Slightly Married (8 page)

“Is it possible,” she asked when they had finished their ices, “to find a shop where I may purchase gifts for the children? It would be so exciting for them to have something from London.”

“For the orphans?” He raised his eyebrows and looked instantly haughty.

“For Becky and Davy,” she said. “My children. And for Benjamin, Thelma's son.”

She half expected him to say something like
for the illegitimate brat
? But he did not do so. He rose from his chair and drew hers back when she got to her feet.

“We will go to Oxford Street,” he said. “You will find plenty to spend your money on there.”

She found a brightly painted wooden spinning top for Benjamin and a porcelain doll that looked very like a real baby for Becky. The colonel, who had wandered away from Eve's side, in boredom, she supposed, came back with two cricket bats, a ball, and wickets.

“The boy will probably like these,” he said, “if he does not already have them.”

“No, he does not.” She smiled at him. “Thank you. I had no idea what I would choose for him.”

“All boys enjoy cricket,” he said.

“Do they?” Had he? It was hard to picture him as a boy, playing, running, laughing, carefree.

She paid for her purchases, which included lace handkerchiefs for Thelma and Aunt Mari, and Colonel Bedwyn carried the parcels out of the shop and stowed them safely on the floor of the curricle before handing Eve up one last time. She was weary. Nevertheless, when the Pulteney Hotel finally came into sight and she realized that their afternoon out was over, she felt disappointment. So soon? she thought. Reality was going to set in soon enough, she knew, but she was not ready for it yet.

“Will you dine with us?” she asked.

“Thank you, but no,” he said, offering no excuse. “I will return for you in the morning. We will make a timely start again.”

He escorted her into the lobby after directing a servant to carry her purchases upstairs for her, and was about to take his leave when a distinguished-looking older gentleman in military uniform stopped abruptly beside them and raised a quizzing glass to his eye.

“Ah, Bedwyn,” he said heartily. “I
thought
that was you. In England for the victory celebrations, are you?”

“General Naughton,” the colonel said. “How do you do, sir?”

Eve took a step back, aware again that she was well out of her social milieu, but the general turned his quizzing glass on her and raised his eyebrows. Colonel Bedwyn cupped her elbow with his right hand and drew her forward.

“I have the honor of presenting my wife, sir,” he said.

“Your wife? Bless my soul, I did not know you were married, Bedwyn,” the general said. “How do you do, Lady Aidan? Enjoying a stay in London, are you?”

“Indeed yes,” she said. “We have been sightseeing all afternoon.”

“Splendid, splendid. I will see the two of you at some of the celebrations.” He nodded genially and went on his way.

Eve was feeling rather stunned.
Lady Aidan.
Foolishly, that was one thing she had not thought about since agreeing to this hasty marriage. She was no longer Eve Morris. She was Lady Aidan Bedwyn.

“Until tomorrow morning, then,” her husband said. And with a curt bow he was gone.

There was a terrible feeling of emptiness then. Like a child whose grand treat is over, she found herself gazing after him and into an endlessly gray future.

C
HAPTER VII

A
IDAN WAS STANDING AT A WINDOW OF THE
drawing room in Ringwood Manor, gazing out at grayness. For the first time since his return to England the clouds were low and heavy and rain threatened. He hoped to be well on his way to Hampshire before darkness fell, but the final leg of the journey from London had been a long one and he had accepted the invitation to take some refreshments before resuming his journey. He lifted his teacup from its saucer and drained his tea.

The ladies were sitting in a group behind him—his wife, Mrs. Pritchard, and the governess, who had been introduced to him as Miss Rice. It had seemed strange to him that the governess should be invited to join them for tea, but several things had struck him as strange about this household—the fact, for example, that all the servants and children had been gathered on the terrace as the carriage approached earlier, not in neat lines of silent, respectful welcome but in a noisy cluster, all laughing and talking at once. And that infernal dog had barked its head off unrebuked. It was his wife's bourgeois background that gave her so little control over her underlings, he supposed—and that had impelled her into marrying a stranger for their sake.

Yet he had to admit that there was an undeniable warmth about the household that he had not encountered elsewhere. And what other woman would have abandoned everyone out on the terrace in order to take her children in person back to the nursery instead of turning them over to their nurse's care—and then spent all of fifteen minutes with them there while they unwrapped their gifts? Yet she was not even the mother of any of the children. He wondered suddenly if she had ever wanted children of her own. But it was too late to think of that now.

