Web of Love (7 page)

It was hard to imagine Mrs. Simpson as a bewildered girl, crying in the dust. He knew her as a woman who endured the worst of hardships with quiet cheerfulness. The only time he had seen her react to discomfort was when she had fallen from her horse into the mud one day and had been cursing like one of the men when he and Charlie had come up to her.

“I made friends among the women quite fast,” she said. “And I got used to the life. But you cannot imagine how having just a glimpse of Charlie came to light up my days. Sometimes he would wink at me from a distance. I suppose he was like the father I…He was like a father to me. Or an older brother.”

Like the father she had never had? Lord Eden completed in his mind. There was something fascinating about discovering what two of his friends had been like before he had met them.

“I asked him to marry me,” she said, and she flushed when he looked down at her with a grin. “It is shocking, is it not? After my father died, he wanted to send me to his sister in London. Lady Habersham, with whom Jennifer always stayed when not at school. He was willing to do that for me. But I asked him to marry me. I even begged him. He did not think it fitting. He said he was too old for me and not right for me.”

Lord Eden laughed aloud. “I shall have to tease him,” he said, “about being led squealing to the altar.”

“Oh,” she said, and she was laughing too. “Please don't do that. Please don't. I was very selfish. I did not even consider that perhaps he did not want to marry me. But I loved him so dearly. I could not bear the thought of being parted from him. Life would have had no more meaning. But I don't think he has been sorry. I think I have brought him happiness, too.”

“If you had had to spend your days with him as I did when you were gone to England, ma'am,” he said, “you would be in no doubt about that. He was like a bear in a cage.”

She smiled brightly at him. “I am sorry,” she said. “I must have been boring you terribly, telling you these things.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “I have been fascinated.” And that was certainly no lie. He was totally surprised. He had always assumed that Mrs. Simpson had been persuaded into a marriage of convenience after the death of her father, though he had never been in any doubt of her devotion to Charlie. But of course, when he thought about it, he had to admit that her story made sense. Charlie was not at all the type of man to take advantage of an unhappy and bewildered girl.

“It seems that Lieutenant Penworth would make a good reconnaissance officer,” he said. “I am afraid I would be hopelessly lost in this forest by now. But you see? He has brought us full circle, and there is the picnic party.”

She seemed to have run out of confidences and conversation. It was something of a relief to be back with the others again and to be able to arrange matters so that he sat down on the blanket beside Jennifer. She was glowing with high spirits, as usual, and looking particularly fetching in a blue muslin dress and straw bonnet trimmed with blue flowers.

Lord Eden did not know why he could not shake from his mind the memory of Mrs. Simpson pressed to his body the night before, her face turned up to his. Surely such a thing must have happened to him before. If she had been a stranger or a passing acquaintance, doubtless he would have forgotten all about the incident by now. It was just that he was unaccustomed to thinking of her as a woman. She was Charlie's wife, someone he liked and respected a great deal. But still, just Charlie's wife.

It was foolish to feel this embarrassment, this awareness, in her presence. And to know that she shared the feeling. He did not like it at all. He set himself to charm Miss Simpson.

 

C
APTAIN
S
IMPSON TURNED
to Ellen and blew out his breath from puffed cheeks. He laughed.

“Have you ever seen such a little whirlwind?” he asked. “If her mouth could move any faster, Ellen, she would make it do so.”

Ellen too laughed. “But she is enjoying herself so much,” she said. “And she has made so many friends, and amassed so many admirers, Charlie. You must be very proud of her.”

“I am,” he said. He walked away from the door through which his daughter had just whisked herself on her way to the theater with the Slatterys. “Sometimes I have to pinch myself, Ellen, just to believe she is my daughter. Can you imagine me being father to such a pretty little creature?”

“I can,” she said.

He smiled and sat down beside her on the sofa. “So this afternoon it was all Lieutenant Penworth, was it?” he said. “Can't say I know the puppy, except that he's a Guardsman. From Devon, she says, with a parcel of younger brothers and sisters and a love of riding and sailing and playing cricket. Do you fancy visiting our grandchildren in Devon, lass?”

