The Gilded Web (39 page)

It was only when Lord Amberley looked away from the valley and smiled warmly at her when he caught her eye that she realized the treacherous direction of her thoughts. She lifted her chin and gave him a half-smile in return.

It was not yet time for tea, Lady Lampman announced when they arrived at the neat stone house set among carefully tended gardens and orchards. Would they all care for a walk? She took Alexandra's arm resolutely as they left the house, and led the way along the hedge-lined laneway, in the opposite direction from that by which they had come in the barouche.

“I insist on plenty of exercise both morning and afternoon,” she said, “even though Perry worries. He thinks it would be far better for me to sit at home with my feet on a stool. Can you imagine any life more dull, Miss Purnell?”

“No, indeed,” Alexandra said fervently, thinking of all the years she had spent almost confined indoors. She was noticing for the first time—she could not understand how she had missed the clear evidence both at the Courtneys' dance and at church on Sunday—that Lady Lampman was with child.

“Perry is terrified, of course,” Lady Lampman said with a quick and nervous smile at her companion. “Both for me and for…” She touched her abdomen and blushed. “I am thirty-seven years old, you know. No, you probably did not know, though I am sure you might have guessed. I think we both assumed I was too old.”

“Are you pleased?” Alexandra was a little embarrassed, having been brought up to believe that talking about pregnancies was as unthinkable as talking about the marriage act.

She was favored with that nervous smile again. “Terrified,” her companion said, “though Perry must never know. I pretend that it is a matter of no moment at all. But you cannot know what it means to me, Miss Purnell, to have the chance to present him with a child, just like any normal woman.”

Alexandra gave her a look of surprise.

“Perry is only seven-and-twenty,” Lady Lampman said. “He should be married to a sweet young thing who could fill a whole nursery for him, shouldn't he?”

Alexandra found the question quite impossible to answer. She did not even try.

“I am embarrassing you,” Lady Lampman said. “Do you like it at Amberley? And are you planning to be wed soon? And are my questions impertinent? We will talk about the hedgerow if you wish.”

Alexandra laughed. “I love Amberley,” she said. “I am sure there can be no more beautiful place on earth. His lordship has shown me the place on the cliffs where he climbed as a boy with your husband. Sir Peregrine got stuck, it seems, and they were both caught. And thrashed.”

Lady Lampman flashed her a broader smile. “Boys are horrors, are they not?” she said. “I wonder if our sons will ever try anything as foolish. Oh, Miss Purnell, I do so wish for a son. This will be my only chance, surely. Of course, first and foremost I wish for a live and healthy child. But a son! There could not be any greater happiness.”

The woman looked stern and humorless. Alexandra had labeled her thus during their first meeting. And she had watched her husband all during the Courtney dance with eyes that Alexandra had labeled as jealous and possessive. How wrong first impressions can be, she thought as they walked on and climbed a low hill in order to circle around behind the house for their return.

Lady Lampman was a woman deeply in love. And perhaps painfully in love. She was ten years older than her husband—Alexandra did not know the story behind their union—and very insecure. She must wonder constantly whether he regretted their marriage, whether he looked with longing at younger women. And now she was bearing his child, terrified that she was too old to bring it alive and healthy into the world, painfully yearning to be able to present him with this one token of her love.

She wondered about Sir Peregrine and watched him curiously during tea, after they had returned to the house. He and Lord Amberley spent some time reminiscing about their boyhood years and laughing a great deal. Only once did she have any indication of his feelings for his wife. She was bending over the tea tray, pouring a second cup for Sir Cedric. Sir Peregrine's eyes were on her, on the slight swelling of her abdomen. His eyes followed her as she took the cup across the room though he continued with the story he was in the middle of telling. After his wife sat down, he got up and carried a footstool across to her. And he touched her shoulder lightly before returning to his own place.

They were small gestures and caused not the slightest pause in the conversation. But Alexandra smiled slightly to herself. It was a strange relationship—a ten-year gap in ages seemed enormous when the woman was the elder—but it was not without affection even on the husband's part.

