Only Beloved (25 page)

Dora closed her eyes and clenched her hands in her lap. There was a silence that seemed to go on forever. But he broke it eventually.

“I came home,” he said, “to find Miriam distraught, Brendan locked inside his room and refusing to come out, and Meikle roaring with rage against me for corrupting his son and turning him against his mother and father. I soon understood what had happened. That was when I told him he had half an hour to leave Penderris land and never return. Interestingly enough—sometimes I forget—Miriam was shrieking the same thing at him. She was beside herself.”

Dora noticed that her knuckles were white and uncurled her fingers.

“The damage was done, of course,” he said, “and there was no mending it. I finally got inside Brendan's room, but I could not persuade him to accept that he was my son in every way that mattered, and that I loved him. All he would say, in a horribly flat sort of voice, was that he was his mother's bastard, that if he ever set eyes upon his
father
again, he would kill him, and that I was not his father and he would never be the Duke of Stanbrook after me even if he had to kill himself to prevent it. He would not look at me. All I could do over and over again was tell him I loved him. Love has never felt more inadequate. The next day he came to me, and he looked me in the eye and told me that if I loved him, as I claimed to do, I would purchase a military commission for him with a regiment that was active in the Peninsula. I held out against him for two days, but I could not prevail. If I did not do it, he told me, then he would go off and enlist as a private soldier—and I believed him. I did as he asked even though Miriam did not cease weeping over him and raging against me. He went away, Dora, to fight a war against every imaginable enemy a boy could ever have. A young officer who was with him out in Portugal came and told me afterward that he was skilled and brave and daring and happy and well liked by his men and his fellow officers. I cling to that image of him, true or false.”

“George—” Dora said. Her chest felt tight with pain. She could scarcely breathe.

“Miriam was inconsolable afterward,” he said. “So
was I, but I held to sanity better than she did. She blamed me; she blamed Meikle. He came. I do not know where he stayed, but it was not here. She would not see him. And then one day she could bear it no longer and did what she did. I saw her when I was returning to the house from somewhere. I tried to reach her in time—I never for one moment doubted what she was about to do. But although in all my nightmares since I come close enough almost to touch her, almost to think of the right thing to say to persuade her to step back, in reality I was still some distance away and yelling incoherently into the wind when she threw herself over.”

“George,” Dora said, wrapping her arms about his waist from behind and resting one cheek against his shoulder blade. “Oh, my dearest.”

“After a few years,” he said, “I conceived the idea of turning Penderris into a hospital for wounded officers. I thought perhaps that way I could atone somewhat. I felt oppressed by guilt—at how I had mismanaged my life and those of all who had been my own to protect. I blamed myself for two deaths, one of them of the person most dear to me in this world. And the scheme was largely successful. My money was able to purchase the services of an excellent physician and good nurses, and my home was able to provide a spacious, quiet environment for healing. And I was able to give time and patience and empathy and even love to everyone who came here. I received abundantly in return. Six of the patients at that hospital are now the dearest friends anyone could dream of having. And then a short while ago, after Imogen married, I conceived the idea of marrying
again, but a real marriage this time. I thought perhaps I could allow myself some contentment and perhaps even real happiness at last. I thought perhaps I could forgive myself.”

“Oh, George!” Dora turned her face to bury it against his shoulder.

“I did not ever intend to pull you into the darkness that will never quite leave me,” he said. “I am sorry, Dora. I am sorry that I did not take Eastham seriously enough at our wedding to protect you against future harm. I am sorry for the terror to which my carelessness exposed you even though I knew he was lurking in the neighborhood. And I am sorry he told you what he did.”

“George,” she said, “I am your
wife
. And I
love
you. I needed to know what you have told me. You do not need to push it all deep inside any longer. Perhaps after our baby is born, we can ask Ann to paint a portrait to match the one of Brendan, and they can hang side by side in the gallery—two brothers or a brother and sister. Brendan
was
your son, and no one is now going to snatch that from you.”

He moved then, turning to set an arm about her so that her head nestled on his shoulder beneath his chin.

“George,” she said after a brief hesitation, “when you came to me out at the cliffs and held me and I fainted, did you say something to me?”

His brow furrowed in thought. “I believe I said something profound to the effect that I had you and you were safe,” he said. “You asked me what had kept me.”

Oh, goodness. Had she really?

“After that,” she said.

She felt him swallow. “I told you that I loved you,” he said.

“‘Ah, Dora. My belovèd. My
only
belovèd,'”
she said. “That is what I thought you said.”