“Eve,” Miss Rice was saying now into a short lull in the conversation, “and Colonel Bedwyn, I must say this.” She spoke all in a rush as Aidan turned to look at her. “I must thank you both from the bottom of my heart. On behalf of the children, who have been frightened half out of their wits without quite understanding why, thank you. He came here again yesterday, you know—Mr. Morris, that is. Agnes told him you had gone out for the day with Mrs. Pritchard, Eve. He went into every room in the house and inspected every cupboard and drawer. He brought two servants with him to count all the silverware and china and crystal and linen so that all will be accounted for after your departure. And he had Agnes gather everyone in the hall before he left. He made us all stand in two lines, like soldiers at attention, and he told us that tomorrow we must all be gone from here or he will have us taken up for vagrancy and thrown in jail. He was looking very pleased with himself indeed.”

Yes, he would have been, Aidan thought. He could just picture the scene.

“Oh, Thelma,” his wife said in dismay. “Every room? How could he! Every cupboard and drawer?”

“Yes,” Miss Rice said. “He said he will give us until noon tomorrow. That is when he will be coming here.”

“I will write to him without delay.” His wife got to her feet and turned to look at Aidan. She looked paler today than she had yesterday, he noticed. She was all in gray again. The lavender-trimmed bonnet had not made its appearance for today's journey. “But I will see you on your way first, Colonel. I hope the rain will hold off for you.”

“Write?” he said. “You are going to
write
instead of confronting him in person and seeing his expression when he learns the truth? You are either a coward, ma'am, or you lack a sense of drama.”

She half smiled. “It
would
be delicious to behold, would it not?” she said. “I do not believe I can resist.”

“Neither can I,” he said. It had not occurred to him until this moment that he should see this thing through to the end. He strode farther into the room and set his cup and saucer down on the nearest table. “I do not believe I can deny myself the pleasure of witnessing the comeuppance of Mr. Cecil Morris and even participating in it.”

“You are going to
stay
?” his wife asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes,” he said with sudden decision. “Yes, I am going to stay—until a few minutes after noon tomorrow. I would be very surprised if the gentleman is late.”

Lindsey Hall and freedom—relative freedom—could wait another day, he thought reluctantly. He owed her this much support. One day was not a great deal in the grand scheme of things.

“Wonderful, Colonel,” Mrs. Pritchard said, getting laboriously to her feet. “I will go and talk to Mrs. Rowe right away and tell her there will be one extra for dinner. I bet she will serve a wedding banquet suitable for royalty.”

Behind him Aidan could hear rain begin to patter against the window.

E
VE FOUND THE SITUATION VERY AWKWARD.
C
OLONEL
Bedwyn was staying at the house, in the best guest chamber, a disturbing male presence. All was perfectly proper, of course—he was her
husband
. But there was all the strain of keeping a conversation going during a lengthy dinner, for which Mrs. Rowe had prepared far more dishes than usual, and in the drawing room afterward. Nevertheless, she was glad he had stayed.

Nothing and everything had changed in her life. Once he was gone, all would proceed as it ever had—forever and ever with no hope of any happy change. When John returned, he would discover the truth of her faithlessness and there would be an end of all their dreams and plans for the future. She needed time to adjust her mind to the new facts of her life. She needed to see the colonel for just a little while longer—just for one more day—so that she would know she had not simply dreamed it all.

Eve stitched at her embroidery in the drawing room after dinner, having snatched a briefer than usual time with the children—
how
she had missed them, and how
wonderful
it felt to be back home with them, knowing that they were safe and secure beyond any doubt.
Any
sacrifice would have been worth that assurance. Aunt Mari, bless her heart, was keeping the conversation going by describing the park to the colonel. But Eve looked up reproachfully when she suggested that her niece show it to him in the morning, before noon. Even now, it seemed, Aunt Mari would not give up on her hope of convincing them to develop some sort of relationship.

“I daresay,” Eve said, “the park will be too wet in the morning, Aunt Mari. The rain shows no sign of easing.” Indeed it was drumming against the windows.

The colonel was sitting in a relaxed pose in a deep armchair, his elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled. Eve had the feeling he was watching her as she worked. It was a strange, very physical feeling as if there were some string stretched between them on which an invisible finger was pulling ever so gently. She was feeling slightly breathless. It was a relief to hear a tap on the door. Agnes opened it just wide enough to poke her head around it.

“You are needed in the nursery, my lamb,” she said, glancing rather venomously at Aidan, who had reminded her before dinner that her mistress was now “my lady.”

“I'll come immediately,” Eve said, threading her needle through the cloth, folding it, and getting to her feet.

“The children do not have a nurse?” the colonel asked.

“They are usually sleeping by now,” Eve explained. “There must be a problem.”

“Eve spends a great deal of time with them,” Aunt Mari was saying as she left the room. “She would be a wonderful mother to her own children.”

Eve grimaced and hurried up the stairs. Neither Nanny Johnson nor Thelma would interrupt her while she was entertaining unless they felt they had no choice.

Sounds of sobbing greeted her as she opened the nursery door. Nanny Johnson was seated on a chair, Becky curled up on her lap. Davy was standing in the middle of the floor in his nightshirt. It was Becky who was sobbing, inconsolably by the sound of it. Thelma was in Benjamin's room, rocking him in her arms. He was making sleepy noises of protest, obviously disturbed from his sleep.

