by Mary Balogh
Cousin Viola looked just as uncomfortable. “Am I the first to return?” she asked. “I am so sorry. I thought to find Althea and Elizabeth here and perhaps Harry and Abby too. I expected that you would have gone out somewhere with Alexander.”
“He felt that he really ought to go to the Lords this morning,” Wren explained.
“On the day after his wedding?” the other lady said, looking startled. But then she laughed. “Oh, but that sounds just like Alexander.”
“And I had work to do here myself,” Wren added.
“Oh, have I interrupted—”
“No, you have not,” Wren assured her. “Do come and sit down. The coffee is fresh and there are extra cups. Let me pour you some.”
A minute later they were seated on either side of the fireplace in a room that seemed somehow larger and quieter than it had five minutes ago.
“I find this situation far more awkward than I expected when I suggested inviting you to the wedding,” Wren said. “And more awkward than it seemed when you first arrived. After yesterday you must— Well, surely you must resent me.”
“You are refreshingly honest,” Viola said. “For of course I have been sitting here trying not to squirm with discomfort. I do not feel any resentment toward you, Wren, or toward Alexander. Even if you had not been good enough to invite Abby and me to your wedding, and even if you had not been so extraordinarily kind to Harry, I still would not resent you. There is only one person deserving of my resentment and he is dead. I will say no more about that, for he was my husband and I owe him loyalty even in death—and even though the marriage was never a legal one. I am no saint, however. I did feel an intense hatred and resentment of Anastasia for many months even while denying it and understanding how illogical such feelings were. But then I saw how persistently kind and generous she tried to be to my children, her half siblings, and even to me, and I had a good talk with her when we were all in Bath last year. And I am determinedly loving her. That may sound strangely worded, but love is not always a feeling, Wren. Sometimes it is more of a decision. I have decided to love her, and I trust that eventually I will feel it too.”
“I find her delightful, I must confess,” Wren said. “I find the whole family delightful, in fact. They have welcomed me despite everything.”
“Everything?” Viola regarded her in silence for a few moments, her head tipped to one side. “Do you mean despite your face? Or do you mean despite your money?”
“A bit of both, I suppose,” Wren said. “I was described in one of the papers this morning as a fabulously wealthy heiress. Everyone will be saying today that someone with Alexander’s good looks would not have married a woman who looks as I do without the money.”
“And do you care what people say?” Viola asked.
“Do you?”
“Touché.” Viola laughed softly. “Because I have hidden away in the country with Abby and refused to come to London until now? I suppose we all care, Wren, no matter how much we try to tell others and ourselves that we do not. Yes, I care. You cannot know what it is like to lose your very identity when you are already forty years old. Most of us, whether we realize it or not, take our identity from things and other people and circumstances and our very names. It is only when all those identifiers are stripped away that we ask ourselves the question who am I? It does not happen to many people, of course. It is more frightening than I can put into words to wonder if in fact one even exists without all those things. I call myself Viola Kingsley because that is who I was as a girl. It does not feel quite who I am today, however. But I beg your pardon. I do not usually talk so shamelessly about myself.”
“I do understand,” Wren told her. “I was not born with the name Wren Heyden. I acquired both names when I was ten years old and with them a whole new identity. I feel for you even though the transformation happened for me at a quite different point in my life than it did for you. And for me it was a change infinitely for the better.”
“Ten years old,” Viola said. “Oh, poor little girl. I did not know that about you. I know very little about you except that you are kind and beautiful—yes, you are. There is no point in looking so skeptical. And, little though I know, I have the feeling you are going to be the perfect wife for Alexander. He needs someone as serious minded and intelligent as he. And someone who can make him smile, as he did yesterday.”
“Oh,” Wren said, arrested. “I think that must be a worthy thing to do for others, must it not? Making them smile?”
They smiled at each other as if to prove the point. She could have a genuine friendship with this woman, Wren thought with a rush of warmth to the heart. First Lizzie, now Viola. Ah, she had missed so much in her life of self-imposed seclusion. Viola had opted out of life last year. Wren had been doing it for almost twenty years.
It was as though Viola read her thoughts. “You see what comes of conversation?” she said. “I would have sat here this morning in pained embarrassment, talking about the weather and praying for Althea and Elizabeth or my children to return here soon if you had not chosen to talk openly about the awkwardness we both felt. By talking freely we have each discovered that we are not the only ones who have ever suffered. Sometimes it feels, does it not, as though one had been unfairly singled out while everyone else proceeds with a happy, untroubled life?”
“Indeed.” Wren smiled again, and then moved on to lighter subjects. “Will you be attending any social functions while you are in town?” she asked. “Will Abigail?”
“My mother-in-law—former mother-in-law—and Matilda are very keen that I do,” Viola said. “They pointed out last evening that what happened to me was not in any way my fault and most of the ton would be perfectly happy to see me again and welcome me back. They believe I ought to make the effort for Abby’s sake. They think it is still possible, especially with the combined influence of the family and Avery, for her to have a decent coming-out and to find a husband suited to her upbringing. However, it is Abby who must make that decision, and I cannot predict what she will decide, though I can make an educated guess. If she decides to do it, however, it will not be with me by her side. She will have more powerful advocates. As for myself, I have no real wish to be restored to favor. It is not that I am afraid to show my face, but . . . well”—she smiled—“perhaps I am a little afraid.”
