Web of Love (41 page)

“Yes,” she said, placing one hand in his and reaching up the other to rest on his shoulder.

“Is Miss Simpson very upset?” he asked as they began dancing. “From the almost desperate way she seems to be enjoying herself, I would guess that she is.”

“She believes that I was unfaithful to Charlie long before his death,” she said. “She refuses to listen to reason.”

“And if I talk to her, I will only make matters worse, doubtless,” he said.

She nodded. “Your mother had a talk with her this afternoon,” she said. “I went to her and told her everything, I'm afraid.”

“I'm delighted you did,” he said. “I am eager to have this thing right out in the open, Ellen. I want to set a wedding date.”

“Do you?” she said. “I don't know, Dominic. It still does not seem right.”

He held her hand more tightly. “Oh, no,” he said. “You are not going to change your mind again now, Ellen. Absolutely not. But listen. Miss Letitia and Colin are making a truly heroic effort to sound like a whole orchestra. Let us enjoy the waltz, shall we?”

She almost wished after a couple of minutes that they had continued the conversation, however awkward it might have been. She did not know of a dance that could make one more aware of the man one was partnered by than a waltz. She remembered the time she had waltzed with him at the Duke of Wellington's ball. The time when she had been pushed against him. When she had become physically aware of him for the first time.

She could smell his cologne again.

“What do you use to wash your hair?” he asked, his smiling green eyes seeming very close. “It must be something quite different from anything used by any other lady of my acquaintance. A very enticing fragrance.”

 

M
R
. C
OURTNEY TOOK
a hearty farewell of each of his guests several hours later. But he had something more to say to the Earl and Countess of Amberley, in the strictest confidence. Mr. Courtney spoke
sotto voce
when speaking in confidence. But since his normal speaking voice was often compared by his fond neighbors to a soft bellow, it was hardly surprising that even his whispers were heard by every one of the departing guests.

Susan, it seemed, had just accepted the offer of Lord Agerton. Not that there was anything public or official yet, of course, the beaming father added for the edification of all his listeners and the mortification of his daughter. Susan would not be out of mourning until the following summer. But they might all expect a late-summer wedding.

“My daughter to be the Viscountess Agerton!” he said, fairly bursting with pride and goodwill. “Well, my lord, who would have thought it?”

Susan blushed and hung her head and peeped up into the face of her future betrothed.

E
LLEN WAS ROLLING HER HAIR INTO ITS USUAL knot at the nape of her neck. She had not brought Prudence into the country with her. She had been accustomed for years to managing without the services of a maid.

She was dawdling, she realized. It was well past her usual time of going downstairs to breakfast. And the outdoors certainly looked inviting. Despite fallen leaves and bare branches, there was a look of summer about the clear blue sky and brightly shining sun.

But she was dawdling anyway. And her heart made an uncomfortable lurch when there was a sudden knock on the door of her bedchamber.

“Come in,” she called, and looked in the mirror to see that it was indeed Jennifer who came inside and closed the door quietly behind her. Ellen put down her comb and turned on her stool.

The girl was looking pale, rather as she had looked when Ellen first came home from Belgium.

“Good morning,” she said rather lamely.

“Good morning, Jennifer.” Ellen clasped her hands in her lap.

“You were right,” the girl said in a rush. “When I thought about it, I knew that you were telling me the truth. And Lady Amberley told me that she knows Lord Eden could not behave so dishonorably, and that she did not think you could either. And Lieutenant Penworth says that such things often happen when a woman nurses an injured man. And besides, I think I would have known. Papa might not have, but I think I would.”

She stopped as abruptly as she had begun.

Ellen closed her eyes briefly. “Thank you,” she said. “I don't think I could have borne to live with your hatred.”

Jennifer crossed the room to the window and stood looking out. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but even though I believe you, I cannot forgive you. I will try not to hate you, but I don't believe I can ever love you again.”

“I'm sorry too,” Ellen said very quietly. “I did love your father, Jennifer. My whole life was focused on making him happy. And I think I succeeded. I still do love him. I always will.”

“No,” Jennifer said. “You could never have loved him. You are going to marry Lord Eden. And you love him too, don't you?”