“Oh, Charlie,” she said, laughing at him. “Jennifer is not ready to fix her choice yet. She very much has eyes for Lord Eden, but I think she is shy of talking to you about him because he is your friend.”

“Well,” he said, “I don't want her married yet. She should have time to enjoy herself, shouldn't she? Did you have a good time, lass?”

“Yes, I did.” She reached up a hand and smoothed it over the thinning hair at the side of his head. “But I would have preferred to be at home with you. Did you miss me?”

“I went to the shops,” he said.

She laughed. “You, Charlie?” she said. “To the shops?”

“How else could I buy you a present?” he said, grinning at her.

“A present? You bought me a present?” He had not done that for a long time, not since they were in Spain. Oh, he had given her money when she went to England, with strict orders to spend it on herself. But it was the little, often absurd presents that she had always valued most. “Where is it?”

“In my pocket,” he said. But he clasped a hand over the pocket as her hand went toward it. “What do I get first?”

She knelt on the sofa beside him and wrapped her arms about his neck. “What do you want?” she asked, and kissed him lightly on both cheeks.

“The lips,” he said. “Nothing less than the lips.”

“Oh,” she said, “it must be a very valuable present, then. All right, the lips it is.”

They were both chuckling after she had finished kissing him lingeringly.

“Maybe we should forget the present,” he said.

“Not a chance!” She reached into his pocket. Her fingers closed around a package wrapped in soft paper that rustled.

“Perhaps you will not like it,” he said, sitting quite still.

“I will,” she said, drawing it out. “I don't care what it is. What is it?”

He laughed. “Open it and see, lass,” he said.

It was a pair of earbobs, tiny, delicately made, each set with an emerald.

“To wear with your new evening gown,” he said. “The one you wore last night.”

“Oh, Charlie,” she said, “they are lovely. And must have cost you the earth. You shouldn't have. You don't need to buy me expensive gifts.”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “Oh, yes I do, sweetheart. And they were the very smallest jewels in the shop.”

They both laughed as she wrapped her arms about his neck again. “Thank you,” she said. “But I don't have a present for you.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, closing his arms about her. “You are a whole treasure, remember? My treasure.”

She rested her cheek against the bald top of his head as he hugged her. Then she sat back on her heels and looked at him, the earbobs in her hand.

“Tears?” he said softly, reaching out and wiping away one tear from her cheek with his thumb. “What is it, sweetheart?”

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Oh, Charlie, nothing. And everything.” The muscles of her face worked against her will, and more tears followed the first as his arms came firmly about her. She slid her legs from under her and hid her face against his shoulder.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He was kissing the side of her face.

“Everything is changing,” she said when she could. “It is all different this time. I'm frightened, Charlie. Time is running out for us, isn't it?”

He forced her chin up and dried her eyes with a large handkerchief. “Nothing has changed,” he said firmly. “We are still here together, lass, and we still love each other. And it is unlike you to talk this way. You never did before. I have always come back to you, haven't I?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Well, then,” he said. “I'll come back this time too. And this will be the last time. I promise. We'll go back to England and buy that cottage at last, and you shall have your own garden and dogs and cats and chickens and anything else you like. We'll be there by this time next year.”

“I don't care about the dogs and the cats,” she said, “or about the cottage or the garden. I only want you, Charlie. Tell me you will be there. Promise me you will. I can't live without you. I wouldn't want to live without you.”

“Sweetheart!” His voice held surprise as he caught her to him again. “Sweetheart, what has brought on this mood? It is most unlike you. Have I been neglecting you? Is that it? I have been, haven't I? I'm so selfish. I thought you were enjoying yourself with Jennifer and with Lady Madeline and Eden and Mrs. Byng and Mrs. Slattery and all the rest. I'm sorry, lass. I've been neglecting you. But I love you, Ellen. You know I love you.”

