Only Beloved (7 page)

Someone laid a hand upon his arm, and he turned to find his nephew standing beside him.

“You are being badly outshone by your own betrothed, Uncle George,” Julian said with a grin. “My sympathies.”

“Jackanapes,” George said fondly. “I am standing here basking in her reflected glory.”

“I would be obliged for a private word with you,” Julian said, “if this is not too inconvenient a time.”

“Not at all,” George assured him. “I do not believe my presence will be missed for a little while. Come out onto the landing.”

His nephew did not speak again until they were
leaning against the oak banister above the staircase and the hall below.

“Philippa and I have talked a great deal about your impending nuptials,” he said, “and it has occurred to us that you may be feeling a bit concerned about us.”

George raised his eyebrows and his nephew flushed.

“You made it very clear to me after . . . after Brendan's passing,” he explained, “that you considered me your heir. You said at the time that you would never have another son of your own. No, don't say anything.” He held up a hand as George drew breath to speak. “Let me finish. We are perfectly aware that Miss Debbins is not a . . . well, that she is not a very young lady and that you may well not be marrying her in order to set up your nursery again, but—”

“You are absolutely right,” George said, firmly interrupting him. “I am marrying Miss Debbins because I have an affection for her. We have no wish whatsoever to populate the nursery at Penderris. Your status as my heir is not in peril.”

Julian's flush had deepened. “I believe you, and I am sincerely happy for you,” he said. “It has been abundantly clear this evening that you and Miss Debbins hold each other in deep regard. But the point is, Uncle George, that unexpected things do sometimes happen. I do not know if it is a possibility and, heaven help me, I do not want to know. But Philippa seems to think it is, and she may be right, she being a woman and all that. Anyway, we are in absolute agreement that we are perfectly happy with what we have and with who we are. I have rescued my own home and estate from the near ruin my father ran
it into, and I have done a great deal more than that. It is thriving. I have much to leave my eldest son—if we have sons, that is—and adequate means with which to provide for Belinda and any other children with whom we may be blessed. We will not feel that we have been deprived of my birthright if you should have another son. After all, Papa was a younger son and never expected to succeed you, and I never expected it. There was always Brendan . . .” His voice trailed away and he frowned in apparent distress.

George was moved.

“Thank you, Julian,” he said. “The unexpected, as you put it, will almost certainly not happen, but your assurances and the fact that you speak for Philippa too are a great comfort me. I could not ask for a better nephew—and niece.”

He wondered for the first time if Miss Debbins really had dismissed from her mind all possibility of bearing a child—and if she would welcome such an outcome of their marriage so late in her life. Her childlessness might well have caused her some unhappiness in the past. As with all else, though, he guessed that she had dealt with any disappointment with the calm good sense that characterized her. Had his marriage offer revived some faint hope in her? He sincerely hoped not.

And then Julian spoke again.

“Did you know that Aunt Miriam's brother is in town?” he asked.

“Eastham?”
George said, both startled and aghast to hear that his dead wife's brother was in London. Anthony
Meikle, Earl of Eastham, was actually Miriam's half brother. “But he has always been a near recluse. He lives in Derbyshire. He never comes to London.”

“Well, he is here now,” Julian said. “I saw him with my own eyes just yesterday outside Tattersall's. I even spoke to him. He told me he is here for a week or so on business. He did not seem particularly pleased to see me, however. He was certainly not inclined to settle into a lengthy chat. He was always a bit of a queer cove, was he not?”

“Don't take his unfriendliness personally,” George said. “He would have been even less pleased to see me.” A great deal less, in fact. George stretched the fingers of both hands to prevent himself from curling them into fists. His mouth was suddenly dry.

“I did think for a moment,” Julian said, “that perhaps you had invited him to your wedding. But you would hardly have done that, would you? The two of you were never the best of friends.”

“No,” George said. “I did not invite him.”

Julian frowned and looked as if he would have said more if he could have found the words. George patted him on the shoulder and pushed away from the rail.

