The Escape (Survivor's Club) (9 page)

He looked about him.

Samantha ought to announce her intention of leaving immediately. Matilda would be horrified if she stayed, and on this occasion her sister-in-law might be justified. Besides, she had no wish for another conversation alone with the gentleman. On the other hand, she desperately wanted to prolong her outing for at least a little while.

“Why do you not stroll among the flowers here?” he suggested. “There is even a seat over there.”

He put his hat back on, touched his whip to the brim, and rode away before she could answer him. She hesitated for only a moment before getting down from the gig and leaving it in the care of the groom.

Matilda would say this served her right, coming to
call and finding Lady Gramley from home. Matilda would certainly believe that she ought to drive away without further ado now that she had made the discovery.

Oh,
stuff
Matilda McKay and her father, the Earl of Heathmoor, too. Samantha was mortally sick of measuring her every move by what they would think. She could perfectly understand why Matthew had left home as soon as he was old enough and had never gone back there to live. Even when he had come home from the Peninsula, dreadfully wounded and expected to die at any moment, he had begged to be taken somewhere other than Leyland. His father had sent them here, to one of his smaller properties, the one most remote from Kent.

Sir Benedict Harper looked at his best on horseback. He looked at his worst when walking, she thought as he came from the stables a few minutes later to join her. He walked with the aid of his canes, though he did not use them as crutches. He really was walking, slowly and painstakingly, and looking rather ungainly as he did so. It would be far easier, surely, and more graceful to use crutches—except that one needed one sound leg for crutches, did one not?

She could not help feeling a reluctant admiration for a man who clearly ought not to be walking but was. Matthew had never made any effort to overcome any of his disabilities or even to control his peevishness. Perhaps this man really would dance.

She went to meet him.

“Come and sit in the garden,” he said.

“Oh, look,” she said, tipping back her head. “The sun has come out. It would be a great pity to miss all its brightness by being cooped up indoors. Perhaps I am fortunate after all that Lady Gramley is from home. There has been so little sunshine lately.”

And she would have missed it even if there had been. She could perfectly understand how a prisoner must feel, incarcerated in a dungeon year after year. Impulsively, she tossed her heavy veil back over the brim of her bonnet and was rewarded with bright sunlight and warm, delicious air.

“Lady Matilda did not wish to accompany you?” he asked.

“She has the most dreadful head cold,” she said. “I do hope I am not carrying the infection here with me. She was huddled beside the fire in the sitting room when I left. She would not have come anyway, though. She considers such social calls improper while we are in deep mourning.”

They had reached the flower garden and were soon seated side by side on the wrought iron seat she had seen earlier. He propped his canes beside it.

“Your husband was an officer,” he said. “He died of wounds sustained in the wars, did he?”

“Most of them healed,” she told him, “though some of them left him scarred. He lived in a darkened room because of them and would not see anyone except his valet and me. He had always been proud of his good looks. His worst injury, though, was a bullet lodged somewhere inside his chest, close to his heart. It could not be removed without killing him. It affected his lungs as well as his heart and made it progressively more difficult for him to breathe. There was never any hope of his making a full recovery.”

“I am sorry,” he said. “You have had a difficult time of it.”

“Those words
for better or for worse
are no idle addition to the marriage service,” she said. “Some of us are called upon to live up to what we have promised. Yes, I have had a difficult time of it. So have thousands of other women, wives and mothers and sisters. And for
their men, life has been no easy matter either. Some of them die, as Matthew did. Some live on with permanent disabilities and pain. You must have had a difficult time of it too.”

“Even though only my legs were affected?”

She turned her head sharply in his direction. It was unkind of him to remind her of that foolish assumption.

“That was shortsighted of me,” she said. “You did admit there was more than that. Much more?”

He smiled at her, and she could see that he must once have been very handsome. He still was, but there were cares worn into his face now where once there must have been pure youthful charm. As there had been with Matthew, though she did not suppose Sir Benedict had ever been as breathtakingly good-looking as her husband.

“The years of my convalescence were the worst of my life,” he said, “and also, strangely enough, the best. Life has a habit of being like that, giving and taking in equal measure, a balance of opposites. Beatrice would have had me here to nurse back to health, but she had young children at the time, and it would have been unfair to foist the burden of my wounded self upon her. I was fortunate enough to be brought to the notice of the Duke of Stanbrook. He took me and a number of other wounded officers into his own home, Penderris Hall in Cornwall, hired the best doctors and nurses, and kept some of us there for longer than three years while we healed and recuperated. There is a group of us, seven in all, who still meet there for a few weeks every year. Those five men, including the duke, and one woman are my closest friends in the world. They are my chosen family. We call ourselves the Survivors’ Club.”

“Are two of its members by any chance the hero of a Forlorn Hope who was brought home in a straitjacket and a young blind man?” she asked.

“Hugo, Lord Trentham, and Vincent, Viscount Darleigh, yes,” he said.

“And one of the members of your club is a woman?”

“Imogen, Lady Barclay,” he said. “She was in the Peninsula with her husband, who was a reconnaissance officer. A spy, in other words. He was captured while he was not in uniform, and he was tortured, partly in her presence. Then he died.”

“Poor lady,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I wonder,” she said, “if there is anyone of our generation or the generations directly above and below our own whose life is unaffected by the wars. Do you think there is?”

“We are all always affected by the major events of history,” he said. “It is unavoidable. Who was it who said—” He stopped and frowned in thought. “It was John Donne in one of his essays.
No man is an island entire of itself
. That was it. There is always some poet or philosopher who has captured in brief and vivid words the greatest truths of human existence, is there not?”

“Are
you
a philosopher, Sir Benedict?” she asked.

“No.” He laughed. “But I fear I
am
being a bore. You told me last week that you are tired of sickness and suffering and death—or something to that effect. You told me you wanted to
live
, specifically to dance. Has it been a long time since you danced? Tell me of the last time—or the last time that was memorable. Where was it? When? What did you dance? And with whom?”

“Goodness.” She found herself laughing back at him. “Can I remember that far back? Oh, let me see. When was it? There were a few regimental balls before the regiment was sent to the Peninsula. I did not particularly enjoy them.”

It was during those balls she had seen Matthew dance
with other women, both married and single. Not just dance, though—every officer danced with ladies other than their wives, of course. It was what was expected at any ball. Matthew had openly
flirted
, and all those wives and others had responded and been flattered and flirted right back. She had
hated
those balls and having to smile and dance and pretend to be finding nothing distasteful in her husband’s behavior. She had hated the looks of kind sympathy in the eyes of some of the other officers with whom she danced.

“The last memorable dance was at an assembly when I was still living at home,” she said. “Several of the officers billeted nearby were there and sending flutters of excitement through the hearts of every girl in attendance. How the other men must have hated the sight of scarlet regimentals. I had not thought about that before now. Lieutenant Matthew McKay, with whom I already had something of an acquaintance, singled me out for two dances. One was the Roger de Coverley. I can remember the sheer joy of dancing it. I was very much in love, you see. And he asked me that same night if I would marry him, though he had to talk to Papa before he could make an official offer, of course.”

He was smiling at her, she saw when she turned her head toward him. Oh, goodness, when had she last indulged in happy memories?

“When was the last time
you
danced?” she asked him.

“I suppose it was at one of those regimental balls you did not enjoy,” he said. “In fact, I know it was. I waltzed with my colonel’s niece. I was waltzing for the first—and only—time. The waltz was very new then. There is no lovelier dance in the world for sheer romance.”

“Was there a romance between you and the colonel’s niece?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled softly. He was no longer looking
at her but was gazing over the flower beds, and she knew that he too was lost in happy memories for the moment. “I had known her for a month and believed she was the other half of my soul.”

“What happened?”

“War happened.” He laughed softly. “We cannot get away from it, can we? Tell me about your home and your family.”

“My father was a gentleman who lived contentedly in the country with his books,” she said. “He was a widower with one son when he met my mother during a rare visit to London. She was twenty years younger than he, but they married and had me. My mother died when I was twelve, my father when I was eighteen.”

“After you were married?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He had died after a short illness during the year she was living at Leyland Abbey. Her brother, John, had not written to tell her about it until Papa died, and even then he had delayed a day or two until there was no possibility of her getting there in time for the funeral. She had wanted to go anyway. The house was to be sold and all its contents disposed of. There had not been anything of great value there, but there were several items she would have liked to retrieve as mementos, some things of her mother’s in particular, which could have been of no interest to John. But he said in his letter that there was no need for her to go, and the Earl of Heathmoor, her father-in-law, who of course had read her letter before giving it to her, had agreed. As far as he was concerned, the less contact his son’s wife had with her humble, even shady, past, the better for the whole McKay family.

“And your brother?” Sir Benedict asked.

“John?” she said. “He is my half brother, eighteen years older than I. He had left home before I was born.
He is a clergyman with a living twenty miles from where our father lived. He has a wife and family. I do not see them.”

John had resented his father’s remarriage. He had hated both Samantha and her mother, though he had never said so, of course. He was a man of the cloth, after all, and clergymen did not admit to feeling hatred.

“It is your turn,” she said. “Tell me about your family.”

“There were four of us children,” he told her. “Beatrice is the eldest. Wallace, who inherited the baronetcy on our father’s death, was a member of Parliament destined for brilliance. He was already making a rapid climb up the political ladder when he was killed by a vegetable cart that overturned on the streets of London. I inherited from him, but only a few scant days after I heard about it, I was wounded in the Peninsula. Calvin, my younger brother, had been in sole possession of Kenelston Hall, the family seat, for a number of years. He was Wallace’s appointed steward there. He remained there with his wife and children and continued in that role after the double disasters. It was expected that I would not survive my injuries for very long, you see. I was not expected even to survive the journey home to England.”

“He expected to inherit, then,” she said. “Is he still living in your home?”

“Yes.” There was a slight hesitation before he continued. “He is an excellent steward.”

She turned her head to look at his profile. “And do you spend most of your time there too,” she asked, “now that you have recovered?”

“No.”

He did not elaborate. He did not need to. Obviously his brother had usurped his home and his estates and had made it difficult for Sir Benedict to oust him by
doing an excellent job of running them. At least, that was what she guessed must have happened.

“Do you suppose,” she asked after a brief silence, “there is anyone on this earth for whom life is easy?”

He turned his face toward her and regarded her curiously. “One does tend to assume that life must be far easier for others than it ever is for oneself,” he said. “I suspect it rarely is. I daresay life was not meant to be easy.”

“How very unkind on the part of whoever invented life.”

They exchanged smiles, and she realized that she was enjoying this slightly improper visit more than she could have expected. He was really quite a pleasant companion.

“Life has been difficult for you for a long time,” he said. “It will get better, I daresay, once the pain of your husband’s passing has receded more. What do you plan to do when your mourning period is over?”

“I will make an effort to become better acquainted with my neighbors,” she told him. “I will try to make real friends among them and to find useful ways to spend my time.”

It sounded dull enough. In reality, it would be infinitely more delightful than anything had yet been in her adult life—if she disregarded the dizzy euphoria of the early months of her marriage.

“Will Lady Matilda remain with you?” he asked.

“Heaven forbid!” she exclaimed before she could stop herself. She set the fingertips of one hand over her mouth and gazed ruefully at him. “No, I believe she will feel obliged to return home to care for her mother. The Countess of Heathmoor suffers with palpitations and her nerves. We have an uneasy alliance, I am afraid, Matilda and I, and it becomes more uneasy by the day now that the early numbness of my bereavement has
worn off. Matilda is so very correct in all she says and does, and I am sometimes a trial to her.”