Chapter 11

“It’s here somewhere,” Lord Beresford said. “Do you remember exactly where, Annabelle?”

“I think we are going in the right direction,” she said. “But I think we should be going back, Joshua. The others will be looking for us.”

“After only five minutes?” he said. “I don’t think so. Hold my hand—the slope is rather steep.”

“But I am not a child,” she said. “I don’t need to hold your hand.”

“There it is,” he said, taking her hand anyway and drawing her laterally across the bank that led down from the ruined wall of the abbey to the river. “Can’t you just imagine the hermit sitting here, Annabelle, in his sackcloth robe with long, matted hair and beard, and ashes on his head?” 

“No,” she said. “It is a silly idea. Why would any man crouch inside a cave he could not even stand up in and freeze in the winter when there was a perfectly serviceable abbey within a stone’s throw?”

He grinned at her and released her hand in order to stoop down and peer inside the cave. “You have no imagination, Annabelle,” he said, “and no sense of romance. Here we could be dreaming up the ghost of our very own holy man, and all you can think of is his getting a red nose in winter.” 

“He probably smelled too,” she said. “He probably never bathed.”

He straightened up and laughed at her. “What do you expect of the poor man?” he said. “That he would chip the ice in the river every morning just so he could have an invigorating bath?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t believe he even existed.”

He set his head to one side and looked at her. “I have not set myself an easy task, have I?” he said. “Even the absurdity of this conversation cannot draw a smile from you.”

“It’s just silly talk,” she said.

“Precisely.” He rubbed at her chin with one knuckle. “But all of us are permitted some silliness some of the time. Some of us more than others, of course. You disapprove of me, don’t you, Annabelle? I’m not serious enough for you.”

“I would not presume either to approve or to disapprove of you,” she said.

He threw back his head and laughed. “I sometimes forget that I am such a grand person that I am beyond reproach,” he said. “Can Justin make you smile?”

“What a silly idea it is,” she said, “that I never smile. Of course I do.”

“Do you smile when he kisses you?” he asked.

“Joshua!” She flushed.

“Well, do you?” He took her chin in his hand, though she tried to pull away. “Do you like being kissed?”

“That is a very improper question,” she said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” He held to her chin and grinned at her. “Don’t tell me he has not done it yet. What a slowtop.” And he bent his head and kissed her firmly on the lips. “Smile at me now.”

Annabelle drew back an arm and smacked him hard across one cheek. “How dare you,” she cried. “I am a woman, Joshua. I am eighteen years old, if you had not noticed. I am not a child still, to be teased and humored and laughed at. Leave me alone.”

Lord Beresford winced and held one palm against a reddening cheek. “Well,” he said, “that certainly was no smile, was it?”

“I hate you,” she cried. “You have always teased me as a little girl who cannot possibly have any feelings. You may be surprised to know that I have. And I don’t feel happy when I am close to you. That is why I don’t smile, if you must know. I don’t smile because I don’t like you. I hate you.” She turned sharply away.

But he caught her by the arm. “Annabelle,” he said, “what is this? What have I done to hurt you so much? Have I always teased you? Yes, I suppose I have. But I tease almost everyone—everyone I like, that is. I have always felt an affection for you. Haven’t you known that? Or is it something else about me that you dislike?”

She had her head turned away from him, staring at the ground. “I don’t dislike you,” she said. “I’m sorry I said I did. But you should not have done that. I belong to Lord Wetherby. I always have.”

“I’m sorry too,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean any disrespect, Annabelle. We have known each other forever and I forgot that you are all grown up and not to be kissed teasingly like that. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Forgive me?”

“Let’s go back inside the walls,” she said.

“You go,” he said. “If I go back now, Justin will be challenging me to pistols at dawn when he sees the mark of your fingers on my cheek.”

She looked up at the telltale marks and bit her lower lip.

He grinned. “I would hate to put a bullet between his eyes before he has even had a chance to kiss you,” he said.

“Don’t joke about such things,” she said.

“I had better find the inside of the cave fascinating for the next five minutes,” he said, turning away from her. “Here come Robin and Toby and Christobel.”

The Earl of Wetherby rode beside Annabelle again on the way home. He wondered what she had seen or heard or imagined. There was a closed look about her face and a tightness about her jaw that had not been there before. Surely she had not seen anything.