“It is time I returned to my guests,” he said briskly. “Thank you for your words, Julian. Thank Philippa for me, will you?”

He made his way back into the drawing room and saw that his betrothed, flushed and laughing, was still in the middle of a largish group. George smiled at the sight.

But the great welling of inner happiness he had felt
mere minutes ago had been replaced entirely by the creeping, surely baseless fear.

Eastham might have had any number of reasons to travel to London. His coming here now probably had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that George was getting married the day after tomorrow. Why would it, after all? Coincidences happened all the time.

But what the devil
had
brought him?

D
ora had discovered several times in the course of her life that time had the strange capacity of crawling and galloping along simultaneously. It seemed like far longer ago than one month since she had been at her cottage in Inglebrook, contented enough with her life and the set routine of her days, asking nothing more of the future than a continuation of the same. Indeed, it seemed almost like something that must have happened to someone else during a different lifetime. And yet . . . Well, she awoke on the morning of her wedding unable to believe that the month had already gone by. It seemed but yesterday that she had arrived in London with all the time in the world to adjust to the new reality of her existence.

She awoke with the panicked feeling that she had been rushed, that she was not nearly ready, that she was not even perfectly sure this was the right thing to be doing. There was a strange yearning to have the comfort and security of her old life back. This new one was far too vivid, too brilliantly . . .
happy
to last. The future
yawned ahead, unknown and unknowable. Could she trust it? She was surprised she had slept, even resented the fact that she had. She had needed the night in which to ponder and consider.

But what was there to consider?

Was she afraid of happiness? Because it had let her down way back in her youth and she was wary of giving in to it again? She was about to marry a kind and wonderful man. She was even—she might as well be honest in the privacy of her own mind—a little in love with him. Perhaps a lot in love, though she would never admit to such foolishness outside the privacy of her own mind. In any case, she was going to marry him
today
. Before the morning was out, in fact. Nothing could or would stop that, for he was a man of honor. Besides, he wanted to marry her. He had come all the way to Inglebrook to propose to her, and there had been nothing in his manner since to suggest that he regretted having done so.

No, there really was nothing to ponder and nothing to fear. She threw back the bedcovers, got out of bed, and crossed the room to draw back the curtains from the window. It had rained on and off for the last four days, and the sky had been heavy with clouds the whole time. It had also been windy and chilly for June. But look! This morning the sky was blue with not a cloud in sight. The trees in the park at the center of the square below were still, not even a slight breeze rustling the leaves. Sunlight slanted through them from the east.

Oh, it was shaping up to be a perfect day. But of course it was. It would have been perfect even if it were bucketing down with rain and a gale was blowing.

It was still very early. Dora took her shawl from the chair beside her bed, wrapped it about her shoulders against the slight chill, and sat on the window seat. She drew her legs up before her and hugged her knees with both arms. She looked across the square toward Stanbrook House, but it was more than half hidden behind the trees. Was he awake yet? Was he looking across here? By tonight Stanbrook House would be her home. This time tomorrow she would be there with him. She could both feel and hear her heartbeat quicken and smiled ruefully. It was a bit embarrassing to be thirty-nine years old and a virgin while he, presumably, had years of experience behind him. Well, of course he did. He had been married for almost twenty years.

But she did not want to think of that. Certainly not today.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, came a great stabbing of longing for her mother. It took her breath away and made her stomach churn. She dipped her head until her forehead rested on her knees and swallowed against a lump in her throat.

Her mother had been vibrantly beautiful and full of smiles and laughter and love. She had doted upon her children and had never engaged a nurse to look after them. She had wept inconsolably when Oliver went away to school at the age of twelve, when Dora was ten. Dora had had her undivided attention for the next two years until Agnes was born. Mama had loved them equally after that. She had cuddled and played endlessly and happily with the baby, as had Dora, and she had talked with her elder daughter, dreamed with her about the future,
promised her a dazzling come-out Season and a handsome, rich, loving husband at the end of it. They had laughed over how handsome he would be and how wealthy and how charming and loving. Mama had endlessly brushed and styled Dora's hair and made her pretty clothes and told her how lovely she was growing to be. She had taught Dora herself instead of hiring a governess, though she had insisted that Papa hire a good music teacher for her. She felt privileged and honored, she had once told Dora, to have been entrusted with such a musically gifted daughter. Her talent, Mama had often added, had certainly not come from her—or from Papa either.

When Dora turned seventeen, they had begun actively to plan the come-out Season she would have the following spring. Her music teacher was engaged for extra hours to give Dora dancing lessons, but the three of them had danced with one another between classes, Dora with her mother while one of them or both hummed the music until they were breathless and Agnes shrieked with laughter and clapped her hands. Then Mama, with Agnes's little feet balanced on her own, would sing and dance and Dora practiced the steps alone with an imaginary partner until they all collapsed in a heap of laughter and exhaustion.

Had those days, those years, really been as happy and carefree as Dora remembered them? Probably not. Memory tended to be selective. She remembered her childhood and early girlhood as endlessly sunny days of love and laughter perhaps because of the great contrast with what had followed.

Dora had been allowed to attend the infamous assembly because she had reached the magic age of seventeen. She had been not quite a young lady but no longer a girl. She had been over the moon with excitement, almost sick with it, in fact. Little Agnes had been excited too, she remembered, as she watched her sister get ready, her chin propped on her hands at one side of the dressing table. She had told Dora that she looked like a princess and wondered if a prince would ride in during the evening on a white steed. They had both giggled over that.

By the middle of the evening, Dora had been flushed with the pleasure and triumph of her local debut. She had danced every set, even if one of them had been with the vicar, who was as unlike a prince as it was possible for a man to be, and she had known all the steps of the dances even without having to think about them. And then Papa had enacted his terrible scene, his voice growing louder as he accused Mama of cuckolding him with the handsome and much younger Sir Everard Havell, who was on one of his extended visits to relatives in the neighborhood. Before Papa had been coaxed outside by two of their neighbors to “get some fresh air,” he had informed the gathered assembly that he was going to turn Mama out and divorce her.

Dora had been so terribly mortified that she had hidden in a corner of the assembly rooms for the rest of the evening, resisting all attempts to coax her either into conversation or onto the dance floor. She had even told her best friend to go away and leave her alone. She had twisted her handkerchief so out of shape that even
a heavy iron could never afterward make it look perfectly square. She would have died if she could have done so just by willing it. Her mother meanwhile had brazened it out, smiling and laughing and talking and dancing—and keeping her distance from Sir Everard—until the very end of the evening.

The whole ghastly situation might have blown over, hideously dreadful as it had been. Papa did not often drink to excess, but he was known for embarrassing himself and his family and neighbors when he did. Everyone would have pretended to forget, and life would have continued as usual.

But perhaps Mama had reached a breaking point that night. Perhaps she had been embarrassed and humiliated one time too many. Dora did not know. She had not attended any adult entertainments until that evening. Or perhaps the accusation was justified even if the public nature of Papa's accusation was not. However it was, Dora's mother had fled during the night, presumably with Sir Everard, since he too had disappeared by the following morning without taking leave of his relatives.

Mama had never come back, and she had never written to any of her children, even Oliver, who was at Oxford at the time. Papa had carried through with his threat even though the divorce had put a large dent in his own fortune and totally wiped out Mama's dowry, which was to have been divided in two to augment what Dora and Agnes could expect from their father as dowries when they married. Soon after the divorce bill was passed in the House of Lords, word had come to them that Mama
had married Sir Everard Havell. Mrs. Brough, a neighbor and longtime family friend—and now Papa's wife—had brought the news. Mr. Brough had still been alive at the time, and he had received a letter from someone in London who had seen the notice in the morning papers.

Dora's life had changed as abruptly and as totally after the night of that assembly as it had changed a month ago in Inglebrook, though in a quite different way. There was no come-out Season for her in London when she turned eighteen. Even if it could have been arranged with someone else to sponsor her, there was the terrible scandal to deter her as well as Papa's comparative poverty. Besides, she would not have gone even if she could, just as she did not go to Harrogate a few years later when her aunt Shaw had urged her to come and promised to introduce her to society and some eligible gentlemen. She did not go because there was Agnes. Poor bewildered, unhappy little Agnes, who cried for her mother and could have only Dora instead.

Dora had stayed for Agnes.

It was as though the very thought summoned her sister. There was a light tap on the door of her bedchamber, and it opened slowly to reveal the anxious face of Agnes and then her full form, wrapped in a dressing gown.

“Oh, you are awake,” she said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. “I thought you would be. What are you thinking about?”

Dora smiled and almost lied. They very rarely talked about the painful memories from the past. But she found herself telling the truth.

“Mama,” she said, and she blinked as she realized her eyes had filled with hot tears.

“Oh, Dora!” Agnes hurried toward her, hands outstretched. “Do you miss her terribly? Even after all this time? I have thought about her occasionally since Flavian went to call on her last year. But I can scarcely remember her, you know. I daresay I would pass her on the street without knowing her, even if she still looked as she did all those years ago. I have only a few flashes of memory of her. But it is different for you. You were seventeen. She had been with you all through your childhood and girlhood.”

“Yes,” Dora said, squeezing Agnes's hands and then fumbling for her handkerchief.

“Does it make a difference to you, what she told Flavian last year?” Agnes asked.

“That she was innocent?” Dora said. “That she had done no more than flirt a little with that man before Papa said what he did? I can believe it. It was Papa who was the guilty one on that occasion, and I think I can understand why Mama fled. How would one face one's friends and neighbors again after such a humiliation? Perhaps I can even understand her leaving Papa. How could she forgive what he had done, even supposing that he asked for forgiveness? But she left
us,
Agnes. She left you. You were little more than a baby. She might have returned but did not. She might have written but did not. She used that horrible evening to do what she must have dreamed of doing for a long time. She ran away with that man. She married him. She put her own gratification before
us—before you. No, what she told Flavian does not really make a difference.”

“She would have been miserable if she had stayed,” Agnes said. “Poor Mama.”

“People often are miserable,” Dora said. “They make the best of it. They make a meaningful life despite it. They make
happiness
despite it. Prolonged misery is often at least partially self-inflicted.”

Agnes had pulled up a chair and sat beside her sister, one hand resting unconsciously over the slight swelling of her unborn child.

“You made happiness out of misery, Dora,” she said softly. “You made me happy. Did you know that? And did you know that I adored you and still do? I am sorry . . . I am so sorry that you were obliged to give up your youth for me—or that you chose to give it up.”

Dora turned her head and reached out one hand to grasp her sister's.

“There is no greater pleasure, Agnes,” she said, “than making a child feel secure and happy when it is in one's power to do so. I know I was no substitute for Mama, but I loved you dearly. It was no sacrifice. Believe me it was not.”

Agnes smiled, and there were tears in her eyes now too.

“I think,” she said, “that after Flavian I love George more than any other man I know. They all do, you know—the Survivors, that is. They all adore him. He saved all their lives in more ways than just offering his home as a hospital. And he did it all with a quiet, steadfast sort of kindness and love. Flavian says he had a gift
for making each of them feel that he—or she in Imogen's case—had all his attention. He gave so much of himself that it is amazing he has anything left. But that is the mystery of love, is it not? The more one gives, the more one has. I am so happy that he is to have you, Dora. He deserves you. Not many men would. And you most certainly deserve him. Are you happy? You have not just . . . settled? Do you love him?”

“I am happy.” Dora smiled. “I might have been felled with a feather, you know, when he appeared without any warning in my sitting room a month ago. I was actually cross when I heard his knock on the door. I had had a busy day and I was weary. And then he stepped into the room and asked if I would be obliging enough to marry him.”

They both laughed and squeezed each other's hand.

“I am happy,” Dora said again. “He is kindness itself.”