“It is an old-fashioned word, is it not?” he said. “A beautiful one, though. Sometimes one feels the need of a word more powerful than love
,
or at least one more exclusive to the love of one's heart.”

“Is that what I am?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “You are everything I hoped you would be to me, Dora—companion, friend, lover. I can remember telling you that I did not have the passion of romantic love to offer, only a quieter sort of affection. I was wrong about that. The word may sound a bit ostentatious, but it perfectly describes what you are to me—
my
only
belovèd
.”

She nestled her head closer and sighed. “I wish I had thought of it first,” she said. “I always have loved you, you know, with far more than a sedate, middle-aged affection. I fell in love with you that first evening at Middlebury Park, when I was awed by you but you were so kind to me. I loved you when you walked home with me a few afternoons later. I loved you all through the year that followed when I did not see you and did not expect to see you ever again, and I loved you when you walked in on me at my cottage and asked if I would be obliging enough to marry you. Except that all that time I had no idea that after marrying you I would come to the point of . . . oh, of brimming over with love. You have made me very happy. It is your greatest gift, you know. You make people happy.”

He turned his head to rest his forehead against the top of her head and sighed deeply.

“It is what he said, you know,” he told her, “just the day before everything came tumbling down. He was telling me that his uncle and his mother wanted him to go to his grandfather's with them, but that he was determined to remain at Penderris with me.
‘You make me happy, Papa,'
he said. Poor Brendan. Ah, poor Brendan.”

He did not weep. But for several minutes his breathing was ragged. Dora stayed relaxed and still, her arms about his waist. And finally he lowered his head, found her mouth with his own, and kissed her warmly and gently.

F
or the first time since they had all left Penderris Hall after their long convalescence there, the seven members of the Survivors' Club had agreed to postpone their annual reunion from March until the summer. It was a bit of a pity it had been necessary, George had thought just yesterday. They were having a spell of perfect spring weather for March, with blue skies and gentle breezes. When he had strolled up the country lane behind the house with Dora, they had feasted their eyes upon primroses and daffodils blooming wild in the grass to either side of the lane. They had stopped to admire a few very white lambs frolicking close to their mothers upon long, spindly legs.

Yesterday they had reveled in the springtime all about them, and yesterday they had thought it a pity that this year of all years their friends were not here with them. Today
,
however, George was unaware of sunshine and spring flowers and lambs and absent friends. Today he was in the library pacing. So was Sir Everard Havell.
At least, he was present in the library. He was not doing much pacing, though he was looking every bit as restless and anxious and helpless as George did.

Dora was into her confinement and had been since sometime last night, when she had woken George, all apologies, to inform him that she had had a series of pains in a row and was rather sure the baby must be coming. Right on time.

The baby was still coming an indeterminate number of hours later. George, if confronted, would not have been able to say whether it was morning or afternoon, night or day. It was actually early afternoon. Dora had been laboring for thirteen hours or perhaps longer if one included the earlier pains she had not been sure of.

Her mother was with her. So was her maid. And so was Dr. Dodd. George had been banished about breakfast time, when his mother-in-law had informed him that he was behaving like a caged bear except that bears did not constantly call down recriminations upon their own heads. But how could he not? His wife was suffering and it was his fault. Moreover, she was suffering quietly when, in her place, he would have been bellowing with agony and wrath.

“George,” his mother-in-law had said eventually, a firm hand on his arm, “you really must leave, my dear. You are distressing Dora.”

Humiliation upon humiliation. He had left and not tried to return.

He had been pacing ever since. He had no idea if he had had breakfast. He did not even know that lunchtime
had come and gone or that it was too early for dinner. After a few hours it had occurred to him that he could pace farther if he opened the door into the music room. But then the idle harp accused him and he returned to the library and shut the door.

“At least,” Sir Everard said, “you are not sawing the air with one hand, George, and cursing it blue with a stammer as Flavian was doing back in the autumn when Frances was born.”

George stopped his pacing. “You mean I am not the only man who has ever gone through this?” he asked. “Have a brandy.”

“No, thank you,” Sir Everard said. “As you observed earlier when I offered you one, one would not wish to be a staggering drunk when the announcement is finally made.”

“I'll never forgive myself if anything happens to Dora,” George said.

“Nothing will happen to her,” Havell said, and George stood and stared at him, wishing he could believe it.

Good God, she was forty years old. She had had her birthday last month.

The door opened behind him. Lady Havell stood there, her cheeks flushed, her silver hair slightly disheveled.

