Someone to Care
Page 52
“Am I?” he asked her again, and he could feel her fury recede.
“Marcel,” she said, “it is impossible. You saw the reaction of your own family toward me—not to mention Abigail—in the drawing room. Can you imagine taking me to London? During the Season? It cannot be allowed to happen. And for more personal reasons it cannot be allowed to proceed. We are going to have to think of some way out, and it is not going to be easy, especially now. We both need to think. I am perfectly well aware that you do not want this marriage any more than I do.”
“I can think of one reason why I might find it very tolerable,” he said.
“Oh, life is not all about . . . that,” she snapped.
“Sex?”
“Yes,” she said. “Life is not all about sex.”
“But an important part of it is,” he said.
“Monogamous sex?” she asked him, and even in the half light he could see that her eyes were looking very directly into his.
It was something he had committed himself to once upon a time. Once upon a long time ago. It was something he had assiduously avoided since Adeline’s death. It was something—
“I thought not,” she said curtly, and this time when she moved off in the direction of the house, he did not try to stop her. He fell into step beside her after he had caught up, but they did not speak another word.
* * *
• • •
The next morning after breakfast, Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, offered to show Viola and Abigail the lake, which he explained was among the trees to the east of the house. His manner was stiff and formal, and Viola suspected he made the offer out of duty rather than inclination. But appearances must be preserved, at least for now. She said she would be delighted. His father, he told her, would be busy for an hour or so with his steward. Lady Estelle decided to come too, as none of the guests could be expected to arrive until the middle of the afternoon at the earliest.
The two young ladies walked ahead, arm in arm. It looked as if Estelle was doing most of the talking, though Abigail was smiling. Viola did not really know how her daughter felt about this whole situation. Strange as it might seem, they had somehow avoided the topic of Viola’s betrothal and what had led up to it during the three weeks prior to their coming here. Outwardly their relationship had not changed, but there had been a certain constraint between them.
Bertrand and Viola followed behind. He did not offer his arm but held his hands behind him. He walked close beside her, however, matching his stride to hers and bending his head politely toward her when she was speaking. And he had conversation at the ready—some details about the park, questions about Hinsford, a hope that she found her accommodations here satisfactory. He was perfectly willing to answer her questions. They had lived at Elm Court in East Sussex until two years ago, when they had moved here. He had had a tutor there, a retired scholar who had lived close by and given him excellent instruction in all subjects, particularly in the classics and classical history. Having to leave his tutor behind was what he had most regretted about coming here. Since then he had shared his sister’s governess, a worthy lady who had forced him to spend more time and effort on his least favorite subject, mathematics.
“I will be forever grateful to her for that,” he added in all seriousness. “Children, and adults too, I believe, should always be willing and eager to stretch the limits of their minds in uncomfortable directions as well as in comfortable ones.”
“Most people,” Viola said with a twinkle in her eye, “are not comfortable with any stretching of the mind, Lord Watley.”
“Oh please,” he said, “call me Bertrand.”
They walked past the beech tree where she had quarreled with Marcel last evening, and on toward the woods and then among them. The path was wide, though at present it was almost obliterated by fallen leaves, which crunched underfoot. There was a lovely feeling of seclusion.
Bertrand was going up to Oxford next year and was looking forward to it immensely even though he had never been away to school and would doubtless be quite nervous at first. And it would mean leaving Estelle behind.
“You are very close to your sister?” Viola asked.
“We have been constant companions all our lives,” he explained. “There have always been our cousins, of course, but they are older than we are. Not by many years, it is true, but I have been told an age gap seems far wider to children than it does to adults. Estelle and I are the same age. We are twins.”
“Which of you is the elder?” she asked.
“Estelle, by thirty-five minutes,” he said. “I have never been allowed to forget that fact and never will be, I daresay.” He flashed her a grin, and for a moment he looked the handsome boy he was. And very, very much like his father. Was she seeing Marcel as he had been at the age of seventeen? But no father was quite replicated in his son, and she doubted Marcel had ever had the gravity of mind and manner that his son had. He had gone to Oxford University, but he seemed to have used his time there just to get into trouble, or rather to avoid the trouble his wild exploits ought to have brought him. She doubted he had ever taken his studies seriously. Though he was a reader, she remembered.