“A stack of invitations arrived this morning,” Wren said, nodding in the direction of the tray. “I was not expecting them. I daresay I am very naive. Our wedding was announced and commented upon in today’s papers, and I am now the Countess of Riverdale. I will refuse them all, of course.”
“Will you?” Viola said. “I understand you have spent years hiding yourself away and wearing a facial veil when you must go out. Yet you did not wear one yesterday. Will Alexander not try to insist that you attend at least a few of those entertainments?”
“No,” Wren told her.
“You said that with utter confidence,” Viola said. “So you will have no social life as the Countess of Riverdale?”
“No.” Wren shook her head.
“We are two fearful women, are we not?” Viola pulled a face and then looked speculatively at Wren. “Are we really going to give in to our fears? Or shall we challenge each other? Shall we show ourselves together to London, even if not to the ton? Shall we visit some of the galleries and churches and perhaps the Tower of London together in the next few days before I return home? Strangely, sightseeing is not something a Countess of Riverdale usually does. There are too many parties and other social events to take up her time. I shall run the very real risk of being recognized, and you will run the risk of being seen—for of course, to make the challenge real, you would have to go unveiled. What do you say? Shall we do it?”
Wren hesitated for only a moment. “What veil?” she said, and they both laughed again.
The door opened once more at that moment to admit Harry and Abigail an
d Jessica. They seemed to bring youth and energy and sunshine in with them—and chatter and laughter. Harry made his bow, and the young ladies hugged them both.
“Did you like the description of yourself as a fabulously wealthy heiress?” Jessica asked Wren with a laugh. “Avery, of course, pointed out that heiress is an inaccurate word since you are already the owner of the glassware fortune.”
“I did not like that description at all,” Abigail said, “implying as it did, ever so slyly, that Alex married you for the fortune and nothing else. Alex has always been a favorite of mine. I have always admired him, and I know it is something he would never, ever do even if he does need money to repair all the damage to that heap Papa left him. You looked absolutely beautiful yesterday, Wren, and quite radiant.”
“You still look radiant this morning,” Jessica said, and giggled a bit self-consciously. “I hope you do not mind that I have come here with Abby and Harry. I suppose Alex has gone off to the House of Lords?”
“I warned you not to bet against me, Jess,” Harry said, flopping into a chair, looking pale and cheerful and rather tired.
“Have you seen Josephine, Wren?” Abigail asked. “Anastasia and Avery’s baby? She is gorgeous. Oh, Mama, you must go and see her. Anastasia says you must. She is disappointed, of course, that I will not be able to go to Morland Abbey for the summer, as she had originally hoped, but she understands that you and I will wish to be in Bath for Camille’s confinement. She says she and Avery will probably go there too after the baby is born.”
Harry was yawning.
Mrs. Westcott and Elizabeth arrived home a few minutes later, and the buzz of conversation proceeded with more volume and enthusiasm. Wren laughed quietly to herself. Had she really expected a quiet day? Had she really wanted one? She was actually enjoying this sense of family and of being part of it.
“I suppose,” Elizabeth said, “Alex has taken himself off to the House of Lords. Sometimes I could shake that brother of mine.”
“You look more than usually lovely this morning, Wren,” her mother-in-law said with a little nod of satisfaction, and Wren knew that what she was really saying was that her daughter-in-law looked well and truly bedded. But since the words and the nod had been delivered unobtrusively while everyone else chattered, Wren did not feel unduly embarrassed.
And then the door opened one more time, and it was Alexander himself, looking rather surprised and achingly handsome. Wren got to her feet.
“Ah,” he said, “a family party while the master of the house is away? Is this what comes of now having a mistress of the house?”
“Actually, Alex,” Elizabeth said, “your presence is quite superfluous.”
“Hmm,” he said, meeting Wren halfway across the room and raising her hand to his lips. “I left the Lords early to take you for that drive to Kew you did not have last week. I pictured you languishing here alone.”
“Then you were quite wrong,” she said. “Today I am a Westcott, my lord, and am enjoying the company of my family.”
He grinned at her.
“That is putting you in your place, Alex,” Harry said, yawning again.
“However,” Wren said, “I will forgo the further pleasure of their company in order to go for a drive with my husband.”
His grin widened. “And I am the bearer of another invitation for this evening,” he said. “Netherby is taking Anna to the theater but declares that his private box is far too spacious for them to rattle about in alone—his words. He wants us to join them there. And he wants Cousin Viola and Abigail to come too and Harry if he feels up to it. I gave him no answer. I did, however, warn him that you would all very possibly decline the invitation. He merely shrugged and looked bored in that way he has. You must none of you feel under any obligation. I shall be perfectly happy to spend the evening at home in present company.”
“Oh.” Wren turned her head to look at Viola and they exchanged identical smirks.
“An even more daunting challenge than the one we devised,” Viola said.