“You have a son, George,” she said. “A perfect little boy.”

“And
Dora
?” George held his breath.

“Perfect too,” she said. “My daughter is perfect.”

It was all George needed to hear. The rest of her
announcement scarcely registered on his consciousness as he pushed past her and took the stairs two at a time, watched by a footman who let down his guard sufficiently to smirk at His Grace's back.

The maid, Maisie, was in the room. So was the physician, talking. George did not see or hear either of them. He saw only his wife on the bed, her cheeks flushed, her eyes weary, her lips smiling, her hair damp and twisted into a knot on top of her head. She was alive. She was also holding a blanket-bound bundle in the crook of one arm, and it was squawking softly.

It was only then that his mother-in-law's words registered belatedly on his hearing.
You have a son. A perfect little boy.

He leaned over the bed. The room had fallen silent except for the soft squawking.

“Dora?” He blinked back tears.

“We have a son,” she told him. She laughed and bit her lip. “We have a
son,
George.”

Only then did he lower his eyes to the bundle. He could see a little hand with five perfect little fingers and fingernails. And he could see the top of a head with a mop of wet, dark hair. He reached for the bundle and lifted it into his arms. It weighed nothing at all, but it was soft and warm and alive. The face was red and wrinkled, the head slightly misshapen. Two unfocused eyes peered out of slitted eyelids. The little mouth was making the sounds he had heard.

For the third time in his life, George fell deeply and irrevocably in love.

“Christopher,” he said—the name they had chosen
for a boy. “Marquess of Ailsford. Welcome to the world, little one. Welcome to our family.”

And then he was laughing softly—with tears running down his cheeks.

He transferred his gaze to his wife.

“Thank you, Dora,” he said. He smiled. “My belovèd.”

He leaned over her and kissed her and laid their son back in the crook of her arm. The little fussing noises had ceased.

Three years later

I
t might have been hard to keep an eye upon seventeen children, the oldest of whom was six, as they frolicked on the beach, the sea not far in front of them, climbable rocks and cliffs not far behind, an endless stretch of sand all about. Fortunately, there were seven sets of parents to do the watching, and two of the children—Arthur Emes and Geoffrey Arnott—were too young to do anything but sit, Arthur trying to eat the sand beyond his blanket despite his father's attempts to dissuade him, and Geoffrey banging upon an upturned pail with a spoon and laughing as his father winced horribly at the racket he was making.

They had started as seven wounded warriors, George mused as he gazed fondly about him, six men and one woman who had dubbed themselves, only half in humor, the Survivors' Club. Now, with spouses and children, they were thirty-one. Survivors indeed!

Three years ago, when Christopher was born in March, the annual reunion, usually held in that month, had been postponed to the summer. The summer gathering had been so successful that they had decided to make the change permanent. The fact that they were all producing children at an exuberant rate made sense of the change.

Today, after three days of rain and lowering clouds, the sun was shining, the sky was a clear blue, and it was hot without being oppressive. It was the perfect day for the picnic they had all been hoping for. The picnic fare had been brought the long way around by a few servants. Ben and Samantha had come that way too, since Ben could not walk too far, especially over steep terrain. They had taken their young son Anthony with them, though Gwyn, his older brother, had come with everyone else down the steep descent closer to the house. Even Vincent had come that way, blind though he was.

There was not much Vince would not do. At present he was offering horsey rides on his back to a succession of infants. Eleanor and Max, two of his own, had started it, but they had been followed by Abigail Stockwood, Ralph and Chloe's child, and by Bella and Anna Hayes, Imogen and Percy's twins. Thomas, Vince's eldest, kept him on a more or less straight path, as did Shep, his guide dog. Even as George watched, Vince whinnied and half reared, reaching back with one hand so that he did not quite unseat a shrieking Anna.

Dora and Agnes were unpacking the food hamper
and arranging the feast on a large blanket. Ben and Chloe, whose rounded abdomen proclaimed the fact that by next year there would be another child of the group, were organizing the drinks. Gwyn Harper and Frances Arnott were scrambling among the rocks at the base of the cliffs, watched closely by Samantha, Gwyn's mother. Pamela Emes, aged two, and Rosamond Crabbe, George's daughter, aged one and a half, were running in a straight line toward the water, but Gwen was in hot pursuit despite her permanent limp, so George relaxed. George Hayes, his little namesake, Imogen and Percy's youngest, was toddling along the beach, his hands flapping at his sides, in the hope of outpacing his father in a race for the far horizon. Imogen was explaining something to Bella, who was wailing out a complaint about her twin's ride upon Uncle Vince's back being longer than hers had been.

