Barbara Metzger (13 page)

“And today is proof of the depths of your devotion, to be sure,” Mr. Macurdle replied, not meeting her eyes. “But you are, I am afraid, a mere young woman, incapable in the eyes of the law of making your own decisions, much less another, younger female’s.”

While Delia was brooding about being a mere anything, Ty suggested they get the local magistrate to come act as Belinda’s watchdog. That was not an option, however, for Squire Gannon, Belinda’s father, was the magistrate. He could not be considered unbiased nor to have a care for the girl’s future. He’d likely appoint the village drunk to be Belinda’s guardian if they brought the issue to his court.

As witness, the solicitor should not also represent one of the parties. As groom, Lord Tyverne should not speak for the bride.

They decided, therefore, that Stephen Anselm, the man of the cloth, adjunct to the archbishop himself, was the best person, and the least likely to have his decisions challenged, to represent Belinda’s best interests. Reverend Anselm firmly believed that this marriage was fitting and proper under the eyes of the church and the laws of the land. And that the child should have a father. So the marriage had proceeded.

Now, however, they were at the I-do’s part of the ceremony, and Belinda didn’t. Macurdle cleared his throat once more. “I am sorely troubled by Miss Gannon’s lack of a response.”

Anselm was more troubled at the way the groom and the bridesmaid were gazing at each other. He spoke louder: “Do you, Belinda, take Archimedes—”

“She does not know any Archimedes,” Delia impatiently interrupted. “Let me try.” She leaned over the bed and stroked Belinda’s cheek. “Dearest, Tyverne is here again. Remember him? He was here yesterday. He wants to marry you, to take care of you and the baby. Please, Belinda, please tell him you would like that.”

She got no response, so she added: “George sent him, remember?”

As before, the sound of her lover’s name was the only thing to reach that place where Belinda waited. “G-george?”

Ty stepped forward so she could see his uniform. He could not lie, but he did not have to tell her the truth. He patted her hand, not knowing if Belinda could feel his touch. “You have to be strong, my dear, for me and the babe. Tell me now, do you want to be married?”

“Oh, I ... do.”

At least ten people sighed in relief. The vicar quickly concluded, and pronounced Ty and Belinda man and wife just as Belinda whispered, “That was all ... I ... ever wanted, Geo—

Anselm almost shouted: “You may now kiss the bride.”

Ty had already laid his fingers across Belinda’s lips to keep George’s name from issuing forth. Now he bent lower and touched his lips to her forehead.

“You
...
stay?”

Ty repeated the vow he had just made: “ ‘Til death do us part.”

Chapter 15

Mindle was ready with champagne in the sitting room, although no one was quite able to compose a suitable toast for the occasion. “To the health of the bride and groom” did not seem appropriate, nor did “to a fruitful union.”

Ty raised his glass—his hands had stopped shaking as soon as he’d said the fateful words—and thanked the assembled company. He thanked the servants and Miss Croft and Delia’s aunt, for their efforts. He thanked his friend Anselm and the solicitor for coming, and then he thanked everyone for their good wishes.

“To good wishes” rang out amid a flurry of hugs, back-slaps, and clinking glasses. And Aunt Eliza’s happy sniffles, of course.

Delia came to congratulate the viscount without knowing if she should offer her hand or her cheek to show her gratitude and her admiration. Major Lord Tyverne might be a stiff-backed soldier, but he had been a good friend to George and Belinda, and Delia and he had worked well together making plans. She still had a glass in her hand, so she simply mouthed the fitting words, smiled, and waited.

There went Ty’s composure. He’d been feeling much more in command now that the deed was done. Belinda was in Mags’s capable hands, so he could get his breath back, then get on the road as soon as the papers were signed. Now here was Miss Croft, making splinters of his sangfroid, crumbs of his confidence, dross of his dignity. Hell, she was making mice feet of his manhood. Zeus, her smile tied a man in knots.

Just like a woman, though, Miss Croft created havoc, then stood there, waiting for him to do something, as if an army officer knew the first thing about drawing room manners. Was he to kiss her, as Aunt Eliza had insisted, or bow? The viscount knew what he wanted to do, but ...

But the room was full of people, and worse, the unpredictable woman might take offense and slap him. Worst of all, Belinda lay in the next room, his brand-new wife. His wife, by all that was holy. Ty had a wife, and Miss Croft was not her. She. It.