The very last thing he felt like doing was conversing, deliberately setting himself to charm a young lady who looked as if she had no intention of being charmed. He wanted to bury himself in his own thoughts. He wanted to gallop away from the whole group, be alone for a few hours. The very worst thing about a house party was the lack of privacy.

“I’m glad the abbey was suggested,” he said. “I would hate to have missed it.”

“What?” she said. “Oh, yes, it is rather splendid, isn’t it? I can’t imagine how anyone would have wanted to destroy it.”

Josh, fairly close behind them, was making Christobel giggle over something, Lord Wetherby could hear. Rosamund, he saw in one swift glance over his shoulder, was riding with Carver.

It was going to be hard to forgive himself for what had just happened. He had gone beyond the wall with the intention of finding Annabelle, of spending a few minutes alone with her, of kissing her even, if circumstances had been right. He had found Rosamund instead, ignored her request that he go away, and kissed her—not even in a chaste manner just for old times’ sake.

Had he so little self-control? So little regard for Rosamund’s feelings? So little regard for the girl who was to be his bride? The girl riding silently at his side?

“I had hoped to spend some time alone with you,” he said. “I had hoped to become better acquainted with you, Annabelle.”

She darted him a glance. Josh laughed merrily behind them and Christobel shrieked and giggled. “There is another way back,” she said quickly, “over the hill. It is shorter but not as easy as this route.”

“We will allow the others to pass us, then,” he said, slowing his horse and drawing it to one side of the path so that within a minute they were at the back of the group.

“Annabelle is going to show me the difficult route home,” he told Robin and Pamela.

And then they were riding off through widely spaced trees, the voices of their companions disappearing off to their left.

“This goes uphill?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “There is a splendid view from the top.”

They rode in near silence until they came to the crest of the hill. As Annabelle had promised, there was a view down all four sides so that they could see the house and the lake off to one side of them, the river and Winwood Abbey to the other. Lord Wetherby directed his gaze to the lake and tried to pick out the little pieces of wilderness where he had stood with Rosamund the day before.

But, no, he would turn his mind from such thoughts. “Shall we get down for a while?” he suggested. “The wind seems to have died down considerably.”

He tethered their horses to a tree and they stood looking about them.

“What is it?” he asked, turning to her at last. The tension in her was almost a tangible thing. “Has something happened?”

“No,” she said.

He smiled gently at her. “We both know that your father has approved my suit and that I will be making you a formal offer within the next few days,” he said. “You probably know that your grandfather hopes to announce our betrothal on his birthday, at the ball. Does the thought disturb you? Would you rather it not be so soon? Or not at all?”

“It was first suggested when I was nine years old,” she said. “It would be strange if I were not ready for it, my lord.”

“Would you rather it had not been so arranged?” he asked. 

“No,” she said, “I am content.”

“Content,” he said with a smile. “Yet you will not even call me by my name.”

“I will if you insist,” she said. “But it is difficult. You were twenty years old when we first met. You seemed years and years beyond me, a very grand gentleman.”

“Did I?” he said. “And doubtless I did nothing to make you feel more at ease. Twenty-year-olds do not always feel a great deal of respect for nine-year-olds. Is that the whole problem? Do I still seem like an elderly gentleman to you?” 

“No, of course not,” she said. “And there is no problem.”

He set his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. It was rather like looking at a stone wall, he thought. What was behind her eyes had been carefully shut off.

“It would be desirable for us to become comfortable with each other, wouldn’t it?” he said. “We should try to be friends before I ask you to be my wife, don’t you think?”

She did not look away from his eyes. He saw her swallow and knew that she did so quite painfully.

“Kiss me,” she said suddenly. “Please kiss me . . . Justin.”

He hesitated. The stone wall behind her eyes had become pain. He lowered his head and kissed her slowly, his lips gentle and closed. Her own were clamped together in a rigid line.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you, Annabelle, and I will never demand more than you are prepared to give.”

For answer she threw her arms up about his neck. “I am not afraid,” she said. “I want to kiss you.”

When he lowered his head again, she kissed him back with fierce passion, pressing closed lips against his own, thrusting her bosom against him, half-strangling him with her arms. He held her and gentled her, and rocked her against him afterward, her head against his shoulder.

Who was the man? he wondered. Someone she had met in London during the Season the year before? But he had not noticed or heard of anyone in particular. Someone at Brookfield? Unlikely. All the other house guests were her relatives, though some of them were of no very close relationship.

Most likely it was some poor ineligible soul from her own home. Though even an eligible gentleman would be beyond her grasp when she felt she had a nine-year-old “arrangement” to be honored.

God, what a coil! They were not even officially betrothed, yet they were both bound as tightly as if their nuptials had been celebrated and their marriage consummated—he because he had already spoken to her father, and she because she felt bound in duty to her parents’ wishes, even though they had given her the freedom to make her own decision.

“Will you have a disgust of me?” she asked, her face hidden against his shoulder. “Will you think me quite lost to all conduct?” She lifted her head and looked up at him. “But it was not wrong, was it, my lord? We are almost betrothed.”

“It was not wrong,” he said, smiling down at her.

“I liked it,” she said quickly.“I do have an affection for you already, Justin. I swear I do.”

He kissed her lightly on the nose. “Then you must tell me more about yourself,” he said. “Tell me who Annabelle Milford is. I want to know. We had better ride as we talk. I don’t think your papa will be too happy with me if I keep you alone for much longer.”

She talked quite freely as they rode down the hill and across the pasture to the park surrounding Brookfield. Perhaps, he thought, she was even trying to answer his request that she tell him who she was—though without much success. Who was this girl who had known at the age of nine that her future husband had been chosen for her, who had apparently put up no fight whatsoever against the arranged marriage, who was desperately trying to like him and want him? One thing was becoming increasingly clear to him: she was not a happy girl.

And he would swear that there was another man.

“No,” she said in answer to one of his questions as they rode. “I had never been anywhere except here until we went to London last year for my come-out. Except to Lincolnshire, that is, when I was fourteen. Mama and I spent a month with Aunt Rosa and Uncle Leonard. I always wondered why she married him when he was so much older and she was so very lovely. But they were happy, you know. I think for him the sun rose and set on Aunt Rosa.”

He smiled at her, willing her to continue.

“I cried and cried when news came that he had died,” Annabelle said. “Papa had gone there when he was very low and sent word back. I knew Aunt Rosa would be quite grief- stricken. And now Papa is trying to marry her to Tobias. I do think it wrong of him.”

“I daresay he wants your aunt to be happy again,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “But Aunt Rosa chose for herself the first time and was happy. I am sure she can do the same again and perhaps choose someone younger, someone with whom she can spend the rest of her life. I do think people should be allowed to choose for themselves.”

There was a sudden and awkward silence between them.

“When they are older, like Aunt Rosa, and have had some experience of life, I mean,” she said.

“And yet,” he could not stop himself from saying, “she was only seventeen the first time.”

“Yes,” she said. “Did I tell you that? That she was only seventeen, I mean?”

“I must have heard it somewhere,” he said.

She began to tell him about her presentation to the queen.

She had been seventeen. Nine years ago—when he had met Annabelle for the first time and the match between them had first been suggested as a desirable possibility. Where had Rosamund been during that month? Had it been just after her marriage or just before?

If she had been at Brookfield with Annabelle, they would have met, she seventeen, he twenty. What would have happened? Would he have fallen in love with her then? And she with him? Would they have eight or nine years of marriage behind them by now? Perhaps several children?

But she had been afraid of younger men at that time. That was why she had married Sir Leonard Hunter. She certainly would not have fancied a young buck who had still expected every female to swoon at his feet if he merely favored her with an appreciative glance. And at that age he would not have fancied a female who could not immediately be tumbled into bed.

Though that was a strange thought, considering the speed with which he had bedded Rosamund at the age of nine-and-twenty. He had not changed so much, after all.

And was he in love with her? Was that a suitable description of his feelings? Did he not merely want to make love to her again? Was it not a purely physical thing between them? Something that would wear off once he was married?

He hoped it was only that. He did not care to be “in love,” whatever that expression meant. He was certainly hoping that it did not mean what he was beginning to think it might mean.

Annabelle was looking to him inquiringly, and he returned his attention to her. Obviously he had missed some cue.

The following day progressed far more to Rosamund’s liking than any day at Brookfield so far. The marchioness decided to take her friend Lady Wetherby, Lana, and Annabelle about with her to visit various neighbors, and the Earl of Wetherby was enlisted to escort them.

“Everyone is dying of curiosity to see you, anyway, Justin,” Lady Gilmore said, “with strange rumors about you beginning to circulate, and it would be too cruel to keep them waiting until the evening of the ball.”

“You mean I am to have four ladies all to myself?” he said with a grin. “It sounds like my sort of day, ma’am.” 

