Simply Love (20 page)

Her teeth sank into her lower lip.

“If you really wish to have the banns called,” he said, “so that our families will have time to gather for our wedding, then I will respect your wishes. But even this three-week delay has made me very uneasy. Only my life stands between you and something unspeakable—despite Miss Martin's determination to care for you if I will not.”

“I have no family,” she said.

“We will wed tomorrow morning, then,” he told her. “I will make the arrangements.”

He remembered something suddenly as she gazed back at him, even her lips pale. He remembered a very inadequate offer of marriage he had made just after bedding her—just after impregnating her, as it had turned out.

If you wish, Anne, we will marry.

Was she never to hear anything better from him? Was she now to be rushed into marriage because it was necessary and forever feel cheated of some of the trappings of courtship?

“Anne.” He took her left hand in his and lowered himself onto his right knee—so that he would be able to use the stronger left leg to help him rise again. “Anne, my dear, will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”

He brought her hand to his lips, but not before seeing her eyes grow huge with unshed tears. She bent over him, and he felt her free hand light against the top of his head.

“I will,” she said. “I will always do my best to bring you comfort and companionship, Sydnam, and I will be the best mother I can possibly be to your child—to
our
child.”

He got to his feet and drew her against him. She turned her head and rested it against his left shoulder, her hands nestled between them, spread over his chest.

He wished then that he had two arms to wrap about her, to hold her close, to enclose her in the safety of his protection. And he wished he had two eyes to see her with. And he wished…

But he was alive. He had learned to cope with the changed conditions of his life. And now he was to have a wife and companion. There would be a child for the nursery at Tŷ Gwyn soon after they moved in there. He could begin to think of his life in terms of the plural—
my wife and daughter, or son, and me.
He had somehow been thinking of the child as female. He was going to have a daughter. Or a son.

He must not dwell upon the fact that he had no right arm and no right eye—that he could never offer Anne a whole man. He must not think of how she had cringed from him when he entered her body. He must not fear the loss of his deepest privacy.

He must give what he could—the protection of his name, his friendship, loyalty, kindness, and affection. And perhaps in time…

She lifted her head and gazed into his face.

“It will be all right,” he told her. “Everything will be all right.”

“Yes.”

Her lips curved into a smile, and he knew she was having similar thoughts to his—that this ought not to be happening but was, and all they could do was make the best of it.

Their prospects were not utterly bleak. They liked each other—he
knew
she liked him. He was in love with her. Perhaps he even
loved
her.

They had the rest of their lifetimes to work on the sort of warm marital relationship he had always dreamed of.

“Anne,” he said, “what about your son? Does he know?”

She shook her head.

“Until you came,” she said, “I did not know what I would tell him.”

“I will support him and care for him and educate him and love him as if he were my own,” he assured her. “I will give him my name if you wish, Anne, and if he wishes it. But will he accept me?”

“I do not know what he will feel,” she said. “He longs for a father figure in his life. But…” She bit her lip again.

But his longing was for a whole and perfect man, like Hallmere or Rosthorn or any of the Bedwyn men.

“Shall we summon him now,” he asked her, “and tell him together? Or would you rather talk to him alone first?”

She drew a deep breath and released it slowly.

“I'll go and fetch him,” she said. “Tomorrow his life will change drastically. He needs to know as soon as possible, and he needs to meet you face-to-face.”

His heart plummeted as soon as she left the room.
Tomorrow his life will change.
All three of their lives would change tomorrow. And they would be changed irrevocably and forever. It was not just he and Anne who were involved in all this. There would be a new child, whom he already loved with a fierce, almost painful tenderness. And there would be the boy, David Jewell, whom he had pledged to love though he did not know how easy it would be or if the boy would willingly reciprocate that love.

And who could blame him if he did not? What child would choose a one-eyed, one-armed father whom most children and even some adults feared as a monster?

Choices.

He and Anne Jewell had chosen to make love together during that afternoon at Tŷ Gwyn, and their lives—and David's—had been forever changed.

Only time would tell if they had been changed for the better or the worse. Not that it would matter. They could only continue to walk the path of their lives to the very end, and for now at least their paths had converged.

