Lois Menzel (17 page)

She had always suspected that the kiss that had warmed her to the soul had been a commonplace act for him. But actually hearing him say the kiss had meant nothing hurt her even more.

His behavior and her reaction in the arbor that day had shown her that her feelings for Tony were not what they should have been, but she was not of a mind to thank Wexford for this lesson in love. She was now, thanks to him, unengaged, most likely to be the talk of the town again when the news broke. She would go home with no matrimonial prospects, to a mother who would most likely be ready to flay her alive for her behavior. She had no more time to waste worrying about the sensibilities of this man who had single-handedly unraveled her world.

She walked quickly to the door. “I must go now, my lord. There is nothing more to say.”

She expected him to reply, to try to stop her, but he did neither. He stood still where she had left him, and he said nothing as she left the room.

Two days later in the late afternoon, Anthony handed a weary Celia down from the traveling carriage. He had ridden the first day on horseback to avoid any awkwardness for her. When it started to snow, however, on the second morning, he gave in to Celia’s entreaties to ride inside. Wylie sat opposite them, often nodding to sleep, and they talked amiably for many miles. It seemed to Celia that they might manage to remain friends.

As she stepped from the coach before the only home she had ever known, she looked up at the brick walls, and inexplicable tears came to her eyes. She felt as if she had been gone a very long time, as though she was not at all the same person who had left home only a few months ago to sample the Little Season. She felt years older.

Mr. Demming, tall and broad-shouldered with a smiling face, had been watching for them and met his youngest child in the front hall with his arms outspread. He knew from her letter that his girl was troubled.

When Celia emerged from her father’s embrace, Mr. Demming greeted Anthony, saying how good it was to see him again. Over tea the couple explained the termination of their betrothal. They felt they would not suit. Anthony hoped Mr. Demming would understand.

“I understand that you both seem to know your own minds, and it is not my place to interfere. If this is what you think is best, then so be it.”

“I suspect that Mrs. Demming will be disappointed,” Anthony said.

“She is still in Hereford for Sophia’s lying-in, but when she comes home, I will make sure that she understands. I won’t allow her to tease Celia unnecessarily about it, you can depend upon that.”

Anthony smiled and was reassured. He had a strong suspicion that Mrs. Demming would be very angry at her daughter. He wished to shield Celia from that if he could.

Anthony declined his host’s hospitality for the night, saying he could cover a goodly distance of his return journey if he left soon. After he had said good-bye to Mr. Demming in the salon, Celia walked with him to the front door. The butler, who had been standing in the hall, suddenly seemed to recall some business in another part of the house. He walked away, leaving them alone.

Tony took her hands and regarded her with a sad but resigned smile. “I suppose this is good-bye. I will never forget you, Celia, nor these months we have had together.”

“I won’t forget you, either, Tony. Not ever.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gallantly, then collected his hat, gloves, and coat from the hall table, opened the door, and walked swiftly down the steps to the waiting coach. He turned at the door, smiled a brief farewell, then climbed inside. The coach rolled away.

Celia stood by the open door, the blustery air rushing in on her. When the coach door closed, she swung the big front door shut against the wintry blast. Her heart felt as cold as the December wind. Tony was walking out of her life. The kindest, gentlest man she had ever known, and she had sent him away. No doubt she was a fool. Then, as the salon door opened behind her, she turned to see her father standing there, tall, solid, always her port in a storm. Once again he held out his arms to her as her face dissolved in tears.

On the same afternoon that Tony was driving back from Yorkshire, John Hardy called at the rectory to speak with Mr. Browne. He drove himself the short distance in Tony’s curricle, then had the groom drive the horses back to the Priory. With no wish to keep them standing in the cold, he decided he would walk home when his visit was over. He knew Ursula was away from home that day, and he would be able to speak with her father privately.

His reception by Mr. Browne was cordiality itself, but as he made his purpose for being there known, the rector’s welcoming smile faded. It was replaced by a look bordering on consternation.