Everyone looked at her blankly—except Wren. “Do we have the courage?” she asked. And oh goodness, did she? Ought she?
Viola lifted her chin, thought a moment, and nodded.
Wren returned her attention to Alexander. “We would be in a private box?” she asked. “In a darkened theater?”
He hesitated. “In a private box, yes,” he said. “But before the play begins the theater will be well lit and everyone will be looking around to see who else is present and who is with whom and what food for gossip is to be had. You would be very much on display during that time. After this morning’s announcement, there would be great curiosity to have that first glimpse of the new Countess of Riverdale—the fabulously wealthy Heyden glassware heiress. And after the events of last year there would be much food for gossip in the reappearance of the former countess and her son and daughter. I am afraid there would be as much focus upon Netherby’s box before the performance as there would be on the stage later.”
“You think we ought not to go, then?” she asked him.
“This is not my decision to make,” he said firmly.
“By thunder,” Harry said, “I would rather face a column of Boney’s men on the attack, all yelling vive l’empereur between beats of the drum in that unnerving way of theirs. I am not going. Besides, I am going to be ready to crawl off to my bed to sleep the clock around by the time this evening comes.”
“I will go,” Abigail said, “if Jessica can come too. I was never allowed to attend the theater before I was eighteen, and then I could not. I will go.”
“And so will I, Abby,” Viola said.
Oh, this was not fair, Wren thought. Inch by excruciating inch she was being dragged out into the open, where she had never intended to go. Except that there was no unfairness involved. The invitation had been extended and the decision of whether she would accept it or not was entirely hers.
“I will do it,” she said.
Alexander caught both her hands in his and squeezed tightly while there was a slight cheer behind her and then laughter.
“Oh, bravo, Wren,” Elizabeth said. “And Viola and Abigail too.”
“I would have won my wager, then,” Alexander said. “Unfortunately for me, Netherby was unwilling to bet against me.”
Now what had she done? Wren thought, feeling a twinge of panic. Whatever had she done? “But first,” she said, “I want to see Kew Gardens.”
Seventeen
Those who went to the theater in search of fresh material for gossip as much as entertainment from the stage were to find more than sufficient that evening without looking farther than the Duke of Netherby’s private box. The duke and his duchess were there. So was the Earl of Riverdale with his mysterious new bride, the fabulously wealthy Heyden glassware heiress, whom a few people claimed to have seen with him in Hyde Park, though none had had a satisfyingly good look. Some had even said she went about heavily veiled. The former, dispossessed countess, whom no one had seen in more than a year, was also in the box, the old and the new in company together, and so was her bastard daughter. The Duke of Netherby’s sister, young Lady Jessica Archer, whose beauty had taken the ton by storm during her come-out this year, was scarcely noticed amid the sensational appearance of her companions.
As Wren entered the duke’s box on her husband’s arm, having already run the gauntlet of other new arrivals outside the theater and in the foyer and on the stairs, she was fully aware that she could not have orchestrated a more public introduction to the ton if she had tried. And it seemed to her, in that first dizzying moment, that the other boxes and the galleries and the pit were already crowded with people. It was probably fanciful to suppose that every single eye turned upon them, but perhaps not. This had been madness of epic proportions and would not have happened if she and Viola had not just finished challenging each other to face the world tog
ether. But by world they had meant London—the place, not the people in it, and specifically not the ton.
Alexander smiled at her as he seated her on a chair next to the outer rail of the box so that she would have a clear view of the stage. Fortunately it was her right profile that faced outward to the theater. She was warmed by his smile and clung to that warmth. The visit to Kew Gardens had been splendid. They had talked and laughed and touched frequently, both when they sat side by side in the curricle and when they strolled in the gardens. She had felt that he wanted to be there with her, that he enjoyed her company, that, like her, he was remembering last night’s intimacies and anticipating similar pleasure tonight. She had felt . . . well, married. She would have felt perfectly, blissfully happy if she had not also been feeling a bit sick with apprehension about this evening.
And here she was, and it was every bit as dreadful as she had feared. It would not take much for her to jump to her feet and bolt. But bolt where?
“You do that awfully well,” Alexander murmured in her ear.
“What is that?” she asked.
“That perfectly poised look, chin raised, eyes directed along the nose,” he said. “You appear as though you have been a duchess for the last twenty years.”
“Whereas in reality I have been a countess for . . . what? Thirty-three hours?” she said.
“And you are very beautiful, I might add,” he said.
“Flatterer!”
The duchess—Anna—was still on her feet, talking to Viola, whose hand she held in both her own. “I am so pleased you came, Aunt Viola,” she said. “I am very vexed with Camille and Joel, and I told them so in my last letter. I had my heart set on all of you coming to spend a month or so of the summer at Morland Abbey. I wanted to have lots of time to show off Josephine and to get to know their adopted baby, Sarah. And to see their adopted daughter, Winifred, again. I remember her well from the orphanage and shed tears when Camille and Joel adopted her as well as Sarah. But they have selfishly chosen this summer to have a baby of their own. And so you and Abigail will go to Bath, and Avery and Josephine will have to go there too to see you all.”