She looked around the cozy parlor in which they sat. For the moment she was not directly involved in any of the three conversations in progress. But she felt an enormous and seductive contentment. She did love Amberley Court, as she had just admitted to Lady Lampman. And its surroundings. And she was beginning to love its people too—Lady Amberley, always so gracious and sensible; Sir Cedric, quiet, unassuming, part of the family though no blood relation; and Sir Peregrine and Lady Lampman, who were becoming for her no longer merely faces, but interesting and probably complex people.

How easy it would be to relax into the comfort of it all, to allow herself to become one of them. And how foolish not to, when the alternative was so unnecessary and so bleak. What a dreadful thing pride is, she thought as she met the blue and smiling eyes of her betrothed, watching her from across the room. She lowered her eyes to her teacup.

“Did you enjoy this afternoon?” he asked her later, when he took her for a stroll in the rose garden after their return. “Perry has always been one of my closest friends.”

“Yes,” she said. “I like them both.”

“I think they are happy together,” he said. “I am glad of it. I thought he was mad at the time, I must confess. Lady Lampman was living with her brother, our last rector, as his housekeeper. Perry was particularly friendly with him. He used to spend half his time at the rectory. And then she was left apparently quite destitute two years ago when the rector died suddenly.”

“Poor lady,” Alexandra said.

“The rest of us were busily thinking of a solution,” Lord Amberley said. “Mama was even going to offer her the position of companion, though Mama would hate having such an employee. But Perry took the matter out of our hands by marrying her. I am afraid at the time I thought it a foolishly noble gesture and told him so. I had a rather painful jab on the nose for my pains.” He laughed softly. “But I think he is fond of her. And she dotes on him.”

“Yes,” Alexandra said. “I hope she will be able to bear her child safely.”

She was blushing furiously and biting her lip when Lord Amberley smiled down at her.

A
LTHOUGH THE ANNUAL BALL AT AMBERLEY was to be held within a week, nevertheless it was decided that an informal garden party would be an appropriate welcoming gesture for the arrival of Lord Beckworth from London. The Carringtons, the Courtneys, and the Lampmans were to come, as well as the Misses Stanhope, the rector and his wife, and the two officers of the regiment. Tables were set up on the northern lawn, close to the trees and the river.

Lord Eden had spent an unhappy few days. His decision to buy a commission in the army and go to Spain if at all possible had been quite firmly made. It was true, he had decided, that sometimes one had to do what one wished to do, no matter how selfish one's behavior might seem to be. There were some things too important to be given up even for the sake of loved ones. For him, the active life of a soldier in the service of his country was essential. He felt that he could not be a whole person if he did not go. And if he were not a whole person, then he could never be a good son or brother—or husband.

He had not yet spoken to either his mother or his sister about his decision to leave before the end of the summer. It was not cowardice or procrastination that held him back. It was just that he wished to tell them all of his plans, and he did not know himself what all his plans were. Was he going to marry Miss Purnell? Or at least, was he going to still try to persuade her to marry him?

He had been quite firm in his plans to do so. He had asked her, and he had even mentioned his intentions to Edmund. Neither had expressed marked opposition to the idea. But he could not shake from his mind what Madeline had said in the conservatory. She had echoed uncomfortably the very thoughts that had been in his own mind and that he had so ruthlessly quelled.

It was all very well to feel, as he had originally felt, that it was his responsibility to marry Miss Purnell, not Edmund's. It was fine at the start to fight against his brother's decision, to try to take an unwelcome betrothed off his hands. Even up to the moment when they had left London, the change would have been possible. Already there had been enough upheaval, enough scandal, surrounding both families, that one more odd incident would have made little difference.

But he had to admit that once they had all removed to Amberley, the situation had become remarkably formal and unchangeable. Miss Purnell had been introduced to everyone in the neighborhood as Edmund's betrothed. She had been entertained in the homes of many of their neighbors; she had attended church with Edmund; she had visited the Petersons and attended Joel's funeral with him; there was to be the ball within a week.