Blast, he thought, one smile and he was a blithering fool—a blithering fool with impure thoughts, besides. The sooner he was on his way the better. He signaled Mindle to refill her glass. “Papers, that’s it. Papers to sign, you know,” he said as he fled.

The man had to be the coldest fish Delia had ever known. She sipped at her wine and watched as the viscount joined Anselm and Macurdle at a table with documents laid out on it. Not one friendly word could he speak, much less let his mouth turn up in a smile. He looked like he’d sucked on sour lemons, in fact.

Delia could have kicked herself for her momentary lapse in common sense, wishing for an instant that things might have been different. Botheration, if things had been different, Belinda would be Lady George Croft, Major Lord Tyverne would be with his troops in the Peninsula, and Delia would still be the spinster sister with no home of her own.

Granted this was not the most auspicious of occasions, and not a true celebration, but Tyverne could have given her a pleasant nod, not just the thanks he had expressed to her—and the servants. After all, he had what he wanted, what he had come for. His honor was satisfied. She hoped his honor kept him warm at night; the ice-cold blood that ran through his glacier of a heart surely would not. She went to invite Mr. Anselm to take refreshments in the dining room.

The vicar was a charming, outgoing gentleman, not at all like his friend. He flirted with her, then with Aunt Eliza, complimenting the older lady’s lace bonnet. Delia’s aunt started to look more closely at the nicely spoken fellow, calculating that he was well connected, if he was friends with a viscount, and well positioned for advancement in the church. Best of all, he seemed well able to please a finicky female, to judge by Delia’s laughter and the sparkle in her eye. Then he mentioned a vow of celibacy. Aunt Eliza needed a new handkerchief.

When Ty reached Macurdle’s side, the solicitor was beaming, the second glass of wine in his hand. “That was a near thing, my lord, but I am pleased to affix my seal as witness. Not that I worried that a gentleman of your reputation would take part in anything underhanded, of course, but I am satisfied now. Anyone could see Miss Gannon was in no shape to respond, well, her shape alone, that is, should have been answer enough to the question. But the lady did speak.”

Sergeant Winsted was still muttering about how they should have had the cheap lawyer when he affixed his signature to the marriage documents. They could have been halfway to London by now.

Ty was too busy to answer, wondering how he could ever have thought Stephen Anselm a decent chap. He left out a different middle name this time, when he signed.

Then Mr. Macurdle called to Miss Croft to add her signature. She never glanced at Tyverne when she was done, but invited all of the men to join her and her aunt at a wedding breakfast.

Ty did not see how he could refuse. The wedding was his, after all. But he was not hungry enough to stomach watching his best friend banter and laugh with Miss Croft, things he’d never be able to do, Ty was sure. Better to offend her now by leaving, than to sit mumchance at her table watching Anselm spread his charm around like butter. The man was a vicar, by Jupiter. And Ty was married.

He was about to make his excuses when old Mags came into the room from the connecting door. “You’d best come back in now, my lord,” she told the viscount. “And you too, Miss Dilly. And the vicar.”

They entered Belinda’s room and could tell the difference immediately. They could all hear it, the rasping breaths coming too far apart.

Mr. Anselm knew. The vicar immediately went to the bedside and began praying, Nanny a low descant behind him.

Delia knew. She pulled a chair to the other side of the bed and held Belinda’s hand. “Please, Belinda,” she begged, “please, dearest, hold on awhile more, for George and the baby.” But not a flicker appeared behind the blue-veined eyelids, not even at the mention of her beloved George.

Ty knew. He had seen Death so many times, in so many miserable ways, he had to know its face. But not like this. Not a woman. Not a pretty young lady still in her teens, not with her life ahead of her and a child to bring forth. No, this was not right, not an honest death fighting for what one believed in. This was an atrocity, an abomination. What had this poor girl done that was so bad to deserve such a fate? She had loved too much? Scores of other young lovers had loved too early, from all the eighth-month infants, and they never paid such a terrible price.

Ty shook his head, no. No, the awful injustice was too great to be born, and no, he would not stand by, helplessly watching. He could not. He’d leave his man Winsted here with a carte blanche to make whatever arrangements Delia wanted, but he would set off now, if he had to drive the coach himself.

“I ...” he tried to explain. “London.”

Delia looked up at him, still near the door. Tears were beginning to trail down her cheeks, but she tried to smile for him. “I know you would have taken her there to the best surgeons and physicians, or sent carriages for them to come. They would have, more than answered my messages. But it is too late, my lord. There is nothing more to be done except pray and make your farewells.”

