Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy) (12 page)

“I will remember that,” he said. “And it is enormously comforting to know that I have your blessing.”

They stood looking at each other while Nelson ambled across the bridge and joined his horse, which was cropping the grass beside the bank.

“Good day to you, my lord,” she said at last.

“Good day,” he said, “Miss Hayes.”

He looked down into the water again as she walked on. He waited for the feeling of relief, which was going to be quite
overwhelming when it came. The suspense, the fear, had been there at the back of his mind all month. He could feel nothing. He had always—almost always—tried to do what was right and proper. He had befriended Sean against his father’s orders, of course, but he had shunned the friendship when Sean had grown older and wilder. He had kept trysts with Moira despite the fact that she was a young lady and a Hayes in addition. But he had never tried to coax her to any intimacy beyond relatively chaste kisses, and he had fully intended to put his love for her to the test, to bring it into the open, to assert his firm intention of marrying her. For the sake of an old friendship he had turned a blind eye to Sean’s criminal activities, persuading himself that smuggling in the area of Tawmouth was not a very serious business, anyway. Only when he had learned that Sean was dallying with Helen had he acted. Perhaps wrongly. Who knew? Who could ever know? He had gone with his conscience, and in the process he had discovered things about Moira he would rather not have known. He had broken his own heart.

He could not feel the relief he should have felt in the knowledge that he had not impregnated Moira on the night of his ball.
You are under no obligation to me
. Her voice had been quite steady when she had said it. She had meant it. But he could not believe it, much as he might wish to do so. He had ruined her, but she would not allow him to salve his conscience.

Foolishly he wished—and how he wished it!—that he had not gone down onto the beach and into the cove on that long-ago day of his youth to sit and think. If they had not met on that day, the whole course of his life might have been different.

He laughed rather harshly as he pushed himself upright at last and turned toward the bank and his horse. What a ridiculous notion.
What a ridiculous notion
. She had spoken just those words a few minutes ago. Making light of what had happened. As if it was quite impossible for his seed to take root in her.

He wondered how he was going to cope with the burden of guilt in the weeks and months ahead.

*   *   *

WHY
had she denied it? Moira asked herself as she walked on up the valley. The perfect opportunity had presented itself, and she had rejected it.

Are you with child, Moira?

Of course not. What a ridiculous notion
.

Did she imagine that by continuing to deny it, the whole thing would just go away? Mama had been wanting to send for Mr. Ryder, and she had kept assuring Mama that she was feeling indisposed merely because the weather had been consistently dreary since the beginning of the month. In the past week, of course, since news of the death of Mrs. Baillie had reached them, Mama had not questioned her lack of color or appetite. Moira had looked at her own symptoms, even to the absence of her monthly flow, and had given herself a dozen explanations—a dozen over and above the one her mind had skirted around.

She had known for some time, of course—perhaps in some strange way even from the start—why she was feeling constantly off color.

She would have to tell him.

He had just asked right out without any circumlocution. And she had denied it.

She would have to write to Sir Edwin.

His mother had just died, and he had written her a long letter full of pomposities and absurdities and raw grief.

She would have to tell Mama.

Tomorrow.

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” she muttered aloud. That was a quotation. Pope? Shakespeare? Milton? Her mind would not function. It was not important, anyway.

Tomorrow she would do it all—speak to Mama, write to Sir Edwin, send for Kenneth.

But tomorrow she had promised to accompany Harriet on a visit to the ailing Miss Pitt.

*   *   *

LORD
Pelham and Mr. Gascoigne came down to Cornwall in March to spend some time with their friend. Rex Adams, Viscount Rawleigh, had not come with them though the three of them had been together for some time, first at Stratton Park and then at Bodley House in Derbyshire, home of Rex’s twin brother.

“We left there in something of a hurry,” Lord Pelham explained with a chuckle as the three friends talked at Dunbarton on their first evening together. They were still at the dining table, drinking their port, though they had been there for several hours and the food had long ago been borne away. “The predictable reason.”

“A woman?” Kenneth raised his eyebrows.

“A woman,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “A real looker, Ken. And a
widow to boot. Unfortunately, she was the only looker in the whole of Derbyshire, as far as we could see.”

“I take it,” Kenneth said with a grin, “that she was not looking at you, then, Nat? She fancied Eden or Rex more than you?”

“None of us, actually,” Mr. Gascoigne said with mock gloom.

“Though to be fair to our handsome and charming selves,” Lord Pelham said, “it should be added that Nat and I were not given the chance to try our charms on her. Rex fancied her and warned us off before we could put in our own claims. We believe she gave him his royal comeuppance.”

