The Arrangement (2 page)

She very obviously
did
mind.

He was angry with his mother and sisters for assuming that mental deficiency was one effect of blindness. He had known they wished him to marry soon. He had known that they would proceed to matchmake for him. What he had
not
known was that they would choose his bride without a word to him and then practically force him into accepting their choice—and in his own home, moreover.

His house, in fact, was not his own home—that realization came like an epiphany. It never had been. Whose fault that was must be examined at some future date. It was tempting to blame his relatives, but … Well, he would have to think the whole matter over.

He had a niggling suspicion, though, that if he was not master here, the fault lay with him.

But for now he was in an impossible situation. He felt no spark of attraction toward Miss Dean, even though he believed he would very probably like her under different circumstances. It was clear she felt nothing for him but the obligation to marry him. He could not, though, allow both of them to be coerced into doing what neither of them wanted to do.

As soon as they had returned indoors—Miss Dean took his offered arm and then proceeded to steer him along with gentle but firm intent even though he had his cane with him and knew the way perfectly well without any assistance at all—Vincent went to his private sitting room—the only place in the house where he could be assured of being alone and of being himself—and summoned Martin Fisk.

“We are going,” he said abruptly when his valet arrived.

“Are we, sir?” Martin asked cheerfully. “And what clothes will you be needing for the occasion?”

“I will need everything that will fit into the trunk I always take to Penderris,” Vincent said. “You will doubtless decide for yourself what
you
need.”

A low grunt was followed by silence.

“I am feeling especially stupid today,” Martin said. “You had better explain.”

“We are going,” Vincent said. “Leaving. Putting as much distance between us and Middlebury as we possibly can in order to evade pursuit. Slinking off. Running away. Taking the coward’s way out.”

“The lady does not suit, does she?” Martin asked.

Ha! Even Martin knew why the girl had been brought here.

“Not as a wife,” Vincent told him. “Not as
my
wife, anyway. Good Lord, Martin, I do not even
want
to marry. Not yet. And if and when I
do
want it, I shall choose the lady myself. Very carefully. And I shall make sure that if she says yes, it is not simply because she
understands
and
will not mind.
”

“Hmm,” Martin said. “That is what this one said, is it?”

“With the softest, gentlest sweetness,” Vincent said. “She
is
sweet and gentle, actually. She is prepared to make a martyr of herself for the sake of her family.”

“And we are running away
where
?” Martin asked.

“Anywhere on earth but here,” Vincent said. “Can we leave tonight? Without anyone’s knowing?”

“I grew up at a smithy,” Martin reminded him. “I think I could manage to attach the horses to the carriage without getting the lines hopelessly tangled up. But presumably I won’t have to risk it. I suppose you will want Handry to drive us? I’ll have a word with him. He knows how to keep his lips sealed. Two o’clock in the morning, shall we say? I’ll come and carry your trunk out and then come back to dress you. We should be well on our way by three.”

“Perfect,” Vincent said.

They were about one mile on their way when Martin, occupying the seat opposite Vincent’s in the carriage, his back to the horses, reported that it was three o’clock.

Vincent refused to feel guilty—and of course was consumed by nothing but guilt. And by the conviction that he was the world’s worst cad and coward, not to mention worst son and brother and grandson. And
gentleman
. But really, what else could he have done, short of marrying Miss Philippa Dean or publicly humiliating her?

But would she not be equally humiliated to learn that he had fled?

Arrghh!

He chose to believe that behind any momentary humiliation she might feel would be an enormous relief. He was
sure
she would be relieved, poor girl.

They went to the Lake District and spent three blissful weeks there. It was reputed to be one of the loveliest parts of England, though much of its beauty was lost on a blind man, of course. Not all of it, however. There were country lanes to stroll along, many of them parallel to the banks of Lake Windermere or some other, lesser lakes. There were hills to climb, some of them requiring strenuous effort—and stronger winds and more rarefied air as a reward when they climbed high. There was rain and sunshine and chill and warmth, all the wonderful variety of English weather and countryside. There was a boat ride, on which he could pull the oars himself, and horse rides—with Martin at his side but never touching him. There was even one glorious gallop across flat land, which, in Martin’s careful estimation, did not hide any unexpected dips or potholes. There was birdsong and insect croaks and the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle to listen to. There were all the myriad smells of the countryside, most notably heather, to many of which he had been oblivious in the days when he could see. There was sitting to meditate or merely to stretch the four senses that remained to him. There were his usual strengthening, body-building exercises to be performed daily, many of them outdoors.

There was peace.

And ultimately there was restlessness.

He had written two letters home—or, rather, Martin had done it for him—the first two days after he left, to explain that he needed some time alone and that he was perfectly safe in his valet’s capable hands. He had not explained either where he was at the time or where he was going. He advised his mother not to expect him home for a month or so. He confirmed everything in the second letter and assured her that he was safe and happy and in good health.

Miss Dean and her mama and papa and sisters would presumably have returned to London in time to secure her some other eligible husband before the Season was out. Vincent hoped she would find someone to fulfill the dual demands of duty and personal inclination. He sincerely hoped so, both for her sake and for the sake of his conscience.

He could go home, he decided at last. The Deans would be long gone. So, probably, would all three of his sisters. He would be able to have a frank talk with his mother and grandmother. It was high time. He would assure them that he was more than happy to have them live at Middlebury, where he could know that they were both comfortable and secure. Or he would be equally happy if they wished to move to Bath. The choice must be theirs, but they must not feel compelled to stay for his sake. He did not
need
them, he would explain as tactfully as he could. He did not need their assistance in his day-to-day living. Martin and the rest of his well-staffed household were perfectly capable of catering to all his needs. Neither did he need their assistance in finding him a bride to make his life more comfortable. He would find a wife for himself when he judged the time to be right.

