Love in the Afternoon (30 page)

"No. Your grandmother was the kind of woman I thought I should

marry. I was in love with someone else--a far less suitable girl. And I let her go, to my everlasting regret." He sighed, pondering some distant memory.

"A lifetime without her . . ."

Fascinated, Christopher wanted to ask more . . . but this was hardly the time or place for such a conversation. However, it gave him an

unexpected insight into his grandfather. What would it do to a man, to marry a Prudence when one might have had a Beatrix? It would be enough to turn anyone bitter.

Later in the evening, trays of champagne were brought out, and the

assembled guests waited expectantly for the betrothal announcement to be made.

Unfortunately, the man designated to do it was temporarily missing.

After a brief search, Leo was found and urged into the drawing room, where he launched into a charming toast and listed any number of amusing reasons for marriage. Although most of the guests listened with close attention and chuckled throughout, Christopher heard a pair of women gossiping nearby, whispering in disapproving undertones.

". . . Ramsay was found flirting in the corner with a woman. They had to drag him away from her."

"Who was it?"

"His own wife."

"Oh, dear."

"Yes. How unseemly for a married couple to carry on so."

"I suppose the Hathaways know no better."

Christopher suppressed a grin and fought the temptation to turn and

inform the two old hens that the Hathaways actually did know better. They just didn't give a damn. He glanced down at Beatrix, wondering if she had heard, but she was oblivious to the gossip, her attention fixed on her brother.

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Leo concluded the toast with heartfelt wishes for the betrothed

couple's future happiness and prosperity. The guests raised their glasses and cheered in agreement.

Taking Beatrix's gloved hand in his, Christopher lifted it and pressed a kiss to the back of her wrist. He wanted to carry her away from the crowded drawing room and have her all to himself.

"Soon," Beatrix whispered, as if she had read his thoughts, and he let his gaze caress her. "And don't look at me like that," she added. "It makes my knees wobbly."

"Then I won't tell you what I'd like to do with you right now. Because you'd topple over like a ninepin."

The private, pleasurable moment ended all too soon.

Lord Annandale, who was standing near Leo, pushed his way to the

fore, holding up his champagne glass. "My friends," he said, "I hope to contribute to the happiness of this occasion by sharing some news from London."

The crowd quieted respectfully.

A cold feeling slithered down Christopher's spine. He glanced at Leo, who looked bemused and shrugged.

"What is it?" Beatrix whispered.

Christopher shook his head, staring at his grandfather. "God help me, I don't know."

"Before departing for Hampshire," Annandale continued, "I was informed by His Grace the Duke of Cambridge that my grandson is to be invested with the Victoria Cross. The medal, created this January past, is the highest possible military decoration for valor in the face of the enemy. The queen herself will present the medal to Captain Phelan at an investiture ceremony in London next June."

Everyone in the room exclaimed and cheered. Christopher felt all the warmth in his body drain away. This was nothing that he wanted, another bloody piece of metal to pin to his chest, another fucking ceremony to honor events he didn't want to remember. And for that to intrude on one of the sweetest moments of his life was revolting. Damn his grandfather for doing this to him without giving him one word of advance warning.

"What will the Victoria Cross be awarded for, my lord?" someone asked.

Annandale sent a smile to Christopher. "Perhaps my grandson can hazard a guess."

Christopher shook his head, regarding him without expression.

Annoyance crossed the earl's face at Christopher's demonstrable lack 192

of enthusiasm. "Captain Phelan was recommended for this honor by a regimental officer who gave an account of seeing him carry a wounded officer to safety under heavy gunfire. Our men had been driven back in an attempt to overtake Russian rifle pits. After rescuing the officer, Captain Phelan held the position until relief arrived. The Russian positions were captured, and the wounded officer, Lieutenant Fenwick, was saved."