She pushed away from him suddenly, grabbed the handkerchief from his hand, and dried her eyes with it. She smiled a red-faced and watery-eyed smile. “How foolish I am!” she said. “What a goose! And all over a pair of earrings. They are more precious to me than the costliest of diamonds, Charlie. Shall I put them on? Though they will look quite dreadful with this pink dress. But you must kiss me anyway and tell me how beautiful I look. And then I want you to tell me all those old stories about your childhood. The fishing stories, and the Christmas stories. Will you?”

“What a silly lass you are,” he said, taking her free hand as she rose to her feet to find a mirror, and lifting it to his lips. “You have heard those stories a hundred times. Go and put the earrings on, then, sweetheart, and come for your kiss.”

She sat curled in to his body for the rest of the evening, his arm about her shoulders. And she played absently with the buttons on his waistcoat, and laughed at his stories, and kissed his chin while determinedly shutting from her mind unwilling memories of a strongly muscled arm and a broad shoulder well above the level of her own, and of laughing green eyes and fair wavy hair. And of that cologne that he had worn also the night before.

T
HROUGH MAY AND THE EARLY PART OF JUNE in that fateful year of 1815, it might have seemed that the predictions made by sons to anxious mothers, and husbands to wives, and brothers to sisters, that nothing would come of Napoleon's escape from Elba and the King of France's flight to Ghent, were quite right. All would pass over peacefully, they said. Old Boney would never be able to gather together a large enough army to threaten the one the Duke of Wellington was amassing in Belgium and the Prussian one that Marshal Blücher was bringing to his assistance. And even if he could, he would think twice about attacking the forces led by two such formidable generals.

And yet rumors persisted that the French army led by their emperor himself was larger than ever and that it was marching on Belgium. Some rumors even developed into scares and panics. The French were over the border already and marching on Brussels, Napoleon at their head. No one ever believed the rumors, of course, and scoffed at those who did. But still, one never knew. One never knew quite where the Corsican monster might rear his head. If he could escape from confinement on Elba—and had not British soldiers been his guards?—he could also march an army on Brussels and arrive before anyone was ready for him.

But despite everything, and despite the persistent gaiety of Brussels and of the Duke of Wellington himself, the preparations went on. Those battalions and brigades already in Belgium drilled and readied themselves for what they knew might well be the battle of their lives. Other battalions poured into the country almost every day, some of them made up almost entirely of raw troops, and took up their billets at Liedekerke or Schendelbeke or Enghien or Grammont or wherever else in the vicinity of Brussels they could be squeezed in. And the Peninsular veterans who had gone to America and whom the duke needed so badly were on their way back.

And always, it seemed, artillery poured across the English Channel and rumbled ominously over the countryside to remind those who denied the fact that war was indeed imminent. Wellington complained constantly to London that the amount of artillery he was receiving was woefully inadequate, but there was quite enough to dampen the spirits of all those who witnessed its arrival.

And still the entertainments went on: balls, theater parties, court parties, reviews of the troops, excursions to places of interest, afternoon picnics, moonlight picnics. Young men who knew that their days might be numbered danced and flirted with determined gaiety. Young ladies who refused to believe that war was coming but who secretly could not believe their own self-deception gave themselves up to the pleasure of being feted by so many attentive and splendidly uniformed gentlemen.

Everyone knew what was coming. Most refused to believe it or to admit that they believed it.

The Earl of Amberley waited for his wife to finish nursing their daughter and set her down, sleeping, in her crib one afternoon after they had been out walking in the park. He laid down their son, who had fallen asleep against his shoulder after protesting that he was not tired and did not want to go to bed. He took his wife's hand and led her from the nursery to her sitting room.

“Poor Christopher,” she said, laughing. “He would be so cross to know that he had fallen asleep even without his tea. He worked too hard this afternoon feeding the swans and running back and forth on the bank when they swam away. Are we going to have ours here, Edmund, instead of in the drawing room? How cozy!”