The thought now of his trying to take her away to marry her himself seemed almost incredibly naive. Certainly not noble. Madeline was right. He had already thought it himself. Edmund would find it difficult to hold his head up forever after. Miss Purnell would never be received again by respectable society. He would surely be banished from his childhood home.

And why was he trying to do such a thing? Because he loved Miss Purnell? He did not, though he did like her a great deal and respected her deeply. He wanted to marry her in order to save his brother from a life of misery. Would he not be plunging Edmund into a life of much deeper misery if he continued with his plans than if he allowed the marriage to take place? And he wanted to marry her so that he could take upon himself the duty of making her happy. Making her happy by changing her into a social pariah? It was a lunatic idea.

And yet, he thought every time the answer was obvious to him and he decided that he must drop his plans, if Edmund had a bad marriage, if Miss Purnell did, then he would never forgive himself for having been the cause of it all.

Life was just not easy, Lord Eden concluded. Adult life, that was. When one was a child, one frequently made wrong decisions and frequently got into trouble. But when one was a child, there was always someone there to pick one up and soothe one's hurt or else call one to task and mete out punishment. And always someone to explain exactly what it was one should have done. In childhood, it always seemed that there was an absolute answer to everything. If one did not have that answer oneself, an adult surely did. Mama did, or Sir Cedric, or Edmund.

But when one reached that longed-for goal of adulthood, where there was no longer anyone to lecture or scold or punish, one also became aware of the supreme joke of life—that there were no absolute answers after all, not, at least, to many of the thornier problems of life.

And then there was Susan! She was with Lieutenant Jennings during the first part of the garden party, until teatime, and he was content to leave it thus. He had avoided her company since his uncle's picnic. But when he turned away from the table, a loaded plate in his hand, he literally collided with her. A cucumber sandwich flew one way, a jam tart the other. Susan's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a shriek.

“Susan!” he said with a grin. “Do you see the effect you have on me? I cannot even keep a steady hand.”

She blushed and lowered her lashes. “It was all my fault, my lord,” she said. “I was not looking where I was going.”

“How fortunate for me that you weren't,” he said. “May I fill a plate for you?”

“Oh,” she said breathlessly, “I am not hungry.”

He did not think to ask what she was doing approaching the food table if she did not intend to eat. He put down his own plate gallantly and offered her his arm.

“By coincidence, neither am I,” he said. “I was about to eat from force of habit only. Shall we walk down to the bridge?”

She peeped at him from beneath her lashes. “I am sure Mama would say that I may,” she said. “The bridge can be seen from here.”

“I think you must have worn green to torment me, Susan,” he said as they began to walk, looking down at the pretty bonnet that was all he could see of her head for the moment. “It quite perfectly complements the auburn of your hair.”

“I am sure I do not mean to torment you, my lord,” she said, looking up at him with her hazel eyes. “It would not be fitting, with you so far above me in rank.”

“Ah,” he said with a grin, “but beauty is the great leveler, Susan. If you were side by side with a duchess at the moment, no one would even notice the duchess standing there.”

“Oh,” she said, “you are funning me, my lord. Who would ever notice me if I were in such grand company?”

“I would, Susan, that is who,” he said, patting her hand. “And every other man for a radius of five miles, I warrant you.”

Her eyes brightened with tears and she lowered her lashes suddenly. “You are making fun of me, my lord,” she said, her voice low.

“No. Susan!” His hand closed around hers as it rested on his arm. “Of course I am not. Do you not even realize how very lovely you are? And how utterly adorable?”

“I am nobody,” she whispered.

“Susan!” he said, stopping and turning toward her. “Look at me. Please look at me.”

She did so, her cheeks flaming, her eyes still bright with unshed tears. He looked hastily back the way they had come. They were hidden from the picnic site by a clump of bushes beside the river.

“Susan,” he said gently, “you are someone, believe me. You are surely the prettiest and sweetest young lady of my acquaintance. In fact, I would go beyond saying you are someone. I would say you are everyone, Susan. To me you are everyone and everything. There. Does that reassure you?”