Christopher didn't trust himself to speak as a volley of cheers and

congratulations filled the air. He forced himself to finish the champagne, to stand still and appear calm, when he could feel himself sliding toward a dangerous precipice. Somehow he found the traction to stop it, to hold the madness at bay, reaching for the sense of detachment he both needed and feared.

Please, God, he thought. Not for saving Fenwick.

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Sensing the explosive quality in Christopher's stillness, Beatrix waited until he had drained his champagne. "Oh, my," she said in a voice loud enough to carry to the people around them. "I fear all this excitement is bringing on a touch of the vapors. Captain Phelan, if you wouldn't mind escorting me to the parlor . . . ?"

The question was greeted with sympathetic murmurs, as any evidence

of a woman's delicate constitution was always encouraged.

Trying to look fragile and wan, Beatrix clung to Christopher's arm as he led her from the drawing room. Instead of proceeding to the parlor, however, they found a place outside, a bench set on a graveled walkway.

They sat together in wordless communication. Christopher slid his

arm around her, pressing his mouth against her hair. She listened to the night sounds from the nearby wood; peeps and rustlings, the melodious

conversations of frogs, the flappings of birds and bats. Eventually she felt Christopher's chest lift and lower in a long sigh.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, knowing that he was thinking about Mark Bennett, the friend he hadn't been able to save. "I know why this medal is so odious to you."

Christopher made no reply. From the near-palpable tension he

radiated, she understood that of all the dark memories he harbored, this was one of the worst.

"Is it possible to refuse the medal?" she asked. "To forfeit it?"

"Not voluntarily. I'd have to do something illegal or hideous to invoke the expulsion clause."

"We could plan a crime for you to commit," Beatrix suggested. "I'm sure my family would have some excellent suggestions."

Christopher looked at her then, his eyes like silvered glass in the

moonlight. For a moment Beatrix feared the attempt at levity might have annoyed him. But then there was a catch of laughter in his throat, and he folded her into his arms. "Beatrix," he whispered. "I'll never stop needing 194

you."

They lingered outside for a few minutes longer than they should have, kissing and caressing until they were both breathless with frustrated need. A quiet groan escaped him, and he tugged her up from the bench and brought her back into the house.

As Beatrix mingled among the guests, chatting brightly and feigning

interest in the advice they offered, she kept stealing glances at Christopher whenever possible. He appeared calm to the point of stoicism, maintaining a soldierly demeanor. Everyone fawned on him, even those whose social rank and aristocratic blood far eclipsed his. Despite Christopher's controlled facade, she sensed his unease, perhaps even antagonism, in trying to readjust to a landscape that had once been so familiar. He felt out of place among old friends, none of whom wanted to dwell on the reality of what he had

experienced and done in the war. The medals and gold braid and patriotic music were all that anyone felt comfortable discussing. And therefore he could only allow his feelings to show in brief and cautious increments.

"Beatrix." Audrey was at her side, gently drawing her away before she could become involved in another conversation. "Come with me. I want to give you something."

Beatrix took her to the back of the house, to a set of stairs leading to an oddly shaped room on the second floor. It was one of the many charms of Ramsay House, that rooms and eccentric spaces with no apparent purpose seemed to have grown organically from the main residence.

They sat together companionably on the stairs.

"You've done Christopher so much good already," Audrey said. "I thought when he first returned after the war that he had lost all capacity for happiness. But he seems far easier with himself now . . . not nearly so brooding or tightly strung. Even his mother has remarked on the difference--

and she is grateful."

"She has been kind to me," Beatrix said. "Even though it's obvious that I am not what she expected of a daughter-in-law."

"No," Audrey conceded with a grin. "However, she is determined to make the best of things. You are the only chance of keeping Riverton in our branch of the family. If you and Christopher produce no offspring, it will go to her cousins, which she could not abide. I think she would have liked me much better, had I been able to conceive."

"I'm sorry," Beatrix murmured, taking her hand.