“I want to talk to you,” he said, tugging on the tasseled bell-pull to summon the tea tray.

“That sounds ominous.” She smiled at him and reached out a hand for his so that he would sit beside her on the love seat.

“I think we may have to go home soon,” he said, taking her hand in both of his and seating himself.

“To Amberley?” Her face paled. “Is it coming soon, then?”

“It is coming closer,” he said, attempting to smile.

“But we cannot leave Dominic,” she said. “He is why we came, Edmund. And we cannot force Madeline to leave. She would have the hysterics. Besides, we will be quite safe here, will we not?”

“I have great faith in the duke,” he said. “But I cannot take the risk of placing the lives of my wife and children in his hands, Alex. We must leave. Not immediately. But soon, I think. I want you to be ready.”

“No,” she said. “No, I won't leave. It would be cowardly, Edmund. And how could we be back in England, not knowing what is happening here? It would be Spain all over again.”

“I cannot put you in unnecessary danger, Alex,” he said. “And more especially the children. I will not. And I am sorry, but the matter is not open for discussion. I have decided.”

“Have you?” she said. “And what has happened to your promise that I might always argue with you, that I need never feel that I must obey you just because you are my husband? I want to argue now.”

But she had to wait for a few minutes while a footman and a maid brought in the tea tray and cakes.

Lord Amberley smiled at her when they were alone again. “You may argue, my love,” he said. “You may fight me if you like. But I will not let you win. And don't cry unfair, Alex. Sometimes one feels too strongly about something to be willing to change one's mind. As you did about our coming here. You insisted on having your way then because you knew how worried I was about Dominic. Remember?”

“I hate you,” she said.

He grinned. “Would it be safer to change the subject now that that unpleasantness is behind us?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “You have said that I may argue. Let us compromise, then, Edmund. I will take the children home. You stay here. Dominic needs you.”

“No.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Dominic does not need us, love. We need him. He has a job to do. Perhaps he would do it better without having our feelings to worry about. Certainly he is going to be too busy soon to spare us a thought. He has the training and the welfare of many men to concern himself with. We are the ones who need to cling to him because we love him and know we may lose him.”

“No,” she said. “Dominic has always survived.”

“Yes,” he said. “And we will pray that he will survive one more battle. But we will not keep him alive by staying here. I must come with you. When all is said and done, my first duty is to you, Alex, and to our children. You three are my life. I cannot be separated from you.”

“How will you break the news to Madeline?” she asked.

“Very carefully,” he said with a rueful grin. “I expected worse explosions from you. I am quite sure I will have them from my sister.”

“Will it be very soon?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It is impossible to say,” he said. “But when it finally comes, Alex, there is going to be a rush to leave Brussels and reach the ports. I don't want to wait that long.”

She nodded. “I hate you when you are so wise and right,” she said.

“Kiss me,” he said. “I have been dreading this interview and am feeling in need of some reassurance.”

“The tea will get cold,” she said.

“At the risk of shocking your delicate ears, my love,” he said, “to hell with the tea. Kiss me.”

“I shouldn't,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he said. “Kiss me, Alex. Don't tease me. I need you.”

 

M
ADELINE HAD GONE
to the park with her brother and sister-in-law and the children. They had met Ellen and Jennifer Simpson there, and she had stayed to stroll with them after the baby had begun to fuss and show signs of hunger and had been taken home.

Madeline had grown fond of both ladies. Jennifer reminded her of herself at the same age. She seemed to have an endless capacity to enjoy herself and a quite genuine exuberance for life. And men were attracted to her like bees to flowers, especially the very young officers.

The girl favored Dominic, Madeline thought sometimes. Certainly she blushed whenever he came into her sight, and gazed upward at him almost worshipfully. But was she in love with him? Or was it a hero worship she felt? Equally uncertain were Dominic's feelings for her. He certainly favored her, dancing with her at every ball, escorting her to the theater, taking her for walks in the park and rides in the Allée Verte beyond the walls of the city, calling almost daily at her father's rooms. And he had a way of looking at the girl, with a type of gentle affection, that was different from the way he usually looked at his flirts.