No scene was ever without its discordant note.

Melody Emes, age four, came striding purposefully along the sand to take up a stand before George and address him in her very precise way.

“Uncle George,” she said, frowning, “this is the most best day I can ever remember.”

“Well, thank you, Melody,” he said. “And we have not even had tea yet.”

She moved on to her father, whom she informed that if he would only lift Arthur onto his lap, the baby would not be able to eat sand.

“You are quite right, Mel,” Hugo admitted. “But he would be having far less fun.”

She plumped down onto the blanket to tickle her brother's stomach and rub her nose across his. Young Arthur grabbed her hair, pulled, and laughed.

“No one ever m-mentioned,” Flavian said, “that fatherhood would bring with it the severe risk of d-deafness. Geoffrey, you would be doing your poor papa a great favor if you would cease and desist.”

His son turned his head to give him a smile wide enough to display his two lower teeth—his only teeth—and brought the spoon down upon the pail.

“Quite so,” Flavian said. “Good boy.”

Ralph was tossing a ball to Lucas, his three-year-old, and showing a great deal of patience since the child was catching maybe one in five throws, and even that only when his father practically placed the ball in his hands. Christopher and Eleanor Hunt soon joined the game and tried Ralph's patience even further.

Sophia, Vince's wife, was doing a charcoal sketch, doubtless a caricature, watched by Anthony Harper—with his thumb in his mouth.

After tea they would all go down and splash around in the water before returning to the house, doubtless taking half the beach with them. One hamper—the one that was still closed—was full of towels and a change of clothes for each of the children, even the babies, whose bottoms would no doubt be lowered into the water so that they would not feel neglected. Ben had even expressed his intention of going for a swim, something he could do well and actually did often although his crushed legs would not enable him to walk properly even with the aid of his two canes.

Percy had returned with the runaway George and was tossing him skyward and catching him. Percy's shaggy dog, his almost constant shadow, pranced about them, yipping excitedly.

“He thinks he is one of the children,” Percy said. “It would be most embarrassing for him if he ever discovered the truth. Down, Hector.”

Percy seldom had a good word to say for the dog but clearly adored him. So did his children.

“Could we have imagined any of this twelve years ago?” Imogen asked from just behind George. She had not spoken loudly but she had caught the attention of a number of them.

It was roughly twelve years ago that the six of them had been brought to Penderris, terribly wounded even if some of the wounds had not been physical.

“Or even nine years ago,” Flavian said.

Nine years ago they had all left Penderris to pick up the threads of their lives as best they could.

“It was six years ago,” Hugo said, watching his daughter amuse the baby on the blanket beside him, “when I was sitting in a nook beside that fall of rocks back there, minding my own business, when a certain lady in a red cloak decided to climb up and ended by slipping and spraining her lame ankle. Eh, but she weighed a ton when I was carrying her up to the house.”

“Gwen is out of earshot and cannot p-protest on her own account,” Flavian said. “But when you carried her into the hall, Hugo, you were not even out of breath. She could not have weighed more than a feather.”

“She did not sound as if she weighed more than that,
Hugo,” Vincent said with a grin, getting to his feet and flexing his back before taking the leash of his dog from Thomas's hand.

“It was the beginning of it all,” Hugo said. “I married her and you were all jealous and within two years you had all copied me.”

“It was Vince who led the way in reproducing, though, Hugo,” Ben said.

“Well, I can't always lead,” Hugo said with a chuckle.

Curiously that silenced them all with the memory of Hugo's being brought to Penderris raving and in a straitjacket even though—or probably because—he had no physical injury. The forlorn hope attack he had led in Spain, the one that had left so many of his men dead, had caused madness in him.

No, he did not always have to lead.

“Melody just told me,” George said, “that this is the most best day she can ever remember. We can look back far farther than she. Can anyone recall a better day than this?”

“I can think of a few that might match it,” Ben said. “But any that were better? No, it would be impossible.”

It was at that moment that they all heard a screech from the direction of the water and then loud wails as Gwen scooped up a child and came limping quickly up the beach.

“Rosamond lost her balance and sat down in the water, even though I was holding her hand,” Gwen called as she came. “She was just at the edge, but she is soaked anyway, poor thing.”

At least, that was what George thought she was saying, though her voice was more than half drowned out by the indignant bawling of his little girl.

