by Mary Balogh
“How do you do, sir?” Piers said to his stepfather, exchanging a wink with him over his mother’s head and grinning at Alice.
“I was fine, my boy,” Sir Barry replied mournfully, “until your mama put me on half rations.”
“The very idea!” his wife exclaimed, sealing herself behind the teapot and beginning to pour. “One hates to be vulgar in front of guests, my love, but the truth of the matter is, Mrs. Penhallow, that I have insisted he reduce his rations to double instead of triple what they should be.”
“Sometimes,” Piers said, stretching out his booted feet to the hearth, where a warm fire was crackling, “life seems hardly worth living, does it, sir?”
“If it were not for billiards,” Sir Barry said, “I might consider shooting myself, m’boy. I am waiting for your mama to conceive the notion that stooping over a cue increases one’s girth.”
“I would not say that aloud, if I were you,” Piers said. “You might give her ideas.”
“Mrs. Penhallow,” Lady Neyland said, “you must be a saint to have entertained my son as often as you apparently did when dear Webster was still alive. Make yourself useful, Piers, do, and take Mrs. Penhallow her tea and the plate of cakes.”
“Allie likes them oozing with cream,” he said with a grin, getting to his feet.
“Piers!” she said.
“Now,” Lady Neyland said, “you must tell us how our friends in Bath were going along when you left them, Mrs. Penhallow, if you will. And after tea we will send the men packing for a game of billiards, and you must tell me who your modiste is. That is a very becoming outfit. A lovely color. But then I daresay your sense of style is your own and no modiste’s at all. I wish I shared your eye for what will suit one.”
“How did you leave Mr. and Mrs. Potter?” Sir Barry asked. “Well, I hope?”
Lady Neyland was as good as her word. After a half hour of tea and general conversation, she ordered her husband and son to go and enjoy themselves in the billiard room while she and Mrs. Penhallow had some sensible conversation.
“Men are so like children,” she said fondly when the door had closed behind them. “They have to be told what to do or they will never think of it for themselves. But then I do not need to tell you that when you were married for several years. Though I must say that Webster seemed a great deal more sensible than most other men I have ever known.”
Alice smiled and let her hostess talk.
“Take Piers, for example,” she said. “It is as clear as the nose on your face that he needs a wife. He is restless and bored and lonely, too. And yet he cannot realize it for himself and set about the task of looking about him for a suitable bride. Will you have another cup of tea, my dear? I believe it is still warm.”
Alice declined and watched Lady Neyland fill her own cup.
“I had to tell him,” her hostess said. “One does not like to tell one’s thirty-six-year-old son such a thing, especially when it is quite within his nature to laugh at me and wink at his stepfather over my head as he did earlier, thinking I do not know. He is a horrid, undutiful boy, Mrs. Penhallow, though quite the dearest boy in his fond mama’s eyes, of course.”
She sipped her tea and pulled a face. “Too strong,” she said. “I used the death of those poor unfortunate boys as an excuse, and told Piers that he owed it to his hew position to get himself married and some children into his nursery. I have been amazed to hear that he has been taking me seriously.”
“He has been diligently attending all the entertainments of the Season,” Alice said.
“And eyeing all the new little girls who are half his age, so I hear,” Lady Neyland said. “What a ridiculous boy. Perhaps no one has told him that women are able to breed well past the age of eighteen. How does he expect to find a mate among the little girls?”
Alice did not think a reply was called for. She smiled.
“Exactly,” her hostess said, as if Alice had given the wisest of replies. “He does not have any idea how to go on, Mrs. Penhallow. He never did. You knew Harriet. The sweetest little creature one could ever wish to meet, and she doted on Piers. But I was horrified when I was first presented to her. I can never quite quell the thoroughly nasty thought that he had a fortunate escape from that marriage. He would have been dreadfully unhappy with her by now. Don’t you agree?”
Alice hesitated. “He was very kind to her,” she said.
‘‘Well, of course he was,” the other said. “And doubtless would have continued to be. It is not in Piers’ nature to be cruel to people who are weaker than he. But he would have been unhappy. Piers is an intelligent boy, though one would not always think so from the foolish way he likes to talk. He needs a woman whose mind can match his own. Someone like you, for example.” She took another sip of the tea and then set it in its saucer with a look of extreme distaste.
“Like me?” Alice said.
Lady Neyland sighed. “He was very fond of you and Webster,” she said. “I can remember thinking even when you were still married that it would have been far better for Piers if he had been the one to marry you. I suppose he had the same chance to woo you as Webster had when you were at the rectory with your papa. He could finally settle down if he would but marry someone like you, I believe.”
Alice licked dry lips. “But I am not in search of a husband, ma’am,” she said.
“No, I know, my dear,” Lady Neyland said. “You have been widowed for only two years, and it is hard to risk a second marriage when the first was a happy one, is it not? I had a happy marriage with Mr. Westhaven. It was all of five years before I could contemplate taking another partner.”
“I value my independence,” Alice said. .