“Yes,” Ellen said.

“Well, then, all is said.” Jennifer turned back toward the room, her eyes bleak. “You cannot love twice in a lifetime. Either you loved Papa or you love Lord Eden. Or you have never loved anyone.”

“Oh, Jennifer.” Ellen looked at her pleadingly. “You are very young, dear. I suppose every young girl believes that true love can happen only once to each person. Everyone dreams of finding that one person with whom she can live in bliss for the rest of her life. It does not always happen that way. Love is a far greater gift than any of us realize. I don't love your father any the less because I love Dominic. And I don't love Dominic the less because I will always love your father. I can't choose between the two loves and say that one is greater than the other. I can only tell you that I would have remained faithful to your papa and I would have loved him too for the rest of my life if he had not been snatched from me.”

“I'm sorry, Ellen.” The girl's eyes looked at her in misery. “I want to forgive you. I love you so much more than I love Aunt Dorothy or Uncle Phillip, or even Grandpapa. You have seemed like my very own even though you are not my real mother, because Papa was happy with you. I want things to be as they were until yesterday, but they can't ever be the same again, can they?”

Ellen shook her head. “No,” she said. “We can never go back, Jennifer. Only forward. But I am not a different person from the one you loved yesterday morning. And you are not different. Only hurt and bewildered. I think you set me on something of a pedestal, didn't you, and I have come toppling down. I am just human, alas. But I need you. You may think that because I have Dominic and will have my baby, I will have no further need of you. But you are my only link with my first husband, Jennifer. My loss will be doubled if I lose you too.”

Jennifer stared at her uncertainly, one hand twisting the fabric of her dress. “You will be living at his home in Wiltshire,” she said.

“Probably,” Ellen said. “It will be your home too, whenever you want it to be. Dominic knows that I think of you as my daughter.”

“You won't want me,” the girl said. “You will have your real son or daughter. You won't want me.”

“Jennifer!” Ellen rose to her feet for the first time. “Have you not listened to what I have been saying? You are my family. At the moment, you are almost my only family. I am not married yet, and my baby has not been born yet. I have my father, whom I rediscovered in London a few weeks ago, and you. Wherever Dominic chooses to make our home will be yours too. Not because I will consider it a duty to take you in. I will not—your grandfather is quite capable of giving you a home and all the comforts and love to go with it. It will be because I love you and want you as part of my family.”

Jennifer continued to twist the fabric of her dress. “I will have to go away and think,” she said. “I was so determined not to forgive you. But I can't remember all of the reasons any longer. I'm going now.”

“All right,” Ellen said.

But when the girl reached the door, she paused with her hand on the knob, turned, whisked herself across the room to hug Ellen very hard, and then rushed from the room without another word.

 

M
ADELINE WAS ALONE
in the breakfast room with her twin, everyone else having already left the table or not yet arrived. They were laughing.

“Did you see her face, Dom?” Madeline said. “She looked as if she would have dearly liked to stuff a cushion down poor Mr. Courtney's throat.”

“She was embarrassed,” he said. “Susan is very easily embarrassed.”

“Fiddle!” she said. “I do wonder why she objected to the announcement's being made, though. Because it was the end of the evening, perhaps, and she was not at the very center of an admiring crowd?”

“You are cruel, Mad,” he said. “You never have had any patience with Susan.”

“I can have all the patience in the world with her,” she said, “now that I know she is not going to marry you. I have been a little worried. You have been her first choice, you know.”

“A mere baron?” he said. “When Agerton is a viscount? But perhaps you are right. I hate to do her an injustice, but I do believe she was trying to compromise me last night so that I would feel obliged to offer for her.”

“To compromise you?” she said, and laughed anew. “Oh, Dom, Susan is a priceless character, is she not? Will she make poor Lord Agerton's life a misery, do you suppose?”

“I think not,” he said. “She was reasonably loyal to Jennings while he lived, as far as I know. And this time she will have her title as soon as she leaves the altar. She will be thoroughly happy.”

“I am not going to marry Allan,” she said. “Have you suspected?”