“Rex?” Kenneth was still grinning. It felt enormously pleasurable to be with his friends again. “That must have been an insufferable blow to his pride. It is rare for a woman to thumb her nose at him.”

“He left Bodley with scarce a moment’s notice,” Mr. Gascoigne said, “dragging us along with him. Mrs. Adams, his brother’s wife, you know, must have had an apoplexy when she found Rex gone. She has a marriageable sister and had definite designs on his person.”

“He would not come here with us, though,” Lord Pelham said. “He was going home to Stratton bearing a distinct resemblance to a whipped cur eager to lick its wounds. I would give a king’s ransom to have been able to eavesdrop on his final conversation with the delectable—and doubtless virtuous—Mrs. Winters.”

They all laughed heartily, though not out of callousness for their friend. For eight years they had supported one another, laughed at and with one another, fought alongside one another, helped one another bear the burdens of a difficult and dangerous life. All of them at varying times during those years had had
dealings with women, usually wildly successful, occasionally not. They had never allowed one another to become despondent over the failures. They had teased and insulted until the loser came out of his doldrums if only to hit back.

“It was a good thing he did go home,” Lord Pelham said. “He was like a bear tied to a stake. He has a serious case of lustsickness. He was not scintillating company, was he, Nat?”

“I will have to coax him down here,” Kenneth said before the conversation turned his way and his friends demanded an account of his escapades since he came into the country. They flatly refused to believe that there had been none and when none were forthcoming, they invented their own outrageous ones for him until all three of them were roaring with laughter.

“But imagination aside,” Lord Pelham said at last, “what do you have here for our entertainment, Ken? Apart from scenery and riding and shooting and a decent wine pantry? What do you do for company?”

“Preferably young and pretty and female,” Mr. Gascoigne added. “That was what he meant, Ken.”

“There are the usual country families,” Kenneth said with a shrug, “with about the usual number of unmarried daughters.”

“By Jove,” Lord Pelham said, “that sounds like manna in the desert, Ken, after our weeks at Bodley.”

“They and their mamas will be ecstatic when news reaches them of your arrival,” Kenneth said. “How long have you been here? Four hours? Five? Doubtless everyone within a ten-mile radius of Dunbarton knows of it by now, then. Invitations will double in number.”

“Splendid,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “But you have found no one to your particular liking, Ken? Is he lying, do you suppose, Ede?”

“He is lying, I suppose, Nat,” Lord Pelham said. “But we will ferret out the truth. We will watch for the one lady who brings the stars to his eyes.”

“And the one lady he will not allow us near,” Mr. Gascoigne added. “She is sure to be the prettiest. I am feeling out of temper already, Ede.”

Lord Pelham grinned. “Have another glass of port,” he said.

M
OIRA
had seen very little of Kenneth in the almost two months since she had come upon him while walking home from Tawmouth one afternoon. They had nodded to each other at church a few times, had exchanged civilities on the street one day when she was with Harriet, had discussed the weather for all of one minute at the Meesons’ one afternoon when she was ending a visit and he was beginning one, and had both changed direction while walking along the cliff top so that they would pass far enough distant from each other that only a nod of recognition was necessary.

She was finally less fortunate on the evening of a gathering at Mr. Trevellas’s home that Lady Hayes particularly wished to attend. It was not until they arrived there that they heard the news with which Tawmouth had been abuzz all day. The Earl of
Haverford had two new houseguests at Dunbarton, and both were young gentlemen of fortune. One of them was even a
baron
, Mrs. Trevellas explained to Lady Hayes, though it was said that the other gentleman, who had no title, was just as well connected and just as wealthy.

Mr. Trevellas, the only one present at the evening gathering to have seen the two guests during the day, had failed to notice if they were handsome gentlemen, but as Miss Pitt remarked—and other ladies nodded as if to commend her on the good sense of her words—if they were young and fashionable gentlemen and if they were friends of Lord Haverford’s, then she dared say they were at the very least passably handsome.

“They have been invited here to join the gathering,” Harriet Lincoln said to Moira with a smile, taking her arm and leading her toward a couple of chairs away from the crowd clustered about a clearly triumphant Mr. Trevellas, “and have accepted. Are we not all to be merry this evening? What a blessing it is that the Grimshaws have arrived home after a four-month absence and have brought their four daughters with them. I do believe Mrs. Grimshaw is already planning a double wedding. Doubtless she dreams of a
triple
wedding, but the tone of her voice when she speaks of our earl betrays a certain awe. I believe she considers him above her touch.” She laughed.

“The eldest Miss Grimshaw has grown into a tolerably handsome girl,” Moira said. “And she has pleasing manners.”

