Someone to Care

And yes, he was an abject weakling.

* * *

• • •

When Viola had returned home to Hinsford, in her own carriage and with her own servants this time, she had urged Abigail to remain with Camille and Joel and the children. She was happy there, Viola knew, with her sister and nieces and nephew and the constant comings and goings of artists and musicians and writers and children from the orphanage, among others. Abigail had insisted upon returning home with her mother, however.

What Viola had really hoped for was to go alone to Redcliffe. As the days passed the events of those few weeks became more and more unreal in her mind and the predicament in which she found herself more intolerable. Why on earth had she not spoken up for herself in Devonshire and told her own family and his that they might make what they would of their discovery but there would be no marriage? Did she really care that her behavior might be the subject of drawing room gossip for weeks or months to come? She no longer mingled with polite society except in the very small circle of her friends and neighbors at home. What was said about her elsewhere would not hurt her.

Why had she not stood up to Marcel more forcefully and flatly refused to be bullied? It was not as though he wanted to marry her, after all. It was just his sense of honor that had driven him to it, and she doubted even that would have mattered to him if his children had not been among those who had arrived on the scene. Except that he had announced their betrothal before his children came. Had he done it because of Abby, then? It certainly would not have been because he feared a challenge from Alexander or Joel.

But of course the reason she had not spoken up was precisely the reason he had. Their children had discovered them, and their children must be protected from the sordid nature of what they had seen. They must be persuaded that it was all in fact very nearly respectable, as their parents were betrothed and had been even before they came there.

That they must now end the charade of the betrothal was, of course, imperative. But they must find a way of doing it that would cause the least pain to their children. Whatever pain she caused herself would be fully deserved. It was one thing to snap after years of discipline and general unhappiness and two years of intense misery and to make the impulsive decision to run away for a short spell with a man notorious for his womanizing. It was another to be caught and thereby to pass on her misery to her children, who had suffered enough, and to his children, who seemed to her to be very innocent and therefore vulnerable. She was not, alas, alone in this world. Who was it who had said . . . ? She had read it somewhere. William Shakespeare? John Milton? No, John Donne. He had written something to the effect that no man is an island, that everyone is a part of the mainland, that everyone’s suffering affects everyone else. She wished she could remember the whole passage. There was something about a bell tolling and someone sending to ask for whose death it tolled. It tolls for thee. She could recall those exact words, at least.

He had been quite right, Mr. Donne. Her great adventure had also been her great selfishness.

But she would extricate herself. She must. She must not compound one wrong with another much worse wrong. She wished, then, that Abigail had chosen to remain in Bath with Camille, so that she could do it alone. It was not to be, however, and so she must make the best of the situation.

There had been two weeks of almost relentless rain after they returned to Hinsford. But at last the sky had cleared and ever since they had been enjoying glorious crisp weather with the trees in the full glory of their autumn colors. It was the perfect time to be traveling, Viola thought. It was just a pity she dreaded the end of the journey.

She was troubled by her brief acquaintance with his children. Lady Estelle Lamarr, with the wildly varying emotions of a very young lady and the obvious hurt she felt at her father’s unpredictability, was particularly vulnerable to anything that might bring her pain. Her twin seemed on the surface to be quite the opposite—a quiet, dignified, controlled young man. Viola suspected, however, that he was far more like his sister than had been apparent. It was Estelle who was organizing the betrothal party. Viola hoped the plans were not too elaborate or the guest list too large, though neither was likely for a country entertainment. Fortunately—very fortunately—it was also to be a slightly belated birthday party for her father. It could still proceed as that, then, even after the ending of the betrothal.

The girl would be disappointed, though. She was the only one among the eight of them who had seemed unreservedly delighted to learn that her father was about to marry. She had assumed, of course, that if he was married he would settle down at Redcliffe and give her the sort of home life she had probably always craved. Viola could cheerfully shake Marcel for that alone. It was hard to forgive fathers who took no responsibility for their children except—in some cases—a monetary one. As if that were in any way adequate.

But she could not marry him just to please his daughter.

Harry did not know yet, though she had written to him. She had considered withholding the news of her supposed betrothal in the hope that he might never have to know. But she was not the only one who wrote to him. Camille and Abigail wrote frequently. So did young Jessica and probably a few of the aunts and one or both grandmothers. It would be impossible to keep him in the dark. There had been one letter awaiting her when she returned home, and another had arrived two days later. She called them letters, but they were his usual brief, cheerful notes, in which he claimed to be enjoying himself immensely and meeting a lot of capital fellows and seeing a lot of impressive places. One would hardly guess that he was in the very midst of a vicious war. But there was no point in worrying.

Or, rather, there was no point in trying not to worry.

“I think this must be it, Mama,” Abigail said, and sure enough, the carriage was making a sharp turn just short of a village onto a wide, treelined driveway partially carpeted with fallen leaves, though there were plenty more still on the trees.

They wound through woodland for a couple of minutes before emerging between rolling, tree-dotted lawns stretching in both directions. The grass had been cleared of all but freshly fallen leaves. Viola could see the marks of rakes on its surface.

And the house. She glimpsed it for a moment before the driveway bent away from it. It was a massive classical structure of gray stone with a pillared portico and a flight of wide stone steps leading up to massive front doors. It had been built to impress, even perhaps to inspire awe in visitors and petitioners. Viola could feel her heart beating faster. She was very glad of the long years of experience she had had of dealing with situations she would rather avoid. She remained outwardly calm and aloof, while Abigail sat with her nose almost touching the window as she gazed ahead.

“We must have been seen approaching,” she said. “There is the Marquess of Dorchester. And Lady Estelle. And Viscount Watley.”

For a moment Viola could not recall who Viscount Watley was. But of course it was Bertrand’s courtesy title as his father’s heir.

And then the carriage turned before slowing and coming to a halt below the portico. She could see for herself that there was indeed a reception party awaiting them.

She saw only one of them.

Her stomach clenched tightly and tried to turn a somersault all at the same time, leaving her breathless and nauseated. He was dressed as immaculately as he might be for a reception at Carlton House with the Prince of Wales. He looked austere and was unsmiling. It would be ridiculous to say she had forgotten just how handsome he was. Of course she had not forgotten. It was just that . . .