                  

It was Saturday again, the sun was shining, and it was a relatively warm day for October. But though the boarders at Miss Martin's school and a few of the day pupils too were out in the meadow playing games as usual, it was Lila Walton who was supervising them rather than Susanna Osbourne.

Susanna was in Anne Jewell's room, laughing as she attempted to thread a string of seed pearls through her friend's hair, which she had just succeeded in pinning up into a more elegant style than usual.

“There,” she said, standing back at last to view the results of her handiwork. “Now you look fit to be a bride.”

Anne was wearing her best green silk.

Claudia was standing silently just inside the door, her hands clasped at her waist.

“Anne,” she said, meeting her friend's eyes in the mirror, “are you quite, quite sure?”

It was a foolish question, of course. When one was with child and the father was due to arrive in five minutes' time to marry one, it really did not matter if one was sure or not.

“I am,” she said.

“He was so very, very handsome,” Claudia said with a sigh.

“He still is.” Anne smiled into the mirror.

“You told me,” Susanna said, “that he was tall, dark, and handsome, Anne. You did not say anything about his war wounds.”

“Because they do not matter,” Anne said. “I also told you that he and I were friends, Susanna. We were. We are.”

“I am looking forward to meeting him,” Susanna said.

But Claudia turned at that moment and opened the door upon which Keeble was about to knock.

“They are downstairs,” he announced as if he had come to tell them that the devil and his chief assistant had just stepped into the school. Although a man himself, Mr. Keeble always carefully guarded his domain against the wicked male world beyond its doors. He looked across the room to Anne, who was getting to her feet. “You look good enough to eat, Miss Jewell.”

“Thank you, Mr. Keeble.” She smiled at him, though her heart felt as if it were lodged somewhere in the soles of her slippers.

Sydnam had arrived with the clergyman who was to marry them. The wedding was going to be solemnized in Claudia's private sitting room, the visitors' parlor having been rejected as too gloomy.

It was her wedding day—her
wedding day
—yet she felt nothing but a heavy heart. She was fond of him, and he was fond of her, but they had not intended to marry, and it seemed somehow worse to be marrying Sydnam than someone of whom she was not fond at all—foolish thought.

She should be able to offer him everything, but she did not believe she had anything but her fondness to give.

And he should be able to offer
her
everything. But he had never spoken of love. He had twice offered marriage, yesterday in a touchingly romantic way, but both times it had been from duty rather than inclination. It would have to be enough, though. He was a gentle, kindly man. He would take his responsibilities seriously.

Ah, but a bride should feel very differently on her wedding day, she thought wistfully.

“I'll go up and fetch David,” she said.

“Let me go,” Susanna offered.

“No.” Anne shook her head. “But thank you, Susanna. And thank you, Claudia. For everything.”

Keeble had disappeared, though his squeaky boots could still be heard descending the stairs.

She hugged them both quickly and climbed the stairs to the small room next to Matron's that had always been David's. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing his best clothes, his hair carefully combed.

“It is time to go down,” Anne said.

He looked up at her and got to his feet.

“I wish,” he said, “my papa had not died. I
wish
he had not. He would have played cricket with me like Cousin Joshua and taught me to ride like Lord Aidan did with Davy and he would have climbed trees with me like Lord Alleyne and taken me boating like Lord Rannulf. He would have winked at me and called me funny names in French like Lord Rosthorn. He would have held me when I was a baby like the Duke of Bewcastle with James. He would have kept you away from…from
him,
and he would have loved us both.”

It was not a loud diatribe. He spoke quietly but distinctly. Anne quelled her anger and concentrated upon listening to him.

“David,” she said, as she had said half a dozen times yesterday, “I am not going to love you one iota the less after this morning than I have loved you all your life. The only difference will be that I will not have to teach here and will therefore have more time to spend with you.”

“But you are going to have a
baby,
” he said.

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “And that means you are going to have a brother or a sister. Someone to look up to you and see you as a great hero of an elder brother—as Hannah does with Davy. The baby will be someone else to love you and someone else for you to love. I will still love you as well as I do now. I will not have to divide my love in half between you and the baby. My love will double instead.”

“But
he
will love the baby,” he said.

