorable man to look after her and the other women here. Or an honorable boy who will grow into a man, anyway. I believe you are he. Am I right?”
Eve watched the tension gradually drain from Davy's body.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Aidan said quietly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good lad. Which is your bedchamber?”
“That one.” Davy pointed. “I heard Becky crying. I thought that man had come to get her.”
“You know now that that is not going to happen,” Aidan said. “Ever. Why don't you go back to bed and let your nurse tuck you in? All is safe.”
The thing was, Eve thought, rocking Becky in her arms, there was nothing soft in his manner. He had even forced Davy to call him sir. He had not smiled or looked anything short of ferocious. But she felt she was having a rare glimpse into a man whose depths of character she had not even begun to uncover. And she never would do so. Tomorrow he would be gone, this stranger, her husband.
His eyes met hers across the room and held her gaze. Neither spoke. They could not do so—Becky was falling asleep, Thelma was still rocking Benjamin, her back to the nursery, and Nanny was murmuring softly to Davy in his room.
It was a moment in which something passed between them, something intimate, almost tender, unexplainable, painful. Eve felt a soreness in her chest that felt very much like grief.
After a few moments he turned and left and Eve set her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. She had not known it would feel like this—as if something really had happened yesterday. Something that had deeply and irrevocably changed her life.
WHEN AIDAN GOT OUT OF BED THE NEXT MORNING, woken by the sound of Andrews bringing his shaving water into his dressing room, it was to the discovery that the rain was still falling in a fine drizzle. He hoped the roads would not be too muddy for travel in the afternoon—not that he was unaccustomed to riding through mud.
He spent more than an hour after breakfast tramping alone in the outdoors. His wife had announced her intention of spending the morning in the nursery with the children. Mrs. Pritchard had taken the carriage into Heybridge. The park was very nicely planned indeed. There was a rose arbor to one side of the house with a wilderness walk beyond it, wooded and hilly and dotted with grottoes and rustic seats, from all of which there was a pleasant prospect—or would be on a fine day. A flourishing vegetable and flower garden stretched the length of the back of the house. The lily pond he had seen before was picturesque. The wooded valley behind it was blooming with azaleas and bluebells and must be secluded and lovely on a sunny day. Well-kept lawns stretched before the house.
It was her home—narrowly, by the skin of her teeth, so to speak. Today she would be leaving here forever if Andrews had not caught a cold. Or if he had not come upon Captain Morris minutes before his death instead of minutes after. Or if the captain had not saved his life at Salamanca. How strange was the seemingly random pattern of events in one's life.
He made his way back to the house well before noon. He would not put it past Cecil Morris to arrive early, and he would not for worlds miss his visit.
His wife was in the drawing room, he discovered after changing into dry clothes, busy at her embroidery again, though he had the feeling that she had picked it up only when she heard him coming, to avoid the awkwardness of being tête-à-tête with him. He stood watching her for a few moments until he noticed that her cheeks had turned pink. He crossed to
the window and stood looking out.
Cecil Morris's carriage drove into sight at precisely ten minutes to twelve.
“Here he comes,” Aidan said.
“Agnes will show him up,” she said.
“Yes.” He turned and watched her thread her needle through the cloth with steady hands and fold her work carefully before putting it away in a tapestry bag. He moved slightly to one side of the window, into the shadow cast by the draperies. They were both listening to the sound of hooves clopping and wheels crunching on the terrace below. A carriage door banged, and then the knocker rattled loudly against the front door. The housekeeper would not have opened it unbidden for this particular visitor, of course. For once Aidan felt in charity with her.
His wife turned her head to look at him before standing and moving closer to the drawing room door to greet her visitor. Moments later the door was flung open without even the courtesy of a knock and crashed against the round table behind it.
“Ah, Cecil,” Eve said. “Good morning. A rather dreary day, is it not?”
Aidan was aware of the rumbling sound of other vehicles approaching up the driveway, but he did not turn his head to look. He did not move at all.
“I am amazed you are still here, Eve,” her cousin said, taking off his hat and greatcoat, shaking droplets of water from both, and tossing them onto a nearby chair. “I expected that you would preserve some dignity by leaving before noon. You are not about to grovel and beg me to allow you to stay, are you? I would not hear of it, you know, and I abhor scenes.”
“I hope Aunt Jemima is well?” she asked politely.
“I trust everyone else has already gone,” he said, “and that that woman who calls herself a housekeeper and has so degraded the tone of the house for the past year or so is on her way.” He drew out a pocket watch and consulted it. “They have two minutes of their allotted time left, the pack of them. You too, Eve. And then one hour's grace, which I will grant out of the kindness of my heart. At one o'clock I have men arriving, including the parish constable, who will haul the stragglers off to the magistrate. We cannot have vagrants as a financial burden on the parish, can we? Now, if you will excuse me.” He paused to laugh at his own intended joke. “Or if you will not excuse me, as a matter of fact, cousin. I have wagons arriving and must go down to supervise their unloading.”
“Cecil,” Eve said, “I really must ask you to leave. Our midday meal is almost ready and I have not found you courteous enough to merit an invitation. I do not want anything of yours unloaded into my house. In fact, I expressly forbid it. Please go down immediately and see to it that it does not happen.”
“Now see here, Eve,” he said, his chest puffing out and his face turning a deep red, “I am not putting up with your antics, and don't think I will just because you are my own first cousin. I have never liked you, and today I don't mind telling you so. You are to leave the house right now, this minute. You have had your chance to take your personal belongings with you, but you have lost it. Now, are you going to go without any more fuss, or do I have to lay a whip about you?”
