The Great Family Gathering. Cornwall, October, 1863.
Innesford Hall had not changed, not by an inch, even though Cian was now the master of it. Peering through the dirty carriage window and seeing everything as it was when she was here last was reassuring. Sharla’s innards relaxed.
“A handsome house,” Wakefield murmured, next to her. It was the first time he had spoken since they had changed trains in London.
Sharla bent to look again. “Natasha’s roses are still blooming—even the black ones! The maze is still there…!”
“Was there reason to think it might not be?” Wakefield asked.
“I suppose not,” Sharla said stiffly, sitting back.
The carriage came to a jolting halt. The driver climbed down to open the door. Sharla thought she recognized him from previous journeys to Cornwall. A Truro man, most likely.
It was not Corcoran who came forward to welcome them. Travers had been head footman, the last time she had been here.
“Oh, where is Corcoran, Travers?” She climbed out of the carriage, using Wakefield’s hand to steady herself and not snag any of the twenty-two yards of her worsted wool traveling suit. “Is he well?”
“Well enough, Lady Patricia,” Travers assured her, his young, thin face earnest. “The master insisted he join the family today. You’ll find him by the croquet court.”
“Then you are butler, now?” she asked.
“Going on a year now, my lady.”
“Congratulations, Travers. That is a smart promotion.”
“Thank you, my lady. If you and your Grace would like to walk through, the family are settling for lunch.”
“Thank you, Travers,” Wakefield told him and held out his elbow.
Sharla slid her fingers beneath it, her heart thudding hard.
“This way, your Grace.” Travers pushed the big door open and led them through the echoing front hall to the big public rooms beyond. The formal drawing room with its floor to ceiling multi-paned windows and doors was, as ever, a haven of comfort, with many groups of chairs and sofas, cushions and rugs. The doors and windows stood open, despite the mild coolness of the day. Through them came the sound of people murmuring and laughing. High childish voices piped. China clinked.
Sharla didn’t realize she was squeezing Wakefield’s arm until he patted her fingers with his gloved hand. She worked to relax her grip, although calming her heart and reducing the tightness in her chest was impossible.
They followed Travers out into the garden. The croquet court lay abandoned, with mallets, hoops and balls scattered everywhere. Next to it was a row of lounging chairs of the type one found at Brighton, their cheerful striped canvas a pleasing note against the backdrop of the formal gardens.
In the last chair was Corcoran. The old butler’s hair was white and thinning, with liver spots showing beneath it. He was huddled beneath several blankets and was frankly asleep.
Beyond the croquet court was the informal cricket pitch. There, the men and children and sometimes even the ladies—especially Sadie—would try out their batting and bowling and catching skills.
The big pavilion sat on the flat grass on the edge of the croquet court. The sides rippled in the soft sea-salt ladened wind. Everyone was inside the tent.
Travers held the flap open for them, forcing them to step inside.
Before Travers could do more than clear his throat preparatory to announcing them, multiple cries went up around the big, long U-shaped table. Everyone scrambled to their feet and hurried around the edges of the tent to greet them.
The first to reach them was Cian. He shook Wakefield’s hand, then hugged Sharla. “You did come,” he said warmly. “Well done.”
He drew them both to the table, threading around chairs to a spot near the top where there were two empty places. Everyone tried to talk to Sharla at once. She saw Natasha and Raymond and Lilly and Jasper Thomsett’s dark head. Bronwen, too. Bronwen was tall, now. Her hems had been turned down and brushed the grass, yet her hair was loose and flowing, like a girl’s.
Jenny hugged Sharla, her eyes shining. “We must talk, later!”
The twins, Mairin and Bridget, waved at her, keeping their seats.
Rhys and Vaughn both got to their feet as they drew closer and shook Wakefield’s hand with small murmurs of welcome. The gray in Vaughn’s hair was thicker than ever, while Rhys’ temples were silver, the rest of his head a rich Celtic black.
Cian waved them both to the empty pair of chairs, while Travers slid the chair beneath Sharla as she sat, not catching a single layer of her dress.
Sharla glanced around the table as everyone returned to their seats. Ben wasn’t there.
The footmen were serving soup. The broth smelled rich and hot. Sharla’s mouth watered. She had not been hungry for a long time. Now she was ravenous.
Cian entertained the new guest, asking Wakefield polite questions about their journey from York. He was a considerate host. The hereditary title fit well on his shoulders.