“I expect a most diverting evening,” Harriet said. “Especially as Edgar Meeson, who has grown into a very fine young man, clearly has eyes for the eldest Miss Grimshaw. We will sit here
and observe and have a merry laugh at everyone’s expense but our own. It is to be hoped that they are handsome gentlemen, of course, but provided they behave agreeably and show some interest in the young daughters of Tawmouth, they will be declared the handsomest of men tomorrow morning. Mark my words.”

“I suppose,” Moira said, “the Earl of Haverford will be coming too?”

“Oh, assuredly,” Harriet said. “But we will not mind
him
, Moira, beyond enjoying a private gaze at his beauty. He is altogether too highly connected to be considered a matrimonial prize possible of attainment in this part of the world. I daresay he will take himself off to London one of these years and bring himself back a countess who will have us all as speechless with awe as his mama had us at Christmastime.”

“Perhaps Miss Wishart,” Moira said.

“Oh, I think not,” Harriet said. “He did not show quite enough interest in her, you know. Why, he danced with you at the Dunbarton ball and at the assembly as much as he danced with her. Will there be dancing here this evening, do you think? I do not doubt someone will suggest it. How could the company of handsome young men be wasted on an evening devoid of dancing, after all? But you and I will sit here like sober matrons, Moira, and watch. You will not dance, will you? You really have suffered a severe decline since Christmas. Mr. Lincoln declared that he scarcely recognized you at church last Sunday.”

“I feel better now that spring has come,” Moira said.

“Ah,” Harriet said. “The excitement begins. Here they are.”

A hundred times or more during the past two months Moira
had determined to act, to
do
something about her situation. She would write to Sir Edwin, she would talk with her mother, she would call upon Kenneth—always the same three things to be done. And yet it seemed that the more determined she became, the more often she delayed. And the more often she delayed, the more impossible it became to do anything at all. Just as if her problem would go away if she just stayed inactive long enough.

She had not known one day of good health in three months. Her mother, she knew, was worried about her, and Mr. Ryder, who had finally been summoned to Penwith, had appeared puzzled by the symptoms she had shared with him—he had not dreamed of drawing the obvious conclusions, of course—and had given her a tonic. But she knew that she would be better as soon as she had finally unburdened herself to the three people most nearly concerned. And delay was so very foolish. If she delayed much longer, she would not need to say anything. The thought of any of the three of them learning the truth
that
way was horrifying.

But she had still done nothing.

“Oh, Moira,” Harriet murmured, moving her head closer to her friend’s, “this grows more and more interesting. Have you ever in your life seen three more handsome gentlemen in company together? Our earl has the advantage of height and that glorious blond hair, but one of those gentlemen has the bluest eyes—I never could resist blue eyes—and the other one has a smile to turn even this matron’s knees weak.”

Moira had not noticed the other two gentlemen. She had seen only Kenneth, handsome and distinguished in his dark evening clothes. And she had felt only the total impossibility of talking
with him. She felt dull and ugly and old—and hated herself for feeling inferior. She would never be able to call on him, to wait for him in the salon at Dunbarton where she had once waited with Sir Edwin, and to tell him. She would not be able to do it. It could not be done. She could no longer believe in the reality of that night at the baptistry, which was a foolish thought in light of her physical condition.

He was talking with Mrs. Trevellas while Mr. Trevellas took his two friends about, presenting them to his neighbors. Kenneth was looking about him as he talked. Moira watched his eyes rest on her mother for a moment and then move on. They passed over her and then came back to her. He frowned briefly before looking away.

She ought not to have worn her mulberry-colored gown, Moira thought. It was the dullest of garments. She had thought so ever since the bolt of cloth had been made up. She had worn it only three or four times, always at home. But it had suited her mood when she had dressed this evening. She knew she looked very far from her best. But then, why should she care?

Mr. Trevellas had stopped before her and Harriet and was presenting Lord Pelham, the gentleman with the very blue eyes, and Mr. Gascoigne, the gentleman with the very attractive smile. Yes, Moira thought a little bitterly as they turned away after a brief exchange of civilities, they were worthy friends for Kenneth. His good looks did not completely overshadow them.

“I believe Mr. Gascoigne must be a kind gentleman and Lord Pelham must be a rogue with the ladies,” Harriet said when they had passed on. “Would you not agree, Moira?”

“But perhaps a kind smile may be quite as seductive as blue
eyes,” Moira said. And blond hair and light gray eyes most seductive of all.

