Chapter Thirteen
The ball, with its memories both painful and pleasurable, receded into the past. Cecily attempted to return to her usual pastimes of riding, walking, painting, and visiting her friends in Loxton with her customary verve.
The fact that she fell asleep every night reimagining the kiss with Robert was of no consequence. Cecily had not suffered an infatuation before, despite reaching her twentieth birthday, so she supposed that this first one had all the gravity of her age behind it in addition to a first attachment's natural strength. She was not some silly girl of sixteen ready to be whisked away by the first man to catch her eye. She was a smart and sensible young woman. She was certain that her feelings would pass.
Only when inclement weather kept her from her outdoor pursuits did she give in to her feelings of yearning. Cecily had always needed a great deal of entertainment to distract herself, and in these dire circumstance, rainy days simply would not do.
"Another sigh," remarked Jemima, who was at the pianoforte, tinkling her way through a new book of music the Duke of Loxwell had recently gifted her. "I can hear you over my playing, you know."
"It was a yawn," Cecily protested, taking up her needlework again. Jemima deliberately hit a wrong note, making her jump.
"I know a sigh when I hear one. I only wish I didn't also know the cause."
Cecily made a few careful stitches, sitting straight-backed and prim. She appeared the absolute opposite of the sort of wanton young woman who kissed questionable men under cover of darkness. Jemima, however, was not so easy to fool.
"You are thinking of him."
"On the contrary," said Cecily, lifting her fancywork up to the light to admire her own stitches. "I am thinking of the Countess of Streatham, dear Isabella. She is out of mourning for her husband now and she is longing to pay us a visit."
Jemima left the pianoforte and came to sit at Cecily's side. "Be serious, Ceci. I am worried about you."
"There is nothing at all you should worry about," said Cecily, with a bright smile. Jemima narrowed her eyes.
"Tell me. How many times have you thought of Lord Robert this morning?"
"So far?" Cecily could not stop her face from falling. She flung herself back onto the cushions. "At least a thousand times. But I am quite determined to overcome my – my silly little fancy."
"I do not know that I would call it silly, Ceci," said Jemima, taking her fancywork in hand before it fell to the floor. "I have never seen you behave this way before."
"What way is that?"
"You really don't know? You have spent these past two weeks wandering about as though you are in a daydream. Even your mother has noticed. She was on the point of summoning Doctor Hawkins for you yesterday, but I managed to dissuade her."
"Gracious! The last thing I need is one of his tonics." Cecily gave herself a little shake. She was ashamed to realise that she was doing precisely what she used to laugh at others for doing: losing her mind over some inconsequential man! "I need a good brisk walk outdoors. Not through Scarcliffe Forest. Papa's new pronouncement that I am to be accompanied whenever I set foot outside the house has me feeling rather stifled."
"You don't need a walk," said Jemima sternly. "You need to speak to your father."
"What about?" Cecily was half-afraid to hear the answer.
"I think it is in your best interests to gather all the information you can about your family's history with the Hartleys."
"But Jemima, I have just told you –"
"Tell me whatever you like. I'd rather believe the evidence of my own eyes. You have lost your head over Lord Robert, and I'd be a fool not to notice it. Don't forget how well I know you, Ceci. I know your moods, and this is a new one. A serious one. You cannot conceal it from me."
"I am not trying to be dishonest with you," sighed Cecily. "It's just that… I know I've been foolish. And I am not a foolish person, as a rule. It's almost embarrassing."
"Love is nothing to be embarrassed about," said Jemima, with a smile.
"Love! Who mentioned that?"
"Go to your father," Jemima laughed, giving her a little push. "You have a fine mind, Ceci – even if this man has mixed it up a little – and you ought to be able to get to the truth of this feud if you try. Whether your feelings for Lord Robert come to anything or not, it would be a good thing if you could bring about a peace between Loxwell Park and Scarcliffe Hall."
"That's true," said Cecily, glad that Jemima had not dwelt long on the idea of love. "I will go to him directly."
The old Duke was a creature of habit, and Cecily knew that at this time of day she would find him going over the accounts of his estate with the steward. This was a task the Duke hated, and he would welcome any interruption.
"May I have a moment, Papa?" she asked, sidling into his study without bothering to knock.
The Duke made a show of considering it. "Well, Ceci, you have caught me at a difficult time, you see… Mr Halliwell here was just drawing a very important matter to my attention."
"Oh." Cecily lowered her eyes. "I suppose my little thought must be less important. No matter. I can wait –"
"Nonsense!" the Duke interrupted quickly. "Halliwell won't begrudge me a moment with my daughter, will you, Halliwell? Nothing is quite as important as your happiness, my dear. Wait for me outside, Halliwell. We won't be long."
The steward gathered up his papers and left them alone. The Duke got up from behind his desk and went to sit in his great armchair. Cecily perched on the arm beside him and leaned fondly against his shoulder.
"Now, what seems to be the matter?" asked the Duke.
"Oh, it's just some gossip I heard in town," said Cecily airily. "Something I heard about the Earl of Scarcliffe and his family."
"Ha! What villainy have they been up to lately? No, don't tell me. It is best you think as little about that family as possible, my dear. They are far beneath you."