He scrambled to his feet and reached out his arms for her while Dora bent over the towel hamper.

*   *   *

Two mornings later, while the adults were still at breakfast, a letter was brought into the room and delivered into George's hand. The butler explained when Dora looked at him in some surprise that Mr. Briggs had thought it ought not to wait with the rest of the day's post for His Grace to peruse at his leisure since it had been personally delivered.

“It is from Julian,” George said as he broke the seal. He read quickly and smiled.

“Philippa has been delivered of a healthy boy,” he said.

“Oh.” Dora's hands flew to her cheeks. “But I promised to be with her.”

“The child could not wait for you,” he said. “He was born three weeks earlier than the physician had predicted and with less than three hours' warning.”

“A boy,” Dora said. “After the two girls. Oh, how delightful. They will be very happy. Philippa is well?”

“She is,” he said, and looked around the table at all their friends. “The one misgiving I had when I married Dora and we discovered that she was increasing was that for years Julian had been my heir. I thought it might be a bit of a disappointment to him if our child was a boy, as indeed he was. But both he and Philippa
assured us that they could not be happier for us, that they were perfectly contented with what they have and what they will be able to leave their own children. Now they have a son.”

“And I am quite sure, George,” Ben said, “that today the very last thing they are thinking of is that he might one day have been a duke. I have met Julian a few times, and I have the greatest respect for both him and his wife.”

“Julian was quite grief-stricken, you know, when word was brought that Brendan had been killed,” George said.

All his friends gazed at him in silence, and Dora guessed that he had rarely if ever spoken to them about his first son.

“Has everyone seen the gallery?” she asked.

“I believe everyone has,” Vincent said, “except me, of course. But I have listened to the history lesson. George tells it well.”

“There are two new portraits there,” Dora said. “They were hung a few months ago, on Christopher's third birthday. Shall we show them, George?”

He folded the letter and set it down beside his plate. “Of course,” he said. “Has everyone finished eating?”

Half an hour later they were all up in the gallery, even Vincent. And even Ben, walking with his two canes rather than have someone carry up his wheeled chair. They walked along the length of the room, George and Dora leading the way, not stopping at any of the paintings
before the last two. They were a matched pair, just a little larger than miniatures, painted in oils, displayed one above the other.

“George's two sons,” Dora said. “Brendan and Christopher. Brothers, born thirty years apart, but together contributing to the long history of the family.”

“Ann Cox-Hampton, one of our neighbors and friends, painted them,” George added. “She is working on one of Rosamond. It will be added when it is complete.”

“I did not know there was a portrait of Brendan in existence,” Imogen said.

“I kept it for my eyes only until I shared it with Dora,” George said. “But his memory is not for me alone. It is for my family, present and future, and all who come here. My living son and daughter will learn all there is to know about their brother.”

“I wish I could paint portraits like that,” Sophia said, “instead of just caricatures. The one of Christopher is very like, so I suppose the one of Brendan is too. He is fair-haired, Vincent, and just turning from boyhood toward manhood. He looks very sweet and a little uncertain of himself, as boys of that age do. You must have loved him very dearly, George.”

“Oh, I did,” he assured her. “Correction, I
do
, just as dearly I love my other two children. Not that I am unique in that.”

He smiled about him as he wound an arm about Dora's waist and drew her closer to his side.

“Something has occurred to me,” he said. “We have
not had any of our late-night sessions this year, the seven of us. Other years we have scarcely missed a night, though we did miss several last year, I seem to recall.”

Those informal meetings, from which the spouses had always absented themselves though they had never been asked to, had characterized their reunions. It was during the late evenings, George had explained to Dora, that they discussed their progress—physical, mental, and emotional—their setbacks, their triumphs, all that was deep inside themselves and needed to be shared. It was really quite startling to realize that they had not met privately even once yet this year. She had not even noticed until now.

“Has anyone missed our meetings?” George asked.

“Perhaps,” Hugo said, “we do not need them any longer.”

“I believe you are right, Hugo,” Imogen said. “Perhaps all we need now when we are together is to celebrate friendship and love.”

“And life,” Ralph added.

“And memories.” George's arm tightened about Dora's waist. “We must never forget any of the people and events and emotions that have made us who we are today. Not that it is likely we ever will.”

He smiled rather sadly at the upper portrait of Brendan and then a little more happily at the lower one of a chubby-cheeked Christopher as he had still been a year ago before he changed from infancy to little boyhood.

Everyone looked a bit dewy-eyed, Dora thought as she gazed about and then up at George to smile at him.