John grew more and more uneasy watching the changing emotions on his host’s face. Finally he said bluntly, “I can see you are not pleased with my proposal.”

“It is not that, Mr. Hardy. But I fear that Ursula’s response may not be what you hope for. But you may hear for yourself her feelings on the matter. She has come home.”

John moved to where the rector stood near the window. Ursula had tied her gelding to the fence outside the rectory. They heard the outside door open and close; a moment later she stood on the parlor threshold.

She had not seen John Hardy for five days—not since they had argued, and he had kissed her, and she had bolted from Celia’s room in her dancing slippers. She could not imagine why he would be in the parlor with her father, and her surprise kept her silent.

“Good afternoon, Miss Browne,” John said at his most polite.

“Mr. Hardy,” she returned mechanically.

“Yes, well,” the rector mumbled. “Mr. Hardy has something he wishes to discuss with you, Ursula, and I have some business to attend to at the church, so if you will excuse me. It was good talking with you, Mr. Hardy, always a pleasure. Good day to you.”

“And to you, sir,” John replied as the rector walked briskly from the room and a few moments later was heard leaving the house.

Her father’s departure loosed her tongue, and Ursula was the first to speak. “I cannot imagine what we can have to discuss. I am sure we said all there was to say the other night.”

“Not quite. Please, Ursula, won’t you sit down.”

Reminded thus of her bad manners, she asked him to sit, and then seated herself near the fire on a petit-point chair worked in a design of scarlet poppies. She folded her hands and remained silent, waiting for him to state his business.

John walked to the window, and then turned with his back to it regarding her. “You are not going to make this easy for me, I’m sure, but I have decided to present my position plainly, so there can be no misunderstanding. The other night, when you said you would not be one of my flirts, you mistook my intentions. What I would like, more than anything, would be for you to agree to become my wife.”

He had prepared himself for scorn, even anger. He had not expected the bewilderment he now saw in her face, in her whole demeanor.

She was shaking her head in disbelief as she answered, “No. You cannot be serious. We are worlds apart. Totally unsuited. You cannot know what you are saying.”

“I know precisely what I’m saying. I have thought of little else for the past five days. I want you; I always have.”

“But you never said anything,” she replied accusingly. You never even hinted; you always treated me like a bratty schoolgirl.”

“I never said anything because Wexford warned me off, and because I thought these past couple of years that you were in love with Tony.”

She made no direct response to this comment, but said instead, “It can never be, not ever, not between us.”

He stepped close and took her shoulders in his hands. “Why do you say that? When I kissed you, you kissed me back. It is the memory of that moment that has given me hope, that has brought me back for more of the same.”

She raised her face to his and melted before the fire burning in his eyes. She offered no resistance as he pulled her close and covered her face and lips with kisses. She had drifted into that old dream; indeed, she wallowed there, savoring each moment of a love she knew could never be.

When he finally stopped and put her from him, he expected to see some pleasure or joy in her face. Instead he saw only sorrow. “What is it?” he asked. “Tell me what is wrong.”

“When I was ten,” she said, “you came to Walsh Priory for the hunting, and I saw you for the first time. I watched you dancing from the gallery above, and I thought you the handsomest man in the world. I fell in love with you then. I remember the first time we were introduced. I remember every word you ever spoke to me. But when I grew older, I learned something that made any hope I ever had of attracting you turn to dust. So I tried to convince myself that you were not worth having. Recently I was actually starting to believe it.”

A pale flush rose to his face as he replied, “If you are alluding to a certain lady in my keeping, I have not seen her for months, and I swear, I never intended . . . not once I had wed.”

“No, John, it is not your mistress, though I had convinced myself you were a villain for keeping her, poor woman. It is not her; it is not you. I am the one who is unworthy, always will be.”

“Answer me this,” he said. “You loved me at ten; do you love me now?”