Delia held her other hand out to Ty as if she were offering him comfort, when she was the one who was bidding her best friend adieu so shortly after losing her brother. She was the one who was going to be alone in the world except for an old aunt to care for, Ty knew, and a chaw-bacon cousin who cared for naught but appearances. Miss Croft was losing a near-sister, her home, and her recent
raison d’etre,
but she was thinking of Belinda, not herself. His estimation of her character, of womanhood in general, rose in the face of such generosity. Ty had no choice but to go to her, to stand beside Delia’s chair at the side of the bed, clasping her fingers.

Even the dog knew, whimpering and shivering at the foot of the bed until Ty started stroking its head with his free hand.

Aunt Eliza came in, clutching her wadded handkerchief. She tried to say something, but settled for kissing her fingertips, then touching them to Belinda’s lips. Mindle came to lead her out, before she collapsed.

Now those breaths of Belinda’s were more ragged, impossibly far apart.

Reverend Anselm finished reading from his prayer book and nodded toward Delia. She stood and leaned forward, her tears freely flowing. “I wish ... I wish we had been sisters, Belinda, and I wish I could have held my niece or nephew, but I know you will be happier now, because you will be with George. Tell him I miss him, and our parents. Tell him
...
tell him that I love him, and I am glad he will not be alone. Good-bye, dearest Belinda. Go in peace.”

Delia took the handkerchief Ty held out to her. Then she looked at him expectantly. Stephen Anselm nodded at his friend, then jerked his head more forcefully toward the dying woman.

Ty looked at her, this wife that he had never known, the woman Lieutenant Croft had died trying to return to. Ty had tricked her into giving her consent to wed a stranger, then he had promised to stay with her, ‘til death did them part, knowing he was leaving as soon as he could. He cleared his throat. “I am sorry I was the one to come home, my lady, not your George. And I am sorry I could not help you more. I am so very sorry.”

“You must not blame yourself,” Delia told him, wiping her eyes. “Events had progressed too far, long before you ever encountered my brother.”

Ty shook his head. How could he not regret his part in this tragedy? He turned back to Belinda. “Tell George thank you. And tell him I tried, by Heaven. Farewell, Lady Tyverne.”

Reverend Anselm placed his hand on Belinda’s forehead and blessed her, saying, “Our daughter, Belinda Helen Gannon St. Ives, your Father forgives you of your sins. You are loved, my child. Go with God.”

Delia turned her head away, onto the viscount’s chest. Lord Tyverne was there, and he was strong and real and smelled of soap, not the flowers they had brought in to cover the sickroom odors. She could borrow his strength, his courage, just for a little while. He was a soldier, so surely he could comprehend the need to share one’s grief with someone else who understood. For this moment she was not concerned that the officer could barely tolerate her presence, as long as he let her shelter in his arms.

Stunned, Ty could only react, not by fleeing, as he would ordinarily have done from a weeping woman, but by wrapping his arms around Miss Croft. Delia. He stroked her back, almost the same way he had comforted the dog, but not the same at all. Nothing in Ty’s nine and twenty years had ever felt as right as holding this woman while she cried. Not that he was feeling glad she was grieving, just that she had turned to him. Hell, he did not know what he was feeling, did not have the words to describe it. He was a soldier, by Jupiter, not a poet.

Ty felt complete—that was it. Delia filled his arms perfectly, and fit precisely under his chin, her soft curves brushing against his chest. Not that this was a physical feeling, Ty swore to himself. Lud, what kind of cad would he be, to lust after a woman while her friend lay dying? Especially when her friend was his wife! No, that was not it at all, although under different circumstances
...

The usually self-assured Delia trusted him enough to show her weaker side, like the dog turned on its back. She thought he was a rock to lean on, instead of the sponge-spined coward Ty knew he was with women. She thought he was strong. She was wrong, and the viscount knew he had to leave before she found out. She’d discover his failings as soon as he opened his tongue-tied mouth—but what was there to say anyway? Delia Croft would never marry a soldier. She wanted a gentleman, and deserved nothing less. Ty was not free to ask, no matter how good she felt in his embrace. Poor Belinda was not yet in her grave, and he owed her—and George—far more respect than to be sighing over another woman. He sighed anyway. The sooner he left, the better for all of them.