“Because he will be the baby's papa,” she said. “He will be yours too if you wish. He said so to me and then he said so to you. He also said that he will just be your friend if you would prefer that. He is not your enemy, David. He is a good and honorable man. Lord Alleyne and Lord Aidan and the others told you a great deal about him, did they not? He is their friend. They like and admire him. And he was kind about your painting, and you liked him when he praised you and suggested you try painting with oils. Will you try to like him now too?”

“I don't know,” he was honest enough to say. “I don't see why you need anyone else but me, Mama—especially
him
. Alexander thought he was a monster. And I don't know why you want another baby. Am I not enough for you?”

She stooped down and wrapped her arms around his slender little body, feeling his pain and bewilderment, recognizing his fear of losing all that had given his days shape and anchor through his short life. He had always had her undivided attention and love. And he had always been a cheerful, good-natured child. It hurt to see him petulant—and to know that she was the cause.

“Life changes, David,” she said. “As you grow older you will learn that. It
always
changes, as it did when we came here from Cornwall. But one thing will always remain the same in your life. I absolutely promise you that. I will always love you with all my heart.”

“We had better go down,” he said, “or we will be late.”

“Yes.” She straightened up and smiled down at him again. “You look remarkably handsome today.”

“Mama,” he said as he walked beside her down the stairs, “I will be polite. I will not make a
scene
. And I will try my very best to like him—he
was
kind about my painting. But don't ever try to make me call him
Papa
because I won't. I have a papa of my own, but he is dead.”

“I will be very happy,” she said, “if you call him
Mr. Butler
.”

And that would be her name too, she thought, feeling suddenly weak in the knees. In just a short while she was going to be Mrs. Sydnam Butler.

There was no point now, though, in feeling sudden uncertainty or panic. She was carrying their child in her womb.

She was a bride on her way to her own wedding. Her groom was waiting for her. Part of her yearned toward him—she had missed him so very much. In a moment she would actually
see
him.

Despite herself she felt buoyed by a sudden excitement.

Keeble opened the door to Claudia's sitting room for them with as much gloom in his manner as if he were ushering them in to their own funeral.

Sydnam had felt terribly alone all morning though he had
brought his valet with him from Wales. He still felt it after he had taken up the clergyman in his carriage. He rarely missed his family despite the fact that he was deeply fond of them all and wrote regularly to his mother and father and to Kit and Lauren. But today he missed them all with a raw intensity.

And he kept remembering Kit and Lauren's wedding, both of them surrounded by their families and friends, the church packed with people, the bride and groom driving away afterward in their decorated carriage, the wedding breakfast after that, the toasts, the laughter and the happiness.

If the truth were told, he admitted with some disgust at himself as he arrived at Miss Martin's school, he was feeling rather sorry for himself. It was his wedding day, and there was no one to make a fuss over him.

He and the clergyman were taken upstairs instead of being shown into the rather gloomy visitors' parlor again, as Sydnam had expected. The elderly porter with the creaky boots opened the door into what appeared to be a private sitting room, which was cheerfully, even elegantly furnished. It was also unoccupied. In the meadow beyond the window he could see a crowd of girls engaged in some sort of vigorous game.

The clergyman launched into a pompous monologue on the dangers educating young ladies posed for the future of society, and Sydnam waited nervously for the arrival of his bride.

They were not kept waiting very long. The door opened and Anne came into the room with her son and Miss Martin and another young woman who he assumed was Miss Osbourne.

But he had eyes only for Anne.

She was wearing a green silk evening gown he had seen more than once before. Her hair was prettily styled, and it was threaded through with pearls, as if she were about to attend a ball. Instead, she was attending her own wedding.

As her eyes met his, he wished desperately that he could be whole for her, that he could have courted her properly, that this wedding were a joyful celebration involving their family and friends. But at least it
was
a wedding, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

As for their marriage and the rest of their future—well, that would be up to them. The future always held hope.

He smiled at her, and she looked back at him with huge eyes and half smiled as she came toward him.

It seemed to him during that moment, while everyone else stepped into position around them, that he had never encountered any woman more lovely than Anne Jewell. Or more desirable. Or more lovable. And she was his bride.

“Dearly beloved,” the clergyman began in a formal, sonorous tone as if he were addressing a congregation of hundreds.

And suddenly it did not matter to Sydnam that this was not the wedding he had dreamed of. He was being joined in holy matrimony with Anne because they had been lonely and so had taken consolation in each other's arms at TÅ· Gwyn and conceived a child. But the cause did not matter.

He was being married to Anne and suddenly it seemed to him that it was all he had ever desired of life.

He felt a wave of such tenderness for her that he had to blink away tears.

And when she looked at him and promised to love, honor, and obey him as long as they both should live, it seemed to him that her eyes regarded him with yearning and tenderness and…hope.

A cathedral and a thousand guests could not have made his wedding more real to him.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the brief nuptial service was over and the clergyman was declaring that they were man and wife together.

Anne was his
wife
.

She was safe. So was their child.

He took her left hand in his and raised it to his lips. He felt the smoothness of her new gold ring, which he had bought the afternoon before.

“Anne. My dearest,” he murmured.

“Sydnam.” She smiled at him again.

But weddings, he discovered, even very small weddings, did not allow the newly married couple much time to be alone together. Anne stooped to hug her son, and the clergyman shook hands with Sydnam before Miss Martin did so, her hand clasping his firmly, her eyes regarding him very directly.

“I will expect you to look after her, Mr. Butler,” she said. “She is as precious to me as a sister. And I will expect you to look after David.”

And then she hugged Anne while the other young lady turned to him and reached out her left hand.

“I am Susanna Osbourne, Mr. Butler,” she said. “Anne told nothing but the truth when she described you as tall, dark, and handsome. I wish you every happiness in the world.”

Her green eyes twinkled with mischief. She was a small, auburn-haired, very pretty young lady.

“Did she really say that?” He chuckled and was absurdly pleased. “What a bouncer.”

And then he found himself face-to-face with David Jewell, who was staring gravely up at him with unblinking eyes. Sydnam had hoped the boy would accept his mother's marriage, but he had shown no enthusiasm for it yesterday. Quite the contrary, in fact. It had seemed to Sydnam after David had been brought down to the visitors' parlor that he had shrunk from the prospect with some horror. And when mention had been made of the new baby that would soon be part of their family, the boy's eyes had looked first bewildered and then wounded—and then blank.

“David,” Sydnam said now, “I will always do my best to care for your mother and to make you happy. You are my stepson now. You may call me
Papa
or
Father
if you wish.” He held out his hand. “But only if you wish.”

David set his own limply in it. “Thank you, sir,” he said with no hostility or defiance—or any other detectable emotion—in his voice.

Ah. Only in fairy tales, Sydnam supposed, did a man and his bride rush off from their wedding into an eternal happily-ever-after.

“Anne, Mr. Butler,” Miss Martin said, taking charge, “I have taken it upon myself to arrange a small reception for you, with Susanna's help. I have invited a few people to join us for wine and cake. I hope you do not mind.”

And so a whole hour passed before Sydnam could finally leave the school with his new wife and her son. He was introduced to the other teachers, including Mr. Huckerby, the dancing instructor, Mr. Upton, the art master, Mademoiselle Pierre, the French and music teacher, and Miss Walton, the junior assistant. He accepted their good wishes and congratulations and acknowledged the toast that was drunk to his health and Anne's and felt incongruously lonely for a newly married man. There was no one of his own among the small gathering—except his wife and stepson.

But finally they were on the pavement outside the school, Anne having changed her clothes, Miss Martin and Miss Osbourne with them. Both ladies shook hands with him again and hugged Anne and David. Miss Osbourne shed a few tears over them both, though she was smiling with bright tenderness. Miss Martin shed no tears but gazed sternly at Anne with what Sydnam recognized as desperate affection.

Sydnam handed his wife into the waiting carriage and took the seat across from hers after David had scrambled in beside her. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands clasped in her lap—until she leaned forward as the carriage lurched into motion and waved a final farewell to her friends.

“They love you,” he said.

She turned her eyes on him, and he saw in them an awareness that she had just entered irrevocably upon a new phase of her life.

“Yes,” she said. “I will miss them.”

It was not just a school and a teaching position from which he was taking her, he realized. It was a home and a family. Anne was as dear as a sister, the rather formidable Miss Martin had said yesterday. Why was it that a woman, when she married, had to give up everything in order to accompany her husband wherever he chose to take her? The unfairness of it had never struck him before. What right did he have to feel all alone today, to somewhat resent the fact that she had had two friends—as well as a son—with her at their wedding and a few more friends at the small reception? Now she was leaving all except David behind.