“Tell me, Cian,” Sharla asked, lifting her voice, for Cian was at the head of the table. “Are you still determined to marry into the family, now you have us perched on your doorstep?”
Groans sounded around the table.
“And Sharla is back amongst us once more, with her direct questions,” Lilly said.
Cian frowned. “I told Lilly that…years ago,” he said.
“I warned the rest of the family,” Lilly said, with a smile. “Even grouse get to hear the dog when it draws near.”
Will shook his head. “Marriage and motherhood haven’t softened you, either,” he teased.
“Thank God,” Jasper added, his hand on Lilly’s shoulder.
Lilly rested her hand over his, with a warm smile.
“How is little Seth?” Sharla asked, just now remembering what they had named their son.
“Pining for brothers,” Jasper said.
“Which he’ll have before the end of the year,” Lilly added, her hand pressing against her waist.
The entire pavilion paused for a heartbeat. Then cries of congratulations sounded around the tent. Lilly blushed and pressed her face to Jasper’s shoulder as he laughed and shook hands thrust at him from all directions.
Sharla caught the glances sent toward her. The speculative expressions. They were wondering why she did not have an announcement of her own. She dropped her gaze to her lap and her twining fingers, as they twisted the corner of the napkin hard enough to make the stitching tear.
When Travers ladled soup into her bowl, Sharla picked up her spoon with silent thanks, even though her appetite had fled.
“May I ask, Lord Innesford,” Wakefield said, raise his voice above the murmur of a dozen conversations. “Are you still committed to marrying inside the family?”
Cian’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask, Lord Wakefield?”
“Oh, Wakefield will do,” he replied. “Especially in this casual environment. I ask, because I am curious to know how many of your extended cousins will be forced to search outside the family for spouses, if everyone is as keen to find a husband or wife from among you.”
“He has you there,” Princess Annalies said, from the other side of Cian. “Simple mathematics and a calendar prove not everyone can share that wish.”
With a start, Sharla realized that Elisa was sitting next to the Princess. Sharla tore her gaze away from Annalies and that general area of the table.
“Not everyone here wants a husband from amongst us,” Lilly said.
Cian shook his head. “Jasper was nearly family.”
“We don’t want to marry cousins,” Mairin said, her arched brows lifting even higher.
Bridget, her twin, and sitting next to her as usual, nodded. “It would be like marrying your brother!”
“Ugh,” someone whispered.
With a start of surprise, Sharla noticed the twins were wearing different styles of dress. Mairin’s was blue with black braiding and high in the neck. Bridget wore her hair higher than Mairin and a jacket and skirt over a lovely white lace blouse.
“There are benefits to marrying someone whom you once thought of in brotherly ways,” Natasha told them.
“Exactly,” Cian said. “Although, I much prefer a cousin of the sisterly variety, of course.”
“Which is why I warned everyone,” Lilly added.
Everybody laughed.
“Well, I won’t marry you, cousin,” Bronwen called from the far end of the table. “I have no intention of ever getting married.”
“You will never be asked, if you don’t put up your hair and wear shoes occasionally,” Cian shot back.
“A corset would help, too,” Annalies added, with a despairing sigh.
“Sadie doesn’t wear a corset,” Bronwen said, her expression mulish.
“Where is Sadie?” Sharla asked, trying to shift the conversation. The battles between Princess Annalies and her two oldest, free-thinking daughters were frequent.
“Constantinople,” Rhys said. “We think.”
“It might be America by now,” Vaughn added. “Peter’s last letter said the ship would leave in only a day or two.”
“Sadie is traveling with Peter?” Sharla asked. “I thought she might want to travel alone.”
“Oh, Peter isn’t there to protect her,” Will said, with a grin. “It is more likely Sadie will keep Peter out of trouble.”
“Daniel will meet them in New York. At least there will be three of them.” Natasha sounded as though she was trying hard to be positive.
“Daniel is in New York?” Sharla said. Daniel was only a year older than her, which made him twenty years old. “He actually left Cambridge?”
“He is working for the Times as a foreign correspondent,” Natasha said. “They’re sending him to Georgia next month.” Her mouth worked, then her lips thinned as she pressed them together.
“Journalists are non-combatants, mother,” Cian said. “Neither side will fire upon him. You should be proud of him for how far he has come along. He said he wanted to write and he is succeeding at it.”
“I know. Oh, I know,” Natasha replied. “It’s just…he will be in the middle of a war.”
“A rather bitter war,” Lilly added.
“Civil wars are always bitter, Lady Lillian,” Wakefield told her.
Jasