Memories of his own childhood began to plague Ormiston. His father's prolonged absences in London, the stern and unbending governess, the occasional visits Dacre made, accompanied by an ever-changing series of brazen and raucous companions, male and female, playing through the night, emerging from smoke-filled rooms as day broke, the sight of his own father tipsily cursing his confounded ill luck as he stumbled past the lonely child waiting in the anteroom, hoping against hope for some sign of affection.
Only at school had Ormiston discovered that rather than being a nuisance, some might consider him likeable, and once his skill with the small sword was discovered, even admirable. He recalled the look on Reggie's face when they had discussed fencing: at eleven or so, the lad was just at the age when he needed a wise Nestor to guide him through the shift from boyhood to manhood.
However, it seemed foolish to tie himself to a dowd of whom his only memories were unpleasant, purely for the pitiable state of these two children, left in the guardianship of the father he felt had already failed one lonely child. If only he had been able to see Cecilia, then he might have some hint of her character and bearing. In all the years of his travels, Dacre had refrained from mentioning her in his admittedly brief letters, a delicacy Ormiston had appreciated, but now regretted. He resolved to quiz the marquis the following morning.
When Ormiston went down to breakfast, he found himself alone with Dacre for the first time since their arrival. The marquis was reading a note, which he folded up on his son's entry.
“Morning, Ormiston. Cecilia has asked me to ride out with Kitson, the steward, and approve certain works Marchmont had in mind. Would you care to accompany me?”
Ormiston agreed, seeing a prime opportunity to interrogate his father further. But Dacre refused to answer any queries about his goddaughter, saying only, “You must make up your own mind when you see her. This folly has gone far enough without any attempt on my part to prejudice you further. You and Cecilia must decide for yourselves. I shall abide by that decision.”
Then Kitson joined them in the stableyard and the chance for any further questions disappeared.
The estate was in an impressive state of maintenance. Both Dacre and Ormiston had expected some signs of neglect, given that Marchmont had been laid low for over two months before his death. But Kitson averred with pride that Miss Cecilia had already taken a hand and made sure that all was kept bang up to the mark. Whatever else she might be, it was clear from the laconic but admiring observations of the steward that Miss Marchmont was an astute businesswoman. Ormiston saw that his own contribution to the management of Sawards and its outlying lands could only be minimal. Hoping to be able to congratulate his wife on her abilities, Ormiston was eager to return to the house, but there was no sign of the lady. He spent most of the afternoon with her brother and sister instead.
Although delightful company, neither child spoke much of their sister. She had been largely away with Lady Ketley in recent years, and there was much talk of her generous and thoughtful birthday gifts. Reggie led him around the house, which had everything in its place, including a small armory and gun room where they found foils of various sizes. Ormiston was able to fulfill his promise to the boy, and they made a few passes. Reggie showed promise although, the viscount noted, was virtually untaught. Ormiston contracted to set time aside on the morrow for a serious lesson, causing the boy to beam with delight and anticipation.
Later, they all sat down to dinner, apart from the invalid Cecilia, by which time it was clear that Reggie and Amelia regarded Ormiston as their property. They had slipped their hands trustingly into his as they led him in to dinner and out again to the drawing room, and teased him as he ate and played at spillikins with them, crouching down on the carpet and losing gracefully. All the while, Ormiston had felt his father's eyes upon him, and from time to time, Lady Ketley's shrewd glance.
Alone in his room, he mused over the way he was entangling himself with this family. However charming the children were, it was ludicrous to tie himself to someone he had not seen for five years. Unless, he thought, he was throwing himself into this circle, onto the mercies of a woman he could not remember in an attempt to efface the memory of a young woman he could not forget. Ormiston decided that he would broach with Dacre the possibility of making something of this marriage, provided his bride was in agreement, and to take on himself the care of her father's estates and the guardianship of the children. But he suspected that the trust which the Marchmont children had already shown him was signal enough to the marquis, who, it was now clear to his own son, was an astute reader of other people's intentions and actions.
Two days later, he caught a glimpse of his wife, shrouded in mourning veils, as she was helped into the first carriage of mourners, along with her aunt and siblings. Rather than the dumpy figure he remembered, he gained an impression of height and slenderness, though concealed in the heavy serge cape she wore against the unseasonable chill. She sat stiff and still, like an automaton. He half expected music to pipe from the carriage and to see her move jerkily from one position to the next, like the great dolls he had seen in Venice and Paris, life-size models animated by a clockwork mechanism.
Dacre and Ormiston followed in the next carriage with the lawyer and the doctor from the nearest town accompanying them. A train of mourners followed, the yeomen and servants of the estates joining the procession in dog-carts and traps, wagons and carts. The church was overflowing and the singing of the hymns rousing and heartfelt. Sitting some pews behind the family, Ormiston noticed his wife's shoulders convulse once before she squared them and raised her head to sing out her responses and to sit, solid and straight, as the vicar eulogized his late benefactor.
Afterwards, it was Lady Ketley who performed the honors as the mourners gathered in the big house. Cecilia had once again retired. Ormiston found his father and demanded to know whether Dacre had managed to speak with Miss Marchmont.
“Of course. I saw her before the service this morning so that she might secure my approval for certain works to be carried out. Do you wish to see her? I can mention it tomorrow when we meet again. She pushed herself too far in nursing her father and taking on the burdens of the estate. I think she will be in circulation following the reading of the will tomorrow, but for now, she must rest.”
“Should I attend the reading of the will?”
“That depends on your intentions toward the family. If you think you will be involved with them in the future, it would probably be best for you to be there. However, if you wish to sever your connection, there is really no need for your presence.” Dacre forbore to mention that because Ormiston had so willingly allowed himself to be thoroughly monopolized by the younger Marchmonts, it would be cruelty to withdraw from their lives now.