Cecily did not think there was much chance of her thinking any less of Robert. She tried a different tactic. "Why exactly are they thought of so badly, Papa? I know the old story about Uncle Thomas who died in a carriage accident, but you have never explained to me just why it was the Hartley family's fault."
The Duke sighed and rubbed a hand over his knee. "It is not a pretty story, Ceci. I wish you would have me tell you something else."
"I am not a child, Papa."
"That's true. That's true. And perhaps it is better that you know the truth, so that you may arm yourself against falsehoods. The fact of the matter is that our family was once very close with the Hartleys. Why, when I was a boy, I spent more time at Scarcliffe Hall than I did at home! The Marquess and I were once great friends. Once, I even hoped that our friendship might survive our father's falling out. But, when we became men, it was clear that was not meant to be. It is not proper to remain friends with a man who continues to spread such evil lies about our family. It is not right. And, for the sake of my departed father, I cannot forgive him."
"Tell me everything that happened," said Cecily. The Duke patted her hand.
"I am getting to the point, Ceci. Don't rush me. The sad truth is that the Hartleys, though a noble family, are not deserving of their fine titles. The carriage which carried Uncle Thomas to his death was one of theirs. They simply did not take good enough care of their possessions. They were always a little wild – I am sure you cannot have escaped hearing of the wildness of the Earl of Scarcliffe and his brother – and it was their neglect that killed poor Thomas. He was a very sweet man. I will never forget the way he used to supplement my pocket money from his own allowance! I was a favourite of his, I believe, and he never wanted me to go without. The way my grandmother wailed when she heard of his death will haunt me till my dying day.
"Well, after the tragic accident – and no-one ever claimed it was anything more than an accident, mark you – you would expect that an honourable family would send their condolences. But that is not what happened. Those vicious Hartleys, in an effort to shrug off the blame for Thomas's death, accused him of a shameful kidnapping of a daughter of theirs. Her name was Letitia, as I recall. Nice girl, not too bright.
"As you can imagine, the pain their lies caused my grandparents and my father was immeasurable. Thomas was an honourable man! No-one would have dared to accuse him of wrongdoing while he was alive. But in death, the Hartleys' true colours came out.
"Worse still, it soon came to light that they had invented the kidnapping to prevent Letitia's reputation being ruined by her own foolishness – the daft girl had run away with a painter! Not the sort of match the Hartleys could abide for their own blood, and so they chose to add to our family's pain with a cruel story." Noticing how quiet Cecily had become, the Duke gave her a bristly kiss on the cheek. "I know, my dear. It is all quite unpleasant."
"It certainly is," said Cecily, a little faintly. She had not anticipated the disgust with which her father spoke of Robert's family. "But… perhaps this is a foolish thought, but Thomas and Letitia are now long dead. The old Marquess's words did not harm them, and you said yourself that the current Marquess was once your friend. Is there no hope of any reconciliation?"
Her father had not been expecting that response. He burst out into a fit of outraged coughing. "Reconciliation? Have you not listened to a word of what I told you? Not only did they once insult our family, but they continue to do so! The Marquess has never apologised for his father's behaviour – nay, he actively supports it! You have had the good fortune of never encountering the man or his sons, my dear, so you do not know how they spread poison about our good name everywhere they go! Why, this ball they threw lately was a prime example. Do you think that if the Marquess was prepared to admit to the wrongs of the past, he would have snubbed us so? It is as plain as day that not one of those men repent their family history at all. No, it does not matter what the Marquess was to me as a boy – a true Balfour can never forget their insults, and must certainly not forgive."
"Of course, Papa," said Cecily, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. "I quite understand."
"Now, see? I knew all this talk of villainy would upset you." The Duke gave her arm a comforting rub. "Don't dwell on it, Ceci. The Hartley men are nothing to you, and, with any luck, they know well enough to leave you alone."
"I can only hope so," Cecily lied. She got to her feet. "Well, thank you for telling me, Papa. I feel much more at ease now that I understand the whole story."
The Duke lowered his bushy eyebrows. "You do not seem at ease, my dear."
"Perhaps I must admit to being a little disturbed." Cecily forced a smile onto her face. "I will lie down for a little while. Some rest will restore my spirits in no time."
"I am glad to hear it," her father smiled. "What would I do without my own little ray of sunshine, eh?" He turned his cheek towards her, and she obligingly gave him a kiss. The strain of appearing happy was tying her stomach into agonising knots, but she was determined not to let it show.
"I will send Halliwell back in to you, Papa," she said, making her exit.
"Oh – yes, yes. I suppose you must. Come on in, Halliwell!"
Cecily did not make it to the end of the corridor before her mask slipped and she felt pure misery settle on her features. She ran upstairs quickly, so that no-one could see her, and flung herself onto her bed.
She loved her father dearly. She did. She did.
Then why was she so convinced in her heart that he was wrong?
She knew that her duty was to hate the Hartleys. She had always been a dutiful daughter.
"But I cannot hate you, Robert," she whispered into her pillow. "Even if you kissed me only to ruin me, I cannot hate you."
There was no hope of resting, as she had claimed. Cecily lay on her bed in a turmoil of sadness and confusion, watching the shadows of the evening draw slowly in across the ceiling.
The one man she wanted was the only man she could never have. How had she managed to organise her affections so poorly?
What would become of her if Robert could never be hers?