“ Yes,” her hostess said, “I could see that when we were at Bath. You need not look so aghast, my dear. I am not going to push a match on either you or Piers. While you would undoubtedly be good for him, I am not at all sure he would be good for you. He is a careless boy who would not treat you nearly as worshipfully as Webster did. He would as like try to shock you every day of your life merely for the pleasure of watching you blush.”
“He does that now,” Alice found herself saying with a smile of amusement.
“Then you know what I mean,” the other said. “Well, Mrs. Penhallow, my dear, perhaps I have started something that I ought not to have started at all. For a poor marriage will surely be more disastrous for Piers than no marriage at all. Is there anyone special?”
Alice hesitated. “I do not believe his feelings are engaged with anyone,” she said. “He has paid attentions to Miss Borden, daughter of Lady Margam, but I think more out of an instinct to protect her from shyness than out of any serious intent to woo her.”
“And I suppose she and her mama, as well as every other girl and her mama, know that he is wealthy and landed and in search of a bride?” she said dryly.
“I believe so, ma’am,” Alice said.
Lady Neyland clucked her tongue. “Piers thinks he is awake on every suit,” she said. “But in matters of the heart—or in matters of matrimony, I should say, which is not at all necessarily the same thing—he can he the veriest babe. The chances are that he will end up marrying not the girl he has chosen, but the one who has laid the most careful trap. Am I right, Mrs. Penhallow?”
“I really could not say, ma’am,” Alice said.
“No, of course you could not,” Lady Neyland said. “It would not be proper for you to comment, would it? I should not have asked you. Now I have to decide what to do. Keep my mouth shut, I suppose. For if I talk to him, he will become stubborn and walk into the trap that much sooner. Well, my dear, I still have not asked you about your modiste. This is a London creation, is it not?”
They talked fashions for the time that remained before they were rejoined by the gentlemen.
Chapter 8
He was just simply not going to do it, Mr. Westhaven decided that evening at the Hendon ball. Allie had been right. There had to be more to marriage than just the breeding of
heirs. There was more. There was the living with one’s mate for the rest of one’s life. And if he married a girl half his age, then there was every chance that she would outlive him. He would be taking on a life sentence indeed.
He was finding the evening tedious in the extreme. Dancing with Miss Borden brought no stimulation to the mind, unless one called searching about in one’s brain for some topic of conversation that would draw a word or a smile from her stimulating. It was mildly amusing, of course, to try to coax her into peeping up through her lashes at him or even looking directly at him. But would the amusement pall after a few years?
The word seemed to be out that he was paying serious court to Miss Borden. The other mamas and their daughters laid even more determined siege to his heart than usual. It was all vastly entertaining. But after all, he decided, he did not want the inner privacy of his life permanently invaded.
The whole of the social scene was beginning to pall on him. There was, he was discovering, only a certain range of human foolishness to be observed. He had observed it all during the past several weeks. Things were becoming repetitive.
He felt a sudden longing to be back in the country, back at Westhaven. He had not been there for a whole year. He had avoided it, and still did not fancy going there, knowing that strangers were at Chandlos, knowing that he would never be able to ride or stroll there again and find himself more perfectly at home than he had ever been anywhere else in his life.
But Westhaven Park was still home, and he longed for the peace of it, away from the follies of town. And sooner or later he must accustom his mind finally to the knowledge that Web was dead and Allie making a new life for herself in Bath. She would always be his friend, he believed, but he must learn to realize that she could not always be there for him as she had been when she had been at Chandlos.
Yes, he had made up his mind. He just would not do it.
“I am not going to do it, you know,” he told Alice when he waltzed with her some time before supper.
“Am I to praise your decision or chide?” she said, raising her eyebrows and smiling up at him. “What is it you are not going to do, Piers?”
“Marry,” he said. “I have decided to go to my grave a confirmed bachelor. Or a confirmed widower, I suppose I should say.”
“Half of London will go into mourning,” she said. “The female half, that is. The male half will probably cheer your withdrawal from the lists.”
“Ah,” he said, “you choose to laugh at me, Allie. You have become quite saucy lately. I suppose my mother will disown me. She will never have the experience of being a grandmama.”
“Am I permitted to ask what has caused this change in plan?” she asked.
“You have,” he said, and watched the smile arrested in her eyes for a moment. “You talked sense into me, Allie. Are you not pleased?”
“Yes if I have prevented you from making a disastrous marriage,” she said. “No if I have condemned you to a life of loneliness.”
“I am going to go back to Westhaven,” he said. “I wish I could leave tomorrow now that I have conceived the idea, but I cannot, confound it. I have promised to organize a party to Vauxhall for Miss Borden. Some time next week, I think, and then I shall be free to be on my way.”
“How I envy you,” she said.
“Do you?” He grinned at her. “Then come with me. Be my guest. The house is large enough.”
“Piers!” she said, laughing. “The very idea. The whole neighborhood would disown you. “
“It would not be a good idea anyway, would it?” he said, his smile softening. “I imagine it would be hard on you to be a guest at Westhaven and to know that you did not belong at Chandlos any longer. And to know that Web is not there. Even I find that hard to face.”