“And if you think flattery is like to get you into my good graces, young man,” she said, tapping him on the arm, “you are quite right. I have ordered the barouche. You will have to squeeze between your mama and Annabelle.”

“And I can let my breath out,” the marquess said, chuckling, “and start to think of billiards.”

Rosamund had looked forward to spending the time with the other ladies indoors or walking in the formal gardens, where some spring flowers were already coming into bud. But she was not unduly disappointed when the Reverend Strangelove asked her to go riding with him.

“Robin and Christobel are to be of the party, too,” he said, bowing to her, “so it will be quite unexceptionable for you to accept, my dear Rosamund. Indeed, Christobel will need your presence as chaperone. Of course, on my great-uncle’s property there would be nothing improper anyway about a respectable widow riding alone with a man of the cloth. But even so, I would not wish to disturb your tender sensibilities or invite censure from any of my esteemed relatives or those of the Earl of Wetherby.”

“I shall be glad of the fresh air and exercise, Toby,” Rosamund said before escaping to change into her riding habit. It was a beautiful day again.

The four of them rode together until they realized that they were close to the village and might as well ride the extra mile to enter it. Christobel remembered that she needed some new yellow ribbon to trim the ball gown she intended to wear for her grandfather’s birthday ball. The Reverend Strange-love decided that the vicar would undoubtedly be hurt if he knew that a fellow member of the cloth had been in the village and had not called on him.

Robin escorted Christobel to the shops while Rosamund agreed to accompany the Reverend Strangelove to the vicarage.

They decided almost immediately not to stay long as the vicar was from home and the vicar’s wife, who was within two months of a confinement, was clearly feeling unwell. Even so, by the time Toby had delivered several speeches in which he assured himself that Mrs. Crutchley would be far more comfortable left alone and then paused while she assured him that she was delighted to entertain visitors, almost an hour had passed. There was no sign of Robin and Christobel. They must have grown tired of waiting and returned home.

However, the marchioness’s barouche was driving along the village street and stopped at their approach.

“Well met,” Lady Gilmore said, smiling at them. “Are you coming from the vicarage? How is Mrs. Crutchley today?”

“Feeling rather tired, I’m afraid,” Rosamund said.

“But very gratified by our visit, Aunt,” the Reverend Strangelove added. “I do believe her spirits were lifted by a visit from a man of the cloth other than her good husband. And of course she was delighted at the condescension of the visit from Lady Hunter. Unfortunately, the Reverend Crutchley was from home.”

“And is just arriving back now, I believe,” Lady March said, looking along the street toward the vicarage. “Perhaps we should postpone our call until another day, Mama.” 

“I should hate to disturb a poor lady who is close to a confinement,” Lady Wetherby said.

“I am sure the good lady would be deeply hurt to know that you had been in the village and had not seen fit to wait upon her, Great-aunt,” the Reverend Strangelove said.

“We will call for ten minutes,” Lady Gilmore said, “and persuade Mrs. Crutchley to accept the services of a couple of maids for a while. They have only their cook.”

“I shall take upon myself the privilege of returning with you, Aunt,” the Reverend Strangelove said. “The Reverend Crutchley will be disappointed to have missed the chance of a conversation with another man of the cloth.”

“I shall ride home,” Rosamund said firmly.

“It would be very rag-mannered of all of us to allow you to do so alone, my dear,” the marchioness said. “I have an idea that should be satisfactory to all of us. You must relinquish your horse to Justin, Tobias, and he will ride home with Rosamund. He has been extremely good in visiting all afternoon with us and charming all the ladies into collective sighs. It is time to reward him.”

Rosamund sat tensely in her saddle while Lana and Lady Wetherby laughed and Toby dismounted, having commended the marchioness on her good sense and Justin on his kindness in being willing to accompany her home.

Justin looked at Annabelle.

“Aunt Rosa should not be alone,” she told him gravely. And so her day was to be ruined, after all. Just when she had thought she was to go through a whole day without the oppression of his closeness, she was being thrust into his presence for a long ride of at least half an hour. He swung himself up into the saddle of Toby’s horse.

“Well,” he said after they had ridden along the village street and out onto a country road, “there is really only one thing to be done about this, Rosamund.” And he looked at her and chuckled until she joined in his laughter. “It is either this or cry, you know, and I hate crying. It seems such an unmanly occupation.”

“If Toby would only talk less and listen and observe more,” she said, “he would have persuaded everyone to leave the poor lady alone to rest.”