It would not be easy to get his mother to accept the truth of what he would say. She had dedicated herself to learning to be mistress of a large home and estate, and she had done superlatively well. Too well, actually. By the time he had arrived at Middlebury, one year after her, he had felt like a little boy returning from school to the care of his mama. And because it had soothed her to see herself in that role, and because his new home and his new life had bewildered him, even overwhelmed him, he had not made a strong enough effort from the start to assert himself as the man of the house.

He had been only twenty years old, after all.

He did consider going back to Cornwall for a while to stay with George Crabbe, Duke of Stanbrook, as he had done for a few weeks in March—and for a few years following his return home from the Peninsula after losing his sight in battle. George was his very dearest friend. But, though he did not doubt the duke would welcome him and allow him to stay as long as he wished, Vincent would not use him as an emotional crutch. Not any longer. Those days, and those needs, were long past.

His years of dependency were past. It was time to grow up and take charge. It was not going to be easy. But he had long ago realized that he must treat his blindness as a challenge rather than as a handicap if he wished to enjoy anything like a happy, fulfilled life.

Sooner or later, then, he must return to Middlebury Park and begin the life he intended to live. He did not feel quite ready yet, however. He had done much thinking in the Lake District, and he needed to do more so that he would not return and simply fall back into the old routine, from which he would never be able to extricate himself.

He was done with the Lake District, though. He was restless.

Where else would he go but home?

The answer came to him with surprising ease.

Of course. He would go …
home
.

For Middlebury Park was only where he had lived for the past three years, the stately home he had inherited with his title and not set foot inside until three years ago. It was very grand, and he liked it well enough. He was determined to settle there and make it his own. It was not yet really
home,
however. Home was Covington House, where he had grown up, an altogether more modest dwelling, not much larger than a cottage actually, on the edge of the village of Barton Coombs in Somerset.

He had not been there in almost six years. Not since he left for the Peninsula, in fact. Now he had a sudden hankering to go back again, even though he would not be able to see it. It had happy associations. His childhood and boyhood years had been good ones despite the near poverty in which they had lived even before the death of his father when he was fifteen.

“We are going home,” he announced to Martin one morning after breakfast. He could hear rain pelting against the windows of the small cottage on Windermere he had rented for a month. “Not to Middlebury, though. To Barton Coombs.”

“Mhmm,” Martin said noncommittally as he gathered up the dishes from the table.

“You will be glad?” Vincent asked.

Martin too was from Barton Coombs. His father was the village blacksmith there. The two boys had gone to the village school together, for there had been no money for private education for Vincent despite the fact that socially he was a gentleman. The blacksmith fancied having a son who could read and write. Vincent had learned his lessons, as had his sisters, from his own father, who had been the schoolmaster. Often he and Martin had played together. Most of the neighborhood children had, in fact, regardless of social rank or financial status or gender or age. It had all been rather idyllic.

Vincent’s well-to-do maternal uncle had returned from a long residence in the Far East when Vincent was seventeen and had purchased a commission for his nephew. Martin, upon hearing the news, had come to Covington House, hat clutched in hand, to ask if he could go too as Vincent’s batman. That position had not lasted long, as it turned out. Vincent had lost his sight during his very first battle. But Martin had remained with him as his valet, even during those early years when Vincent had not been able to pay him. He had stubbornly refused to be turned off.

“My mam will be glad to see me,” Martin said now. “So will my dad, though no doubt he will make the usual grumbling quips to his anvil about his one and only son choosing to be a gentleman’s val
ett
.”

And so they went.

They traveled all through the last night of the journey, weary as they were, and arrived at Covington House at first light—or so Martin informed him. Vincent would have known it himself, though, as soon as the carriage stopped moving and the door was opened. He could hear a few birds singing with that almost echoing clarity that was peculiar to the predawn period. And the air had a freshening feel to it that suggested an end to night but not quite a start to day.

There was no real need for secrecy except that Vincent would rather no one know he was at Covington House, at least for a while. He did not want to be a curiosity to old friends and neighbors. He did not want them trekking to his door to pay their respects and to satisfy their curiosity about what a blind man looked like. And he did not want anyone writing to his mother and bringing her hurrying here to look after him. He probably would not stay long anyway. He just needed enough time to get his thoughts in order.

A house key had always been kept above the lintel on the inside of the potting shed behind the house. Vincent sent Handry to see if it was still there. If it was not, then Martin was going to have to climb through the window into the wine cellar. It was very doubtful anyone had thought of mending the catch on it in the last six years, since it had never been mended throughout Vincent’s boyhood. It had been a regular middle-of-the-night escape and reentry route, in fact.

Handry came back with the key. It was looking slightly rusty, he reported, but it fit in the lock of the front door and turned with a grinding sound and a little persuasion. The door opened.

The house smelled neither musty nor stale from being shut up, Vincent discovered. The cleaners he paid to come in once a fortnight must be doing a conscientious job. There
was
a smell, though, an indefinable something that brought back memories of boyhood days and of his mother and his sisters as they had been when they all lived here. Even faint memories of his father. It was strange that he had never noticed the smell while he lived here—perhaps because he had not needed to notice smells in those days.

He felt about the hall with the aid of his cane. The old oak table was still where it had always been, opposite the door, the umbrella stand beside it. Both were draped with holland covers.

“I know this house like the back of my hand,” he told Martin, pulling the cover off the stand and placing his cane in it. “I am going to explore it on my own. And then I am going to lie down in my room for an hour or two. A carriage is not designed for sleeping in, is it?”