“But I am glad you are going home, “ she said. “You are missed there, I am sure. I hope to return to Bath soon, too.”
“But not before the Vauxhall night,” he said. “I need you there for moral support, Allie. And you must promise me before you leave that you will never marry Lansing.”
She laughed. “I promise,” she said. “Only because you insist, Piers, but I promise.”
“He danced the last set with Miss Borden,” he said, “and has signed her card for the supper dance. Perhaps he plans to run off with her and the fishy fortune, Allie. Perhaps you will be safe from him after all.”
“I don’t think Mr. Bosley’s fortune will be a lure to Sir Clayton,” she said. “He is reputed to be very wealthy indeed. Do you realize what you have forced me to give up, Piers?”
“I was ever a killjoy,” he said.
***
“You must always remember, Cassie,” Mr. Bosley was explaining to his niece at luncheon the next day. Lady Margam was lying down with a headache. “A business head is a cool head. You will gain nothing if you allow yourself to be seduced by appearances.”
Cassandra toyed with the food on her plate.
“Mr. Carpenter is a young man and a good-looking one, too, at a guess. Eh, am I right?” he asked.
“Yes, Uncle, “ she said.
“And so you agreed to drive in the park with him this afternoon,” he said. “It is very understandable, Cass. He is young and you are young. But he is a relative nobody, girl. His father owns a small property and has a fortune so modest that only the upper classes would call it a fortune at all. Not that that would matter if he were somebody, of course. But he has nothing to offer you.”
“No, Uncle,” she said.
“Your mother was moving in the right direction when she married your papa,” he said. “But in those days I was in no position to help with the blunt. Now I am, Cassie. You can do as well as your mama and better—and have the money to live on as well.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said.
“Westhaven is the one,” he said. “I have inquired about all the others who have shown interest in you, Cassie. Not one of them will do at all. Your mother mentioned that Sir Clayton Lansing danced with you twice last evening.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said.
“And he was part of the group that went to Richmond, was he not?” he asked.
“Yes, Uncle,” she said. “He was obliging enough to walk with me there.”
“Hm,” he said. “ I shall have to make inquiries. In the meantime, Cassie, you must keep making up to Westhaven. You are doing so?”
“He is very attentive, Uncle,” she said.
“And still planning to take you to Vauxhall?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “He said he would call on Mama to make arrangements for next week.”
“Good girl,” he said. “You must attach him there, girl. A very romantic spot is Vauxhall. You must dazzle him and flirt with him. Just make sure you are never alone with him, Cass.” He winked at her.
“Yes, Uncle,” she said.
***
Phoebe was finally recovering from her sickness, though she felt very weak still, she assured Alice when the latter mentioned her plan to return home to Bath the following week. Far too weak to accompany Amanda everywhere and look after Mary, who was still peevish.
It was a strange weakness, Alice thought with some amusement a few days after Phoebe had mentioned it. It did not at all impede her doing what she wished to do, like chaperoning Amanda at balls and the livelier parties. Nor did it stop her from indulging in daily shopping trips. But it did have her wilting over the prospect of accompanying her daughter to concerts and the opera. And it certainly prevented her from taking her younger daughter about.
That fell to Alice’s lot. She took Mary to St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey, to the New Mint and Madame Tussaud’s. And she talked to the child and tried to think of other amusements, though she was not very familiar with London herself. She hid her irritation with her brother, who spent his life complaining of how his family inconvenienced him and yet never did anything for their entertainment. Jarvis, to give him his due, was making some effort to keep Richard amused.
; It was Piers who reminded her of the Tower of London and Astley’s Amphitheater. He asked her, at the opera one evening, if she would care to visit the British Museum with him the following afternoon.
“I will try to steer you away from the dustiest sections,” he said.
But she told him with a smile that she had promised to take Mary for an outing.
“I’ll come with you,” he said after suggesting the two possible destinations. “I will enjoy visiting them again.”
“Liar!” she said. “You complained to me only the other day, Piers, that you get tired of having to take young ladies to those very places.”
“Did I?” he said. “I must have been in a vile mood, was I? But you see, Allie, it is the company that makes all the difference.”
“You like Mary, then,” she said.
“Good Lord,” he said. “Do I know her? Actually I like her aunt. Shall we take my curricle and squeeze the child in between us?”
“I am quite sure she would be thrilled, “ Alice said. “Jarvis flatly refuses to take her up in his, claiming that he would be the laughingstock to be seen driving a child about London in such a sporting vehicle.”
“Ah,” he said. “Now you tell me. So I am to be the laughingstock, am I? You know, Allie, I have the most ferocious headache. Don’t you suppose the composer of this opera might have done us all a kindness by killing off the soprano in the first half instead of waiting until the very last scene?”
“Then there would not have been any point in having a second half to the opera,” she said sensibly.
He grinned. “That is a good point,” he said before sauntering back to join his own party for the remainder of the evening.