“Yes, I do, God help me, though I have tried so often to prove to myself that you are unworthy of my love.”

“And you don’t love Tony?”

“I do, but with a love of friendship—nothing deeper.”

“Then, I can see no impediment.”

“You are not listening to me, John. I cannot marry you, not ever.”

“Why not?”

She sighed. “I would rather not say, and I would beg you to spare me that final humiliation.”

He took her once again by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “I cannot spare you, nor myself. I must know. Why not?”

“You will hate me when you know, and I will hate you after you have forced me to tell.”

“Hate me or love me,” he said with feeling, “what difference can it make if you refuse to be my wife?”

He shook her then, impatient with her, and she had the impression that he would not release her until she told him what he wanted to know.

“I am illegitimate, a bastard,” she blurted out, “and no fit wife for you, nor for any man who calls himself a gentleman. And nothing you can say will change it, and nothing you can do will ever erase from my memory the look on your face right now. And I will, I
will
hate you forever for making me tell you.”

She tore herself from his grasp and ran from the room. So shocked was he by her disclosure that he did not realize she had left the house until he heard her horse stomping outside. From the window he saw her mount and gallop away.

In mid-December Celia received a letter from her mother. After Melinda had delivered herself of a healthy boy child, Lavinia Demming had packed her trunks and taken herself off to Hereford, where she planned to stay until Sophia’s child arrived.

Celia had imagined that one of Lavinia’s many friends would write to her from London as soon as the rumor reached the town. Her mother’s letter showed plainly that this had not been the case:

. . .
While I was shopping in Hereford, I encountered the squire’s wife, Mrs. Pinchton, nosy busybody that she is. She said to me quite conversationally, “Such a pity about your Celia.” Of course, I replied, “What is a pity about Celia?” “Why, her broken engagement,” she said. “Such a shame. It would have been a wonderful match for her.” Quite beside myself with shock, but not permitted to show it, I said, “Where did you hear about that?” and she replied so smugly, “I had a letter from my sister, who said the news is flying about London.” Naturally I had to go along with her, so I said, “Well, there will always be people who gossip. There is little we can do to stop them.” I had to pretend that I knew all along what was going on, which of course I did not, because you did not have the common sense to inform me first before you did such a rash and foolish thing. Never in my life have I been so disappointed in a child of mine. I cannot think what possessed you to whistle down the wind that upstanding young man with such excellent connections. You must have gone queer in the attic if you think you will ever find another as fine as Anthony Graydon. I cannot think what I would say to you if I should see you now, so perhaps it is best that I must bide here until after the baby arrives . . . .

Celia was not looking forward to her mother’s return and the recriminations that would follow, but then Celia was not looking forward to much of anything these days. She settled into her old routine, because she could not think of anything else to do. She asked her father to arrange the shipment of wool to Pierre Amay, as she had discussed with Wexford.

“I have several business acquaintances in Brussels,” he had replied. “I will ship it to one of them and see that it is delivered properly. And I will make certain that someone reads him the letter you wrote.”

“And you will send an account along to Lord Wexford, Papa?”

“Certainly I will. If you think I should.”

“I do. I think he would expect it. He is a proud and stubborn man. He does not like to have debts.”

Frederick Demming regarded his daughter with interest. “It seems you came to know Lord Wexford well during your stay at Walsh Priory.”

“Yes . . . and no. I thought I knew him, but I never did, not really. I do not understand men, Papa.”

He smiled and put a comforting arm about her slight shoulders. “Nor do we men understand you ladies. That is what makes it all such a challenge.”

“But it is not a challenge for me, Papa. It is confusing, and painful.”

“Ah, sweeting, what is it? Tell your papa what it is that saddens you so.”

“I wanted to love Tony. I tried. Truly I did. But I could not.”

“Some marriages do fine without love, Celia, but if you did not feel that all was as it should be, then you did right to call it off before it was too late.”