His accent had slipped into something quite distinctly Welsh, Aidan noticed. He cleared his throat, and Morris turned his head sharply to peer into the shadows by the window. His expression changed to one of obsequious heartiness.
“My lord!” he exclaimed. “Have you come calling again? You ought to have told me so as soon as I arrived, Eve, and I would have given you an extra couple of hours to entertain your guest—might I even say, our guest? What are a few hours between close relatives, after all? You will perhaps understand, my lord, that my dear mother has lived in a cottage, though a very comfortable, spacious one, I must hasten to add, all her married life and is understandably impatient to move into her new home here. Left to myself, I would gladly have given Eve until the end of the week.”
“Did someone mention whips?” Aidan stepped farther out into the light.
Morris laughed heartily. “A joke between cousins,” he said.
“Ah.” Aidan took a few more leisurely steps forward until he was close enough for the other man to be fully aware of the significant difference in height between six foot one and five foot four or five. “I have frequently been accused of lacking a sense of humor and now I know it has not been without reason. I believed you were serious.”
Morris's laugh was a little more strained this time.
“I am something of a killjoy too,” Aidan said. “Even in fun, I simply could not allow you to—ah, lay a whip about my wife.”
There was a brief, heavy pause.
“Your wife.” Morris had gone slack-jawed.
“My wife.”
Morris laughed once more with arch jocularity. “You are the dry one,” he said with a broad wink. “You had me going there, my lord. No sense of humor, eh? It is the driest one I ever heard, I will give you that. And when were the banns called? Huh, huh? You forgot about those, did you?”
“Miss Eve Morris,” Aidan said coldly, half expecting a conspiratorial dig in the ribs with an elbow at any moment, “did me the honor of marrying me by special license in London the day before yesterday. She is now Lady Aidan Bedwyn of Ringwood Manor. And I believe I heard her a minute or two ago telling you to take yourself off.”
“Now see here—”
“You can leave under your own power,” Aidan said, “or I can assist you—but not with a whip, you may be relieved to understand. Only a coward and a bully threatens those who are weaker than himself with whips or other weapons when he possesses two perfectly serviceable hands. Before you go, though—”
“Married! You have married Eve?” Morris's face had turned a dangerous shade of purple. Spittle had gathered in the corners of his mouth and sprayed out with his words. The truth was just beginning to dawn upon his mind, Aidan suspected.
“To a gentleman, Cecil,” she said. “Therefore, I am the rightful owner of Ringwood Manor today, and you are not.”
“No!” He whirled about and glared at her. “This cannot be. Whoever heard of a marriage by special license? It cannot be valid. And if you say it is, you are lying or using trickery and flummery and I will have you exposed and punished for it. And if you ever expect mercy or charity from me—”
“Silence, man!” Almost unconsciously Aidan had adjusted both his tone and expression to those he used on men who were unwise enough to challenge his authority on the battlefield or parade ground. It did not involve raising his voice or making any menacing gestures, but it had its effect on Morris as it always did on others. He turned back to Aidan, bug-eyed, his face paling.
“Although you are my wife's cousin,” Aidan said, taking one step closer so that Morris had to tip back his head to look up at him, “I have detected not the faintest trace of familial sentiment toward her in your words or your manner. You are no longer welcome here, sir. You will take your leave as soon as I have finished speaking, and you will never return. Never! Not even to the extent of setting one toe over the boundary of the park. Do I make myself understood?”
Cecil Morris stared mutely up at him.
Aidan lowered his voice. “Do I make myself understood?”
No sound came out and he cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“I will be leaving my wife here when I return to my battalion in the near future,” Aidan continued. “But I have long arms, Morris, and I have powerful friends in England, including my brother, the Duke of Bewcastle, with whom you were so impressed when I first met you. If I hear the merest whisper of a suggestion that you have been harassing or even slightly annoying Lady Aidan Bedwyn, those arms and those friends will reach out and cause you bodily harm. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.” The voice had become an ignominious squeak.
“Good.” Aidan, his hands clasped at his back, continued to look down at the man for several seconds longer, having discovered prolonged silence to be an effective weapon in further weakening jellylike knees in even the most recalcitrant of soldiers. “You will leave no
w.”
Morris turned and glanced at Eve. He opened his mouth but closed it again, leaving unsaid whatever he itched to say. And wisely so. Aidan would have loved an excuse to pick the man up by the scruff of his neck and convey him down the stairs and out to his carriage with his boot toes scraping ineffectually against the floor. Morris stumbled toward the door, gathered up his coat and hat with ungainly haste when he thought Aidan was coming after him, and disappeared. Aidan closed the door and turned to his wife, his eyebrows raised.
Her eyes were alight with merriment. “Oh,” she said, “I am so glad you stayed. I would not have missed that for worlds. It was priceless! You were priceless.”
She came hurrying toward him as she spoke, both her hands outstretched. He took them in his own and squeezed them tightly.
“I confess,” he said, “that I rather enjoyed it myself.”
“Thank you!” she cried, returning the pressure of his hands. “Thank you so very much for everything. You will never know how grateful I am.”
She was flushed and vivid and pretty again, as she had been in London two afternoons ago. She lifted her face to his—for what purpose he never afterward understood—and he bent toward her for no conceivable purpose at all. Somehow their mouths met and pressed together for a few timeless moments until they both jerked back and dropped each other's hands as if they had just scalded each other.
What the devil! It was surely one of the most excruciatingly embarrassing moments of Aidan's life—perhaps the most—especially as she stood there looking up at him, wide-eyed with dismay, color flooding her cheeks, and he could think of nothing to do but clasp his hands behind his back and clear his throat.
“I beg your pardon—”
“I do beg your pardon—”