They came upon the lake suddenly and unexpectedly. It was surrounded by woodland, a large kidney-shaped body of water, very calm today, its still surface reflecting the myriad colors of the leaves on the trees. There was a sloping stretch of sandy soil ahead of them, which was probably used as a beach during the summer, and a boathouse off to their right. The woodland did not completely surround the lake, however. On the far side some of it had been cleared for a house with large windows and a garden that sloped down to the water. It was not at all like the cottage in Devonshire, but something about it was similar. Its size, perhaps. Its secluded location, perhaps. There was no other building in sight apart from the boathouse.
“The dower house,” Bertrand said. “I love it. It always makes me feel a bit homesick.”
“For Elm Court?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Aunt Jane believes Great-Aunt Olwen ought to move here and drops frequent hints to that effect. That is what it was built for, you see—as a dower house for older members of the family after a new marquess moves into Redcliffe.”
“But she does not want to live here?” Viola asked.
“No,” he said. “But I think perhaps it is more that Cousin Isabelle does not want to move here. Perhaps she will feel differently after Margaret marries and moves away with her husband. I am not sure her feelings are going to matter, however. They really must move here after Father’s wedding.”
They stood looking at the lake and the house beyond it while Estelle and Abigail made their way toward it. And Viola broached the topic she had been avoiding with her own daughter.
“How do you feel about that, Bertrand?” she asked. “About your father’s marriage to me, I mean. And please be honest.”
“Oh,” he said, “how can I be?”
Viola winced inwardly, but it was honesty she needed. She wanted to be armed with ammunition the next time she tackled Marcel. “By simply doing it,” she said.
“I am furious with him,” he said after a short silence, his voice quietly intense. “Everything has always been just about him. He was supposedly too grief-stricken over our mother’s death to spend any time with us when we were children. He was still too grief-stricken when we were older. But we heard things. Children do, you know, no matter how well shielded they are—and we were very well shielded. We heard things that did not make him sound very grief-stricken. Estelle had her heart set on giving him a fortieth birthday party this year. I tried to warn her. So did Aunt Jane. But she would not listen. And then she chose to be delighted when we found him and he announced his betrothal. She is still delighted. I have never seen her this . . . ebullient. She has always been quiet and docile except sometimes when we are alone together. She thinks all will be well now even though our childhood is over. She will probably be married herself within the next year or so and I will be gone. But she still believes in happily-ever-after. She still believes in him. He had no intention of marrying you, did he?”
“Marcel,” she said, “it is impossible. You saw the reaction of your own family toward me—not to mention Abigail—in the drawing room. Can you imagine taking me to London? During the Season? It cannot be allowed to happen. And for more personal reasons it cannot be allowed to proceed. We are going to have to think of some way out, and it is not going to be easy, especially now. We both need to think. I am perfectly well aware that you do not want this marriage any more than I do.”
“I can think of one reason why I might find it very tolerable,” he said.
“Oh, life is not all about . . . that,” she snapped.
“Sex?”
“Yes,” she said. “Life is not all about sex.”
“But an important part of it is,” he said.
“Monogamous sex?” she asked him, and even in the half light he could see that her eyes were looking very directly into his.
It was something he had committed himself to once upon a time. Once upon a long time ago. It was something he had assiduously avoided since Adeline’s death. It was something—
“I thought not,” she said curtly, and this time when she moved off in the direction of the house, he did not try to stop her. He fell into step beside her after he had caught up, but they did not speak another word.
* * *
• • •
The next morning after breakfast, Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, offered to show Viola and Abigail the lake, which he explained was among the trees to the east of the house. His manner was stiff and formal, and Viola suspected he made the offer out of duty rather than inclination. But appearances must be preserved, at least for now. She said she would be delighted. His father, he told her, would be busy for an hour or so with his steward. Lady Estelle decided to come too, as none of the guests could be expected to arrive until the middle of the afternoon at the earliest.
The two young ladies walked ahead, arm in arm. It looked as if Estelle was doing most of the talking, though Abigail was smiling. Viola did not really know how her daughter felt about this whole situation. Strange as it might seem, they had somehow avoided the topic of Viola’s betrothal and what had led up to it during the three weeks prior to their coming here. Outwardly their relationship had not changed, but there had been a certain constraint between them.
Bertrand and Viola followed behind. He did not offer his arm but held his hands behind him. He walked close beside her, however, matching his stride to hers and bending his head politely toward her when she was speaking. And he had conversation at the ready—some details about the park, questions about Hinsford, a hope that she found her accommodations here satisfactory. He was perfectly willing to answer her questions. They had lived at Elm Court in East Sussex until two years ago, when they had moved here. He had had a tutor there, a retired scholar who had lived close by and given him excellent instruction in all subjects, particularly in the classics and classical history. Having to leave his tutor behind was what he had most regretted about coming here. Since then he had shared his sister’s governess, a worthy lady who had forced him to spend more time and effort on his least favorite subject, mathematics.
“I will be forever grateful to her for that,” he added in all seriousness. “Children, and adults too, I believe, should always be willing and eager to stretch the limits of their minds in uncomfortable directions as well as in comfortable ones.”
“Most people,” Viola said with a twinkle in her eye, “are not comfortable with any stretching of the mind, Lord Watley.”
“Oh please,” he said, “call me Bertrand.”
They walked past the beech tree where she had quarreled with Marcel last evening, and on toward the woods and then among them. The path was wide, though at present it was almost obliterated by fallen leaves, which crunched underfoot. There was a lovely feeling of seclusion.
Bertrand was going up to Oxford next year and was looking forward to it immensely even though he had never been away to school and would doubtless be quite nervous at first. And it would mean leaving Estelle behind.
“You are very close to your sister?” Viola asked.
“We have been constant companions all our lives,” he explained. “There have always been our cousins, of course, but they are older than we are. Not by many years, it is true, but I have been told an age gap seems far wider to children than it does to adults. Estelle and I are the same age. We are twins.”
“Which of you is the elder?” she asked.
“Estelle, by thirty-five minutes,” he said. “I have never been allowed to forget that fact and never will be, I daresay.” He flashed her a grin, and for a moment he looked the handsome boy he was. And very, very much like his father. Was she seeing Marcel as he had been at the age of seventeen? But no father was quite replicated in his son, and she doubted Marcel had ever had the gravity of mind and manner that his son had. He had gone to Oxford University, but he seemed to have used his time there just to get into trouble, or rather to avoid the trouble his wild exploits ought to have brought him. She doubted he had ever taken his studies seriously. Though he was a reader, she remembered.
They came upon the lake suddenly and unexpectedly. It was surrounded by woodland, a large kidney-shaped body of water, very calm today, its still surface reflecting the myriad colors of the leaves on the trees. There was a sloping stretch of sandy soil ahead of them, which was probably used as a beach during the summer, and a boathouse off to their right. The woodland did not completely surround the lake, however. On the far side some of it had been cleared for a house with large windows and a garden that sloped down to the water. It was not at all like the cottage in Devonshire, but something about it was similar. Its size, perhaps. Its secluded location, perhaps. There was no other building in sight apart from the boathouse.
“The dower house,” Bertrand said. “I love it. It always makes me feel a bit homesick.”
“For Elm Court?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Aunt Jane believes Great-Aunt Olwen ought to move here and drops frequent hints to that effect. That is what it was built for, you see—as a dower house for older members of the family after a new marquess moves into Redcliffe.”
“But she does not want to live here?” Viola asked.
“No,” he said. “But I think perhaps it is more that Cousin Isabelle does not want to move here. Perhaps she will feel differently after Margaret marries and moves away with her husband. I am not sure her feelings are going to matter, however. They really must move here after Father’s wedding.”
They stood looking at the lake and the house beyond it while Estelle and Abigail made their way toward it. And Viola broached the topic she had been avoiding with her own daughter.
“How do you feel about that, Bertrand?” she asked. “About your father’s marriage to me, I mean. And please be honest.”
“Oh,” he said, “how can I be?”
Viola winced inwardly, but it was honesty she needed. She wanted to be armed with ammunition the next time she tackled Marcel. “By simply doing it,” she said.
“I am furious with him,” he said after a short silence, his voice quietly intense. “Everything has always been just about him. He was supposedly too grief-stricken over our mother’s death to spend any time with us when we were children. He was still too grief-stricken when we were older. But we heard things. Children do, you know, no matter how well shielded they are—and we were very well shielded. We heard things that did not make him sound very grief-stricken. Estelle had her heart set on giving him a fortieth birthday party this year. I tried to warn her. So did Aunt Jane. But she would not listen. And then she chose to be delighted when we found him and he announced his betrothal. She is still delighted. I have never seen her this . . . ebullient. She has always been quiet and docile except sometimes when we are alone together. She thinks all will be well now even though our childhood is over. She will probably be married herself within the next year or so and I will be gone. But she still believes in happily-ever-after. She still believes in him. He had no intention of marrying you, did he?”