He looked steadily at her. “I wondered,” he said, “when he announced yesterday that he will be leaving tomorrow. Who broke the engagement?”

“I did,” she said. “But I think it was a great relief to him. We would not have suited. You were right all along, Dom.”

“Are you upset?” he asked, reaching across the table for her hand.

She shrugged. “Not really,” she said. “A little sorry, perhaps, for the awkwardness, for I am dearly fond of him. And restless. But no matter. I will contrive somehow to live on and to enjoy life. I always do.”

He squeezed her hand.

“And what about you?” she asked. “Dare I ask if the apparent amity between you and Mrs. Simpson in the last few days means anything?”

He grinned. “Yes,” he said. “It means that there is an amity between us, Mad.”

She pulled a face at him.

He winked at her. “And perhaps a little more. I'm not at liberty to say anything more just yet.”

She dropped her napkin on the table and ran around the table to wrap her arms about his neck from behind. “Then I will not by any means tell you how happy I am for you,” she said. “I won't say a word.” She kissed his cheek. “Did Alexandra tell you that her brother is coming home next summer?”

He rested one hand on her arm. “Is that important to you?” he asked.

“Not at all, silly,” she said, straightening up and ruffling his hair. “But it is very important to Alexandra. She is excited.”

“Nice of you, then,” he said, “to bring it to my attention purely for her sake, Mad.”

She laughed. “It was more than three years ago,” she said. “I am not foolish enough to think that an old infatuation can be rekindled, Dom. I have grown up a little since that time. And don't look at me like that. I know that I am just deceiving myself, and not you at all. Well, then, I do want to see him again. Just out of curiosity. So there! Are you satisfied, you horrid man?”

“You are probably crossing off days in your diary already,” he said, and covered his head with his hands as she tried to beat a tattoo on it with the back of a spoon.

L
IEUTENANT
P
ENWORTH TOLD
the dowager countess when she inquired at the luncheon table that no one need concern themselves about him. He intended to spend his final afternoon in the country outdoors painting.

Jennifer was sitting next to him. “Are you good?” she asked while the other occupants of the table began to talk about something else.

“If I say yes,” he said, “I will doubtless be accused of conceit. If I say no, you will accuse me of feeling sorry for myself again. I choose to say nothing.”

“I see you are in your usual sunny mood,” she said. “How are you going to carry everything?”

“I thought of using the easel as one of my crutches,” he said, “and grasping everything else in my teeth.”

Jennifer laughed. “It was a foolish question,” she said. “Doubtless you mean that you do not wish me to offer my help. I was not about to, sir.”

“Stupid of me to think such a thing,” he said. “Actually I have servants lined up to load the gig for me, and a groom to drive me partway down the valley, from where there is, according to the earl's mother, a particularly lovely view of the house, and to return for me two hours later. You see how I am beginning to be able to organize my life again?”

“I am all admiration,” she said. “May I come too?”

“I am not good company when I am painting,” he said. “I like to lose myself in what I am doing and am easily distracted by someone trying to chatter to me.”

“I will be very quiet,” she said, “and not even whisper to you. I declined an invitation to go riding with Anna and Walter and some other people this afternoon. I said I was tired.”

“Did you?” He looked more closely at her. “Come if you must, then. But I do not want to hear any complaints that you are bored. If you are, you may just pick yourself up and walk back to the house. Understood?”

“And to think,” she said, “that there was a time when I thought you a gallant and dashing officer. You are not very gracious, are you?”

“If I had two legs,” he said, “I would go down on one of them and beg you to accompany me. Under the circumstances, I would look rather foolish, would I not?”

“Decidedly,” she agreed.

An hour later the gig bounced its way for perhaps half a mile down the valley before the lieutenant was satisfied that he had the view of the house that the dowager had told him about. Jennifer spread a blanket on the ground and sat on it, her arms wrapped about her knees while he set up his easel and stool a short distance away in such a manner that she would not be able to see his work.

“Did you sort out your problem yesterday?” he asked before seating himself.

“I think so,” she said with a sigh. “I was very naive, it seems, expecting that some people in this world are perfect. Ellen is not perfect, after all, but she is not a villain either.”