“She is finding it hard to believe that you will not be going away again,” Nanny said, “and that Mr. Morris will not be coming back to make us all go away. He made the children stand in the servants' lines too, Miss Eve, when he gave us our notice.”

Eve hurried across the room and scooped Becky up into her own arms. “Oh, my sweetheart,” she said, her cheek against the top of the child's head, “I am not going anywhere. I went away only so that I could make all safe for you. And all
is
safe. Ringwood is mine, and this is where you will grow up, you and Davy. This is your home and always will be. And I will always love you. Always, no matter what. Come, let's sit down and I will show you something.”

The child's sobs had quietened to hiccuped gasps by the time they settled in a chair. Although she was attached to both Nanny and Thelma, it was understandable that it was Eve she needed tonight. It had been brought home to her child's mind in the cruelest of manners yesterday that it was Eve who stood between her and the terror of abandonment again. Oh, how
dare
Cecil have so demeaned and so frightened children who were his own relatives!

“Look.” Eve extended her left hand and spread her fingers. “Do you see my ring? It is a wedding ring. It means that I am married. And
that
means that I can stay at Ringwood all my life. It means that
you
can stay at Ringwood too.”

“And Davy?” the child asked.

“And Davy.” Eve kissed the top of her head. “You are both safe. You are my very own children. I love you both and will love you forever and ever.” Though love was not always enough, she admitted to herself. Love would not have protected them if she had not married. She was
glad
she had married. She would endure all the consequences of having had to take such a drastic and painful course.

She looked up to smile reassuringly at Davy, but he was looking away from her toward the door, his bare feet braced apart, his hands clenched into fists, his whole body tensed as if to spring. The colonel was standing in the doorway.

“Easy, boy,” he said quietly. “I am not your enemy. Or your sister's. You would defend her to the death, would you? Good lad. Men protect the women in their lives.”

“Go away!” Davy's voice was trembling.

“Davy—” Eve began, but the colonel held up a staying hand without removing his eyes from the boy. Nanny did not move.

“Miss Morris came to London with me two days ago,” he said, “so that I could marry her yesterday. She is now Lady Aidan Bedwyn. I married her to give her my protection, so that she can stay here and so that you can have a home and be safe until you grow up and make your own way in the world. I married her because I am a man of honor and protect women whenever it is in my power to do so. I am a military officer and must return to my battalion soon. Lady Aidan is safe here—I have seen to that—but I will be easier in my mind knowing that she has another honorable man to look after her and the other women here. Or an honorable boy who will grow into a man, anyway. I believe you are he. Am I right?”

Eve watched the tension gradually drain from Davy's body.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Aidan said quietly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad. Which is your bedchamber?”

“That one.” Davy pointed. “I heard Becky crying. I thought that man had come to get her.”

“You know now that that is not going to happen,” Aidan said. “Ever. Why don't you go back to bed and let your nurse tuck you in? All is safe.”

The thing was, Eve thought, rocking Becky in her arms, there was nothing soft in his manner. He had even forced Davy to call him
sir
. He had not smiled or looked anything short of ferocious. But she felt she was having a rare glimpse into a man whose depths of character she had not even begun to uncover. And she never would do so. Tomorrow he would be gone, this stranger, her husband.

His eyes met hers across the room and held her gaze. Neither spoke. They could not do so—Becky was falling asleep, Thelma was still rocking Benjamin, her back to the nursery, and Nanny was murmuring softly to Davy in his room.

It was a moment in which something passed between them, something intimate, almost tender, unexplainable, painful. Eve felt a soreness in her chest that felt very much like grief.

After a few moments he turned and left and Eve set her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. She had not known it would feel like this—as if something really had happened yesterday. Something that had deeply and irrevocably changed her life.

W
HEN
A
IDAN GOT OUT OF BED THE NEXT MORNING,
woken by the sound of Andrews bringing his shaving water into his dressing room, it was to the discovery that the rain was still falling in a fine drizzle. He hoped the roads would not be too muddy for travel in the afternoon—not that he was unaccustomed to riding through mud.

He spent more than an hour after breakfast tramping alone in the outdoors. His wife had announced her intention of spending the morning in the nursery with the children. Mrs. Pritchard had taken the carriage into Heybridge. The park was very nicely planned indeed. There was a rose arbor to one side of the house with a wilderness walk beyond it, wooded and hilly and dotted with grottoes and rustic seats, from all of which there was a pleasant prospect—or would be on a fine day. A flourishing vegetable and flower garden stretched the length of the back of the house. The lily pond he had seen before was picturesque. The wooded valley behind it was blooming with azaleas and bluebells and must be secluded and lovely on a sunny day. Well-kept lawns stretched before the house.