“Oh,” she said, and two tears spilled over and began to trickle down her cheeks.

Lord Eden took her face in his hands and wiped the tears away gently with his thumbs. And that little rosebud of a mouth, still formed into an “Oh,” was not to be resisted. He lowered his own to it.

And then his hands came away from her face and gathered her slight, yielding body against his own. Her hands stole up to his shoulders. Her lips trembled beneath his and returned their pressure.

Lord Eden did not allow the embrace to be anything else but gentle. She felt very small and very fragile in his arms. She made him feel large and protective. He gave himself up to his love for her.

But only for as long as the kiss lasted. As soon as he lifted his head and found himself looking down into her large trusting eyes, he knew that he had just succeeded in complicating his life even further, just at a time when a contemplation of the tangles of his mind was already enough to give him a headache. He groaned.

“Oh, my sweet love,” he said, “what a wretch I am! I have no right doing this, you know, no right giving in to my love for you. I have other obligations, Susan. I am not free. At least, at present I am not free.”

Tears welled into her eyes again but did not spill over. “I cannot help loving you,” she said. “It is not wrong to show you that I love you, is it? I cannot help myself. But I do not expect you to return my feelings. You are Lord Eden.”

“Susan.” He hugged her to him again and then held her at arm's length. “That has nothing to do with it. I wouldn't care if I were the King of England and you a milkmaid. I would still love you. But I have obligations. I am in a tangle.”

“You love someone else,” she said. “It is understandable that you do. You are so very handsome.”

“No,” he said. “At least…Susan, forgive me. I have acted unpardonably this afternoon, setting my own needs and feelings before yours. Forgive me. Please forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” she said. “I love you, my lord.”

Lord Eden closed his eyes briefly and released his hold of her arms. “I certainly do not deserve your love,” he said. “I should take you back, Susan. Or would you prefer to walk on to the bridge? We are almost there.”

“To the bridge, please,” she said. “I would not wish Mama to see my tears. Are my eyes very red?” She raised perfect eyes and complexion to his gaze and looked anxiously into his eyes.

“You look quite beautiful,” he said, raising one hand as if to touch her cheek, but lowering it again before he did so. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Let us stand on the bridge for a while, then. It was perfectly placed, was it not? The view is quite lovely in both directions.”

“Yes,” she said. “Did you know that the regiment may be going to Spain? That is what Lieutenant Jennings told Papa earlier.”

“Yes,” he said. “The whole neighborhood is agog with the news, though no one seems to know it if is quite certainly true.”

“I think it is dreadful,” she said, “to think of all those men going where there are guns and fighting. I do not know how they can even support the idea. I would die at the very thought.”

“And yet that is the job of a soldier,” he said, “to fight when it is necessary to do so.”

“I would die,” she said. “I would just die!”

M
ADELINE WAS SITTING ON
the lawn with Captain Forbes, Sir Peregrine and Lady Lampman, Miss Letitia Stanhope, and her cousin Walter. She was gaily telling them stories about London and keeping them all laughing. She was trying desperately to fall in love with the captain.

He was very tall and very handsome, and looked perfectly magnificent in his regimentals. Only a few weeks before, she would have had to make no effort whatsoever to fall in love with him. In fact, she would have had to try very hard indeed not to do so. He would not, after all, be a desirable match for her. He was the younger son of a baronet, without property of his own and without fortune. He was, moreover, a soldier with the declared intention of making a lifetime career out of the army.

No, not a desirable match at all. It was not that she really needed to marry a fortune. Her dowry was extremely large. And she did not need to marry a prince or a duke. Her family was remarkably enlightened about the idea of marrying untitled people. But she really could not picture herself living the unsettled life of an officer's wife. Once she had almost done just that, of course, when she had tried to run away with Lieutenant Harris. But she had been barely eighteen at the time. Besides, she had admitted to herself afterward that she had probably left that letter almost deliberately where Edmund was bound to find it and put a stop to her plans. It had been easier to blame him for being a tyrant than to decide for herself that after all the elopement would just not do.