by Wilma Counts
When Wingate’s sailboat encountered bad weather, both her husband and her son drowned. In her initial grief she had sought something or someone to blame for her losses. She had been rather distant when Lord Justin, along with his wife, Belinda, and his sister-in-law, Irene, called to extend their condolences.
“I simply do not understand how it happened that Kenwick and my son were the only ones lost,” she had said. “Was there no way to rescue them?” She had asked this question of others, but grief prompted her ask it yet again.
“We tried,” he said. “That is, Travers and Layton tried. I think Travers must have told you I was knocked unconscious when the boom swung about. I deeply regret that, madam.”
“The boat was safe, was it not?” It was a challenge as much as a question. “Surely you did not knowingly invite guests onto an unsafe vessel?”
“Please, Meghan,” Irene had said, “it was an accident—and in a sudden storm at that. You cannot hold Justin responsible.”
“No, I suppose not, but it was his boat. And”—her voice caught on a barely suppressed sob—“and my son is dead. My little boy is gone!”
They had all been standing through this discussion. Belinda plucked at her husband’s sleeve. “I think we should be going.”
“Perhaps you are right, my dear.” He bowed stiffly to Meghan. “I am very sorry for your loss, madam.” He and his wife left the room.
Irene said to them, “I shall be with you in a moment.” She turned to Meghan and simply opened her arms and Meghan found herself dissolving into tears yet again—this time on Irene’s shoulder.
“S-Stephen was my life. I do not know how I am to go on without him.”
“There, there, love.” Irene held her tightly and there were tears in her own eyes and in her voice. “This is so very hard for you, but you must try to pull yourself together.”
And she had tried.
Lord knew how she had tried. For weeks she had gone through life like one mesmerized. She would spend hours in Stephen’s room, smelling his clothing, fingering his toys, trying to feel his presence. Yes, she mourned Burton’s death, too, but it was Stephen for whom her heart longed and her arms ached.
After a few weeks of this, she had taken herself to task, invited the spinster cousin Eleanor to become her companion, and tried to devote herself to “improving societies” and other charity groups. She carefully avoided those involving children.
She missed Stephen achingly, missed being a mother, for that had given her life its meaning in those last years. She also missed being a wife, though the pain of her husband’s infidelities and her own isolation tempered those memories. Her anger and grief there focused largely on “what might have been.” She had managed to accept Burton’s character, finally, by recognizing that he was not so much a “bad” person as just a weak man with little sense of honor. Still, he had been a presence in her life for nearly a decade. . . .
So, Lord Justin would attend the Everleigh house party.
She no longer actually blamed him for what had happened. The fact remained, though, that had Wingate not enticed Burton off to this or that outing, he might have stayed home more. How many times had she heard “Justin says this . . .” or “Justin has invited me . . .” or “Justin is planning. . .”? She had almost come to view Wingate as yet another rival for her husband’s affections.
She had, of course, met the Wingates at various ton soirees. Meghan knew Belinda was very aware of her social consequence. After all, she was related to a marquis. Belinda’s husband appeared—paradoxically—to be both more aloof and more easygoing than his wife. Meghan thought they were rather mismatched and voiced this view to her own husband.
Burton had merely shrugged. “Not much of a secret there. They were promised in their cradles, more or less. She was a Hamlin, too. Wingates always seem to marry Hamlins.”
“But the marquis and Irene were a love match. I know they were.”
“Perhaps they were.” Burton’s bored tone seemed to question why anyone would care.
Privately, Meghan continued to wonder about the other couple from time to time. Belinda—tall, blonde, and self-assured—often appeared in public accompanied by someone other than her husband—a cousin or sister or another family member. But then so did many ton wives. And, judging by the amount of time Burton spent with his friend, Meghan assumed Wingate was often away from home. Belinda and Justin, then, seemed to have a marriage not unlike her own.
Moreover, Lord Justin had appeared to revel in the company of other women just as Burton had. Women found both men attractive. Kenwick’s blond good looks and air of superiority had naive women flocking to him. Wingate’s tall, lithe physique, dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, and a generally friendly demeanor made him a ton favorite.
When Belinda died, Meghan had sent a very formal note of condolence to the widower to which she had received an equally formal thank-you note.
Two
Joy lay sprawled across her father’s lap as their coach bounced along. She had been asleep for the better part of an hour. Justin caressed her golden curls, twining one of them around his finger. This child had been a marvel to him from the moment she was born. Her first coherent word had been “Papa.” It had not taken her long to start stringing two, then three and more words together. At first only he and the nurse—and often Belinda—had been able to understand her babble. She was soon speaking clearly and asking dozens of questions, most frequently “Why?” He had loved listening to her at play with her dolls as she carried on imaginary conversations.
It has been such a long time, he mused. “I surely hope your Aunt Irene is right about this,” he said softly to the sleeping form.
Joy’s eyes had glowed with pleasure when he told her of the proposed visit. They had been in the nursery and she went immediately to pick up her favorite doll, clearly asking if she could take it along.
“Of course you may bring Penelope,” he had said. When she then picked up three more dolls, he had laughed and said, “No, poppet. Only one. Sarah and Becky have a closet full of dolls you may play with.”
She had readily accepted this, though she had to have her “blanket”—a scrap of an old blue blanket that had been given to her for her doll’s bed, but which Joy carried around as a constant attachment to her person. Even now she hugged it in her sleep. Persuading her to give it up for an occasional washing usually involved diversionary tactics like a ride in the park with her beloved papa.
Justin sighed. “Why, little one? Why do you refuse to speak?” He had asked the question hundreds of times.
He knew the surface answer.
Belinda, ordinarily a patient and loving mother, had been cranky and out of sorts intermittently for months before her death. She complained of terrible headaches. When they were upon her, she demanded total darkness and absolute quiet. She had once asked him to silence two maids who were giggling in the hallway as “their noise was killing her.” He knew a little girl’s chatter had probably been most unwelcome to the suffering woman. Had she said something similar to Joy?
Doctors called in to examine Belinda surmised that she suffered some sort of growth that put pressure on her brain. In any event, her pain seemed to intensify and there was little anyone could do to alleviate it. She began to take larger and larger doses of laudanum to combat the agony.
The medication seemed to help, though it often left her in a state of unconsciousness. In their concern for the mother, few noticed that, as Belinda spent more and more time in a drug-induced stupor, her daughter had begun to withdraw. Finally, Belinda had taken an unusually large dose of the medication and had simply never awakened.
Joy, arriving in her mother’s chamber for their customary time together and prattling happily as she went through the door, had been the one to discover Belinda just lying there. She seemed instinctively to sense that something was terribly wrong. Servants had discovered her screaming “Mama! Mama!”
When she understood that her mama had g
one away and would not come back, she had simply quit talking. Period. She no longer babbled to her dolls. Those incessant questions were silenced. Nor did she often smile.
“If only I knew what to do,” Justin murmured. Never in his life had he felt so helpless.
He deliberately turned his mind to Everleigh’s house party. He looked forward to renewing some old friendships. Even with Meghan Kenwick? he twitted himself. Well, maybe not Mrs. Kenwick—especially if she were still inclined to blame him for her losses.
Justin did not know her well, though he remembered dancing with her once or twice at a ball. He had liked the feel of her in his arms and her conversation in a social setting had been pleasant enough. It was a shame such an attractive woman was possessed of such a negative character. She was not an accredited beauty in the classic manner, but there was something very appealing about the petite Mrs. Kenwick. She had dark brown hair and her clear gray eyes bespoke intelligence. A rare smile transformed her appearance to a dazzling degree.
She apparently had little patience with fools. Yet she had chosen to marry one. Well, maybe not a fool, precisely, but certainly a fellow with few ideas of his own and little initiative, albeit he was an agreeable fellow. Perhaps she was just one of those controlling females who liked to run things her way. Kenwick had complained often enough of his wife’s demands. Justin had not approved of the man’s publicly airing grievances against his wife. However, hints to divert him had proved ineffective.
Mrs. Kenwick, according to her husband, was never satisfied. She belittled him, ignored him, and disapproved of his decisions regarding their son. She was, Kenwick said, always pressing him to read some treatise on chimney sweeps or some such, or attend this or that political or literary meeting. Kenwick lamented the fact that the social debutante he had married had “turned into something of a bluestocking.”
With a wife so indifferent to her husband’s interests, perhaps it was understandable that a man like Kenwick had sought comfort elsewhere.
Bitter cold had arrived by the time Meghan journeyed to Everleigh. When she had to break a thin sheeting of ice in the water pitcher in her room at an inn, she was thankful to have only one overnight en route. Wrapped in a hooded cloak lined with white fur, she stepped out of the inn door. The air was crisp and she noticed that everyone’s speech was punctuated with misty puffs.
“ ’Tis dreadful cold, ma’am.” Her coachman stood back as a footman handed her and her maid into the vehicle. “We reheated the bricks, though, so it should be warm fer ye and Betsy here.”
Sure enough, as the carriage door opened, she felt the warmth emanating from the bricks on the straw-covered floor.
“Thank you, Mr. Hawkins,” she said.
“Leastwise, the cold will make our going easier,” the talkative coachman observed. “Mud is the worst thing for slowing us. Won’t have that till midday at earliest. Should practically be there by then.”
“Good. You and Tony be sure to wrap yourselves tightly.”
The journey itself was uneventful and the day too dreary to afford much enjoyment from passing scenery. Betsy dozed in the opposite seat and Meghan was alone with her thoughts and memories. Recalling Eleanor’s comment about meeting an amiable gentleman, Meghan snorted quietly. If Eleanor only knew. . . .
Burton Kenwick had been the very epitome of “an amiable gentleman” as he courted her. She could do nothing wrong. She was a goddess to be treasured. Once she was his, however, she lost her value. Only now was she beginning to understand the extent to which she had lost herself in trying to please a man who could not be pleased.
Her friends were the wrong people. Her taste in dress was abominable. Her interests were trivial, her opinions unimportant. The more she tried to please, the more he found to criticize. No wonder sweet, accepting Stephen had become the focus of her life! How she missed him. Would that pain ever go away? It had been well over a year now.
As for her husband—yes, she had experienced sincere and wrenching sorrow at his death. But within a few weeks she also began to experience a growing sense of freedom—then guilt for feeling it. The guilt was followed by anger. She was angry at what Burton had done to her; she was angry that he had escaped unaware; she was angry at herself. Gradually, the anger turned to resolve.
Never again would she put herself in a position to suffer such pain. One could enjoy life and other people without allowing them opportunity to inflict pain, and she fully intended to do just that.
By the time they arrived at Everleigh in the late afternoon, the bricks had long since lost their warmth. Meghan had but to look at Betsy’s reddened cheeks and nose to know how her own appeared.
Another coach drew up at Everleigh’s entrance just ahead of her own. Three fashionably dressed people—two ladies and a gentleman—descended from it as Meghan was handed from her own carriage. The entranceway of the stately mansion was a beehive of activity as the arriving guests were greeted by the marquis, his wife, and his brother with handshakes, hugs, and air kisses as appropriate.
“Oh, Lord Justin, how very glad I am to see you,” one of the two other female arrivals trilled, throwing back her hood. She was young—nineteen or twenty, Meghan surmised—with honey-blond, almost red hair, amber-colored eyes fringed with dark lashes, and a porcelain complexion unsullied by the cold. Meghan felt a veritable frump next to this beauty.
“Miss Hamlin.” Justin acknowledged her and greeted the couple with her, who were obviously her parents.