Audrey's smile turned bittersweet. "It wasn't meant to be. That is the lesson I've had to learn. Some things aren't meant to be, and one can either rail against it, or accept it. John told me near the end that we had to be 195

grateful for the time we had been given. He said he saw things very clearly, as his life drew to a close. Which leads me to what I wanted to give you."

Beatrix looked at her expectantly.

Carefully Audrey removed a neatly folded bit of parchment from her

sleeve. It was an unsealed letter.

"Before you read it," Audrey said. "I must explain. John wrote it the week before he died--he insisted on doing it himself--and he told me to give it to Christopher when--or if--he returned. But after reading it, I wasn't certain what to do with it. When Christopher came back from the Crimea, he was so volatile and troubled . . . I thought it better to wait. Because no matter what John had asked of me, I knew above all that I must do no further harm to Christopher, after all he's been through."

Beatrix's eyes widened. "You think this letter might harm him?"

"I'm not sure. In spite of our kinship, I don't understand Christopher well enough to judge." Audrey shrugged helplessly. "You'll know what I mean when you read it. I don't want to give it to Christopher unless I can be sure it will do him good, and not create some unintended torment. I leave it in your hands, Beatrix, and trust in your wisdom."

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A month later, on a sunny and dry October day, the wedding took

place at the parish church on the village green. To the general pleasure of Stony Cross, the ceremony adhered to long-standing village traditions. The wedding party emerged from their carriages a few streets away from the church, and walked the rest of the way along a path heavily strewn with flowers and fertility herbs. More and more people joined them as they passed, until it was less of a wedding procession than a jovial mob.

Additional flowers had been piled into a pair of massive baskets that were strapped across the back of Beatrix's mule, Hector. The little mule led the crowd at a dignified pace, while the women walking beside him reached into the baskets and tossed fresh handfuls of petals and blossoms to the ground. A straw hat festooned with flowers had been tied to Hector's head, his ears sticking out at crooked angles through the holes at the sides.

"Good God, Albert," Christopher said ruefully to the dog beside him.

"Between you and the mule, I think you got the best of the bargain." Albert had been freshly washed and trimmed, a collar of white roses fastened around his neck. The dog looked wary, clearly not liking the close-packed crowd around them any more than Christopher did.

As the women occupied one half of the street, and the men the other, Christopher caught only occasional glimpses of Beatrix. She was surrounded by village girls dressed in white, ostensibly to confuse evil spirits that might have had designs on the bride. Christopher, for his part, was surrounded by an honor guard comprised of friends from the Rifle Brigade, and a few men from his original cavalry unit.

Finally they reached the church, which was already filled. Violin

music filled the air in buoyant strains.

While Christopher went to the front of the church to wait at the altar, Beatrix remained at the back with Leo.

"Beatrix," her brother asked, "what did you do to Hector?"

"He's a flower mule," she said reasonably.

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"I hope it won't distress you to learn that he's eating his hat."

Beatrix stifled a giggle.

Bending his head over hers, Leo murmured, "When I give you away at the altar, Bea, I want you to remember something. I'm not really giving you away. I'm merely allowing him the chance to love you as much as the rest of us do."

Beatrix's eyes watered, and she leaned against him. "He does," she whispered.

"I think so, too," her brother whispered back. "I wouldn't let you marry him otherwise."

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed in a daze of happiness.

After they exchanged vows, they left the church beneath an arch of swords held up by the honor guard. The front gate was closed--another Stony Cross tradition--and would not be opened until the groom paid the toll. Christopher reached into a velvet bag, pulled out a fistful of gold coins, and tossed them to the crowd. The shower of coins elicited squeals of glee. Three more handfuls were sent into the air, most of the glittering pieces caught before they ever reached the ground.

When every last coin had been retrieved, the assemblage swarmed to

the village green, where long tables had been piled high with cakes brought by everyone in Stony Cross. Beatrix and Christopher fed each other bites of cake, while villagers showered them with crumbs to ensure the couple's fertility.

The crowd continued their celebration on the green as the wedding