“Where are we going?” she asked as the carriage turned from Sydney Place onto Great Pulteney Street.

She looked surprised, and he realized that she must have expected that they would set out without delay on the journey to Wales. He had not spoken to her yesterday about any plans beyond their wedding. He had not thought to consult her. He had always made his own decisions about the course his life was to take—hence his brief sojourn in the Peninsula. He had every right to continue in the same way, of course—he was, after all, the husband in this new marriage of theirs. But he would prefer to adjust his ways if he could.

“I have taken a suite of rooms at the Royal York Hotel,” he said. “I thought we would stay here for one night.”

He met her eyes across the narrow gap between their seats and noticed the slight flush of color in her cheeks. He felt an answering shortness of breath and tightening of the groin. It would be their wedding night. The reality of the morning's events had still not quite struck home, he realized.

“I want to take you shopping this afternoon,” he told her. He shifted his gaze to David. “Both of you.”

The boy's eyes widened with interest though he said nothing. He was sitting very close to Anne.

“I have found a shop on Milsom Street that sells oil paints,” Sydnam said. “I thought we would purchase some, David, since you seem ready to use them. And if we are to buy the paints, then we must buy everything else you will need at TÅ· Gwyn in order to use them to advantage—canvases and palettes and brushes, for example.”

David's eyes had grown round, giving him for the moment the look of his mother.

“But I do not know how to paint in oils, sir,” he said.

“I will find someone to teach you after we return to TÅ· Gwyn,” Sydnam promised.

Mrs. Llwyd, he knew, liked to paint, though he did not know if she painted in oils. Perhaps if she did, she would be willing to give David some lessons. If not, there must be someone else.

“The purchase of paints will be an extraordinarily generous gift,” Anne said. “But will you not be able to give David some instruction yourself?”

“No!” he said far more sharply than he intended.

She sat farther back in her seat and compressed her lips.

“What is TÅ· Gwyn?” David asked.

“It is your new home,” Sydnam told him. “The words mean
white house
in the Welsh language. It is not white, though an older version of the house was, or so I have been told. It is larger than a house, though not nearly as large as Glandwr. It is close to it, though, and not far from the sea. There are neighbors, several of them with children. I daresay a few of them are close to you in age and will be delighted to be your friends and playmates. I think you will get along famously with the Llwyd brothers. They go to the village school, and you will be able to go there too if you wish and if your mama wishes it. I hope you will be happy in your new life.”

David gazed back at him and pressed the side of his face against Anne's shoulder. He looked as if he were considering the prospects and not finding them altogether unpleasing. Sydnam looked into Anne's face. The wheels of the carriage were rumbling over the Pulteney Bridge.

“TÅ· Gwyn is yours, then?” she asked him. “The Duke of Bewcastle has sold it to you?”

“Yes,” he told her, “though I have not lived there yet. We will move in together.”

As he held her glance, he knew that she was remembering what had happened at TÅ· Gwyn. It was there that today had become inevitable.

“We will not be in Bath long enough to hire a dressmaker,” he said. “I hope we will be able to find sufficient ready-made clothes for you in the shops this afternoon.”

“Clothes?” She flushed again. “I do not need to buy any clothes.”

This day and their new relationship were as unreal for her as they were for him, he realized as he saw in her eyes the dawning understanding that now he had every right—and obligation—to clothe her in a manner suited to his wife. But causing her embarrassment or even distress was the farthest thing from his intentions.

“A new wardrobe will be my wedding gift to you, Anne,” he said. “I have looked forward to it.”

“A wedding gift,” she said as the carriage turned onto Milsom Street and proceeded in the direction of the Royal York. “But I have none for you.”

“It is quite unnecessary,” he said.

“No, it is not,” she said firmly. “I shall buy something for you too this afternoon. We will all have gifts.”

They looked at each other. She was the first to smile.

She
did
need new clothes—quite desperately. It had been perfectly obvious to him during the summer that she had very few, and today she had worn an old evening gown for her wedding. The winter was coming on, and so were the advanced stages of her pregnancy. She needed clothes, and he was going to purchase them for her.