Meghan held back slightly, then felt herself enclosed in a warm hug from Irene. “I am so glad you came,” Irene said. “I had visions of your crying off at the last minute.”
Meghan laughed. “What? And endure your censure? Oh, I think not.”
Irene kept her arm around Meghan’s waist as she quickly introduced her aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Hamlin, and her cousin Georgiana. “And of course you know Justin,” she finished.
“Yes. My lord.” She extended her hand to him and looked into his eyes just as she had with Lord Hamlin and Robert Wingate, Marquis of Everleigh. However, with neither of the other men had she felt the tremor of excitement that ran through her body at Lord Justin’s touch. She dismissed it instantly as the result of previous nervousness. Averting her gaze from his, she caught a speculative look from Miss Hamlin.
Irene gestured to an older woman who had hovered in the background. “Mrs. Ferris, our housekeeper, will show you to your rooms. You may all have a rest before the evening meal. Should you need anything, Mrs. Ferris will be happy to supply it.” The housekeeper smiled and dipped a quick curtsy as Irene went on. “Come, Robert and Justin, on to the nursery. Our children await.”
“Oh! May I join you?” Miss Hamlin asked. “I should love to see the children—especially darling Joy. Such a sweet child.” She gave the sweet child’s father a meaningful look.
“Of course. All of you are welcome.” Irene gestured invitingly.
“Later, please,” Meghan said. “I need to remove the road grime first.”
“You young people go ahead.” Lady Hamlin waved them on. Her daughter, who was quickly relieved of her cloak, fell into step with Justin Wingate as the foursome left the remaining three guests to Mrs. Ferris.
Meghan smiled ruefully at being relegated to the oldsters, but she was glad to put off facing the children just yet. She chatted amiably with Mrs. Ferris, whom she knew from previous visits. In her own room, she removed her traveling dress and washed up. Then, carefully setting a miniature of her son on the bedside table, she lay down for a few moments as Betsy disappeared with the gown she would wear later.
Well, that did not go too badly, she congratulated herself. She would still have to apologize to Lord Justin, but at least he had been cordial. To her surprise, she actually fell asleep, for suddenly Betsy was shaking her shoulder with the news that the dressing bell had sounded:
Her gown was a deep blue that intensified the blue cast to her gray eyes. The square neckline was modestly cut, revealing only a
hint of rounded bosom. Betsy arranged her hair in a simple but rather severe style—one altogether fitting for a widow who intended to remain so, Meghan thought, pinning up an errant curl.
Entering the drawing room, she discovered that yet more guests had arrived in the afternoon, swelling the number to more than a dozen. Meghan’s attention strayed to Lord Justin Wingate. The Hamlin mother and daughter hovered near him and seemed perfectly at ease with him, for Georgiana’s trill of laughter rang out often. Meghan was not surprised when the beauty turned out to be his dinner partner, but she was surprised to find that she herself experienced a twinge of envy at this.
Later, when the ladies withdrew, Meghan had a moment of relative privacy in which to ask Irene, “Are you up to your old tricks, my friend?”
Irene spoke in mock umbrage. “I beg your pardon? Whatever do you mean?”
“Are you trying to promote a match between your husband’s brother and your cousin?”
“N-not precisely. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. She is a lovely girl and I was once told that Wingates usually chose Hamlins as spouses. And you have been known to play matchmaker.” Meghan grinned as her friend gave her a telling look.
“Not always very successfully . . . But, to answer your question—yes and no.”
Meghan rolled her eyes. “Oh, that certainly answers the question.”
“It is true that Belinda was also my cousin—a different branch of the family from Georgiana’s. And Justin liked being married, I think, but I am not sure his interests lie in that direction.” Irene nodded toward Georgiana.
“And hers?” The question was out before Meghan thought.
“Oh, I think there is little doubt of her interests. He is, after all, a very prime item on the marriage mart.”
“So you are playing matchmaker again!”
Irene shrugged. “What will be will be. I have invited a number of persons who are unattached—including you, my dear.”