But was it love? He did not confide his feelings to his sister, as he always had. And that in itself was perhaps significant. Madeline was not sure how she would feel about having Miss Jennifer Simpson as a sister-in-law. She liked the girl. But she did not seem right for Dom, somehow. But then, Madeline thought, and turned weak at the knees with horror at the thought, perhaps the question of approving a bride for her brother would not be relevant at all by the end of the summer.

“Can you quite believe that the weather can be so lovely day after day?” she asked the two ladies. “I wonder if they are having an unusually fine spring in England, too.”

“It is lovely,” Ellen Simpson said. “You would appreciate it even more if you had spent several years in Spain, Lady Madeline. There is nothing there but searing heat and dust, or rain in torrents when it comes.”

“Dominic wrote to us about it,” Madeline said. “It must have been dreadful. I used to cry over his letters when they came.”

“There were compensations,” Ellen said. “Living like that sometimes destroys people. I have seen men go mad. But much more often it brings people closer together. There was a wonderful camaraderie among the men in Spain, and examples of great kindness and heroic self-denial. It is a strange irony that soldiers whose business it is to kill can often be the kindest and most generous of men. A life like that builds character in a man. And those are not empty words spoken by a recruiting officer,” she added with a laugh. “They come from my experience.”

That life built character not only in men, Madeline thought, as two young ensigns appeared on the path before them, their faces wreathed in smiles when they saw Jennifer. Bows and curtsies and bright pleasantries had to be exchanged with these acquaintances. The life she had lived had built character in Mrs. Simpson too. Madeline had grown to admire her, though she had been prepared at first to find her spineless.

Lady Lawrence and Maisie Hardcastle had done their best in the previous few weeks to raise a scandal over the fact that Mrs. Simpson, who was received at all the best homes in Brussels as the wife of Captain Simpson, was the daughter of the Countess of Harrowby. Madeline did not know the significance of the fact since she scorned to listen to the explanation that Maisie burned to give her, and Alexandra and Edmund knew no more than that the countess had a reputation for loose living and indeed lived separate from her husband the earl.

She had not asked Dominic what he knew. Dom was very friendly with the captain, and she was shy of asking him anything quite so personal about his friend's wife, and something that smacked so much of malicious gossip. She guessed that Mrs. Simpson must be an illegitimate daughter of the countess.

And Mrs. Simpson must know of the gossip herself. Fortunately most people did not seem to feel that it was of any great significance. And the Simpsons did not go out into society a great deal and had their own circle of friends, who would not be affected by society scandal. But there were those, mostly matrons who felt they were better than the general run of mortals, who took every opportunity to snub her. And yet that lady was as dignified, as warmly friendly and charming, as she had ever been.

“Here comes Papa!” Jennifer cried as they were walking beside the lake. “And Lord Eden.”

“They are finished early today,” Ellen said. “They both look tired.”

Both men were smiling, but, yes, Madeline thought, there was that set quality to Dom's smile that usually denoted tiredness.

The captain winked at his daughter and bowed to Madeline before smiling at his wife in that way that had begun to make Madeline envious.

“Charlie,” Ellen said, “you are on your way home? You are tired.”

“Not too tired to accompany you on your walk,” he said, offering her his arm.

Madeline heard no more as she was caught up in an exchange of words with her brother and Jennifer. But it was soon clear that Mrs. Simpson had insisted that her husband go home with her.

“We must have Lady Madeline and Eden come home to tea with us, Ellen,” the captain said.

“They will be very welcome,” she said. “But I would not wish them to feel obliged to come, Charlie. Lord Eden is tired.”

Who else would have noticed? Madeline wondered. Dominic's eyes were twinkling from some teasing remark he had just made to Jennifer. Living close to an army had made Mrs. Simpson sensitive to such things, it seemed.