Harriet had guessed quite correctly. Mr. and Mrs. Trevellas would have been quite happy to settle all their guests to cards or conversation until suppertime, but the young people had other ideas, and it was the second-youngest Grimshaw daughter who was finally bold enough to ask for a jig to be played on the pianoforte and who grasped the hand of young Henry Meeson and pulled him to his feet to add weight to her demand.

“Miss Pitt, do play for us,” she begged with a bright smile. “I shall die if we do not dance.”

But Miss Pitt was still frail after a lengthy indisposition that had kept her in her bed for the whole of one month. Moira got to her feet. She would be quite content to withdraw to the far side of the drawing room and hide away there for the rest of the evening.

“I will be happy to play,” she said. “Do stay by the fire and enjoy the dancing, Miss Pitt.”

“Oh, dear Miss Hayes, how very kind of you,” Miss Pitt said. “But very well. You will not wish to dance yourself this evening, of course, in the absence of dear Sir Edwin Baillie.”

The eldest Miss Grimshaw and Miss Penallen had drawn the coveted partners for this particular jig, Moira noticed as she seated herself at the instrument and began to play a lively jig. They danced with the houseguests from Dunbarton. Kenneth himself did not dance but stood and watched, the Reverend Finley-Evans at his side, until Moira became aware of the vicar bending over Miss Pitt’s chair and looked sharply about, almost allowing her fingers to trip over themselves as she did so.

Kenneth had crossed the room toward the pianoforte and stood a short distance away watching her, his face unsmiling. He was quite alone.

Moira returned her attention to the music she played. He was close enough to speak to. They were far enough removed from the rest of the room’s occupants that they might hold a low conversation without any fear of being overheard. If he stood there until the end of the jig, she might speak to him before the dancers were ready for something else with new partners. What she had to say would take very little time. Just enough for the utterance of one sentence—that was all.

She would do it, she decided. Without giving the matter further consideration. Before she lost her courage. The music was almost at an end.

She felt clammy with fear.

*   *   *

HE
was appalled at the sight of her. He had seen her a few times in the past two months and had even spoken briefly with her once or twice. She had appeared pale and out of spirits on each of those occasions, but tonight, when he had a chance to take a good look at her, he was amazed by the change in her. She was almost unrecognizable. When he had looked about the room for her after seeing that her mother was present, he had at first looked right past her.

Her hair was dressed severely and did nothing to soften her face, which was colorless except for the lavender shadows beneath her eyes. Her cheeks were hollow and made her face look longer
and thinner than usual. Her dreadfully dull gown sapped her of what little color she might have had. She had completely lost her looks. If he had not known her, if he had been seeing her for the first time tonight, he might have thought her ugly and a good deal older than her six-and-twenty years.

She had always been slender. She was thin now, he thought when she got to her feet and crossed the room to the pianoforte. She looked gaunt. He had been sociable since his arrival. He had conversed with his host and with a group of ladies. It had been quite unnecessary to see to Nat and Eden’s entertainment, of course. They had been whisked off—quite willingly—to amuse the young ladies, among whom were four sisters Kenneth had not seen himself until this evening. But though he talked and smiled and even listened with half an ear, he could not take his mind off Moira Hayes. He had not done so in three months, he thought ruefully, but now, this evening, all the guilt, all the frustration were back in full force. He must speak with her.

She played very well, he noticed as he approached the pianoforte and stood close to it, watching her, his back to the rest of the room. It seemed strange that he had never heard her play before, though he could remember that as a girl she had spoken about her love of music. She played from memory. There was no music propped on the stand before her.

He waited for the jig to end. There was a great deal of laughter and excited chatter behind him when it did so. Moira looked up at him. Her jaw was set in a hard, stubborn line he recognized. She opened her mouth and drew breath.

No, he would not allow her to send him away.

“Is this what I have done to you, Moira?” he asked her very quietly.

She froze into immobility and did not say what she had been about to say.

“You escaped the worst consequences of that night,” he said. “You told me so at the end of January. But you have not been able to put the guilt of it from your mind, have you? It has ruined your life.”

How unfair life was to women, he thought. He doubted that even if he tried he would be able to remember exactly how many women in all he had bedded. And yet for a woman, for a lady, even one man outside wedlock could change the whole course of her life for the worse. Yet in her stubbornness Moira would not marry him—merely because she hated him.

For once she had nothing to say. She looked back at him with troubled eyes and a very slight frown.

“You would not wish to dance tonight because Sir Edwin Baillie is not here,” he said, repeating what Miss Pitt had said to her earlier. “You are still betrothed to him, then, Moira? I did not understand, perhaps, that you really wish to marry him. I beg your forgiveness for anything I might have said about him that hurt your sensibilities.”