The next morning found Ormiston still undecided about his future. He dressed, dismissed Marchmont's man, who had proved efficient and unobtrusive, and took up a charcoal pencil and sketchpad, determined to lose himself in the one constant he knew would never pose him any imponderable questions. He sat himself in a window embrasure overlooking a formal knot garden to the east of the house. There were two black-clad figures pacing the walks, one stout and relatively short, the other slender. The shorter lady wore a bonnet and cloak, while the slim one wore a stylishly cut pelisse and simple mourning veil pinned onto a luxurious fall of ebony hair. Ormiston watched them and strangely, the slim woman moved, he was sure, as he remembered Alice having moved. Paper and pencil fell from his grasp; he reared up and threw up the sash window and shouted her name, but the breeze whipped his words away and she was too far away to hear. He hurtled out of the room and down the stairs, nearly overturning a maid polishing the Italian marble demi-lune sideboards in the hall. He stopped and asked her who was in the garden.
“It is Miss Cecilia, with Squire Hislop's widow, I think. Do you wish me to take a message to her?”
“Noâno, I will join them.”
Ormiston had time to collect himself before he encountered the ladies. They were making their way back to the house. He went forward to greet them along a brick walkway bordered with lavender. They stopped walking as he approached, and when he had reached them, he stopped and bowed, then took up the hand of the shorter woman and dropped a kiss on it, saying, “Miss Marchmont, a pleasure at last to see you up from your sickbed.”
The ladies exchanged a glance, and Ormiston, looking up and into their faces, perceived his mistake at once. The woman whose hand he had kissed was mature in years, by no means unattractive, but certainly not a maiden. The taller, slighter figure threw back her head and gave a throaty chuckle before holding out both hands to Ormiston.
“Come, let me greet you. That is the best joke I have heard for days. You must know, Mrs. Hislop, the last time Ormiston saw me, I was a child of fourteen, so he is paying you a great compliment.” Ormiston bent over her hands and released them swiftly, mortified by his error. The squire's widow leapt into the deepening silence.
“And a greater insult to you, my dear,” replied the widow, “for if he thinks a nineteen-year-old is as stout and steady as I, he is a sad knave. Nonetheless, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, and I've no doubt if you've not seen Miss Ceci for five years, you've plenty to discuss, so I'll be on my way home.”
“We'll see you to your carriage, Mrs. Hislop. You left the horses standing by, did you not?”
“Yes indeed, missy. Now, you must know, my Ned will do all that Mr. Kitson requiresâyou have only to ask and he'll be happy to assist. I'll send him straight to Mr. Kitson for he's so bashful of you now you're grown into such a fine lady, and for all he's squire now, he's still a cub with more height than sense. If he sees you, he'll be hemming and hawing and before we know it making a cake of himself. It'll be more use if you don't see him, and I know you won't take offense, as you're a good girl with a fine enough head on your shoulders.”
By this time, all three were at the front of the house, where Mrs. Hislop's trap awaited her. Ormiston helped her alight, and her driver removed her with a smart crack of his whip. Cecilia turned to him. For the first time, he looked at her properly. Her hair was dark, with a gentle wave in it. It was caught back from her face, but not fully dressed. He thought that under the veil, it must reach her waist. Her forehead was high, her cheekbones good, her nose elegant, her chin definite, and her eyes large, long-lashed violet pools. Her eyelids dropped as his steady, evaluating gaze discomfited her. A rosy flush rose up her fine skin. She breathed in, as if gathering her strength, and looked him in the eye once again.
“Item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two eyes, with lids to them; item one neck, one chin and so forth.” Shakespeare was a refuge against that intent gaze.
“Olivia was not so lovely as you. I will make me a willow cabin at your gate.”
“There's no need, you're already installed in our second-best bed,” replied Cecilia crisply. “In any case, you are more Orsino than Cesario.” The viscount's flirtatious air grated on her. Once it would have been all that she desired, but now, her fears for the future confronted her and his flippancy rankled.
Ormiston could not reply as he wished. He knew that every bed would be second-best unless he could share it with this exquisite creature. His wife. His hostile wife. He saw mistrust in those eyes, more intense than the finest amethyst, and hard, he deduced, as diamonds. He frowned in puzzlement. She had reminded him of Alice, and now she did again, of that moment when Alice had mocked him for making pledges lightly. She made him feel uncomfortable and gauche. But now to business.
“We must talk, you and I. Will you take a turn with me?” He offered her his arm.
“Certainly, sir.” She ignored his outstretched arm and decorously, delicately, turned back to the gardens. Ormiston was obliged to follow.
He took a deep breath before launching into speech. “We are still bound to each other. If we wish to part, we must be prepared for an intrusive and indelicate inquiry under the full gaze of Society and those members of the fourth estate who make it their business to publish the affairs of Society.”
“Yes.” Cecilia thought this was a fair assessment of their situation, although she could not tell where Ormiston's thoughts were tending.
“However, we could avoid this spectacle, if we so chose.”
She stopped and faced him. “What do you propose, sir?” Wary. Waiting.
“We could, if you wished,” continued Ormiston hesitantly, “commence a courtship which would lead naturally to a suitable match.”
“Are you suggesting that we marry a second time, in public?” She turned and walked on, determined to hide her astonishment. Ormiston stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked on.
“We could, if you preferred, elope or effect a private marriage or blessing at the chapel at Hatherley, which we could then announce to be the start of our marriage. We might say that because of your father's death, it would have been inappropriate for us to arrange a grand ceremony.”