“In other words,” he said, “Toby is an ass. Do you promise faithfully not to marry him, Rosamund?”

“If you have a Bible on your person,” she said, “I will cheerfully swear on it.”

“He is going to ask you, you know,” he said. “Very soon, too. My guess is that he will want the announcement made at the birthday ball. And my second guess is that he will do the thing properly, on one knee. It might get sore, for I will wager that his proposal speech will last for at least fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t,” she said, laughing. “You are being unkind.”

“But quite truthful,” he said, “as you very well know. I wonder what sort of a pompous speech he would deliver when bedding you.”

“Neither of us will ever know,” she said, her laughter dying.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was in bad taste. Must we take this road? Can we go across country?”

“Yes, easily,” she said. “There is a gate into the pasture just a little farther along.”

They were soon riding across fields and past budding trees. They had lapsed into silence.

“How well do you know Annabelle?” he asked her at last. “Does she confide in you?”

“Annabelle is a very private person,” she said. “I don’t believe she confides in anyone. Are you disturbed because she is always so very serious? That is just Annabelle, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t know of any swain back in your brother’s neighborhood who is sighing for her favors?” he asked.

She looked at him sharply. “Has she said anything that makes you think there is such a person?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” he said. “There is no one more proper or more accepting of the life others have arranged for her than Annabelle. She is all good sense and duty and sweetness, and she has shut the door to her inner self against all comers, I believe. I thought perhaps she might have opened it to you. She admires you a great deal.”

“She will be a good wife to you,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he said. “She will not give me a moment’s trouble. I will not hear a single sigh from her over the mysterious swain.”

“What makes you think there is such a man?” she asked. 

“She is trying to fall in love with me,” he said. “There seems to be little need to do so, unless she is trying to fall out of love with someone else.”

Rosamund was silent, unable and unwilling to ask him if he was trying to do the same thing. But then he did not believe in love, as he had told her on an earlier occasion. Only in satisfying his appetites—until now. And now in being faithful and loyal to his chosen bride.

And it seemed very possible that there was someone else. She had not really thought of it before, but it made perfect sense. Certainly Annabelle had been crying the night before. She had been puffy-eyed that morning when Rosamund had called on her before breakfast, and she had claimed that the birds singing outside her window had kept her awake and given her a headache. But dawn did not come very early at the beginning of March.

Rosamund had concluded that something had happened between the girl and Justin, that somehow she was regretting the betrothal she was about to make. And the thought had made Rosamund feel quite ill. She still believed in her theory, but it would make more sense if Annabelle were in love with someone else. If she were not, then surely she would be pleased, or at least accepting of the match that had been arranged for her. After all, most eighteen-year old girls would be over the moon at the prospect of marrying a young and handsome and wealthy earl.

“Perhaps she is just overwhelmed by the occasion,” she said. “Next week, when the deed is accomplished, she will probably relax and be far more cheerful.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “And will I be more relaxed? And will you?”

“I will not be here,” she said. “I have fortunately remembered that Leonard has a distant cousin living just thirty miles from here. I shall visit her next week, after the ball. Dennis and Lana can take me up on their way home the following week. It will be better that way. I am relieved that I have thought of it.”

“Yes,” he said. “But how are you going to avoid me at my wedding and down through the years, Rosamund?”

“These feelings we have will wear off,” she said. “It is just that it all happened little over a month ago. Eventually we will forget and find it easy to be in each other’s company. But not yet. This time next week I will be gone. A few more days and then you will not have to be afraid that, try as we will, we will not be able keep out of each other’s company.” 

“Meanwhile,” he said, “there are still these few days. And I am still free, relatively speaking. And there is still what remains of this afternoon, when we did not scheme to be alone together but are alone, nevertheless. We are not far from the lake, are we? Let’s ride that way. Let’s enjoy this hour for what it’s worth. Shall we?”

“You are asking me to go with you to make love with you?” she asked quietly.

He did not answer immediately. “I don’t know,” he said. “Am I? Yes, I suppose I am, and it would not do, would it? But let’s have that hour together anyway, Rosamund. Let’s ride to the lake and sit there quietly for a while. Let’s see if we can find some peace that will take us through these difficult days. We were friends as well as lovers, weren’t we?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. He had noticed that, too, then. It had not been entirely physical for him. She was not sure she was glad he felt as she did. And it would be madness to go with him. Even if they did not end up making love, there was no peace to be found together. Only more torment. “Will you come?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

They turned their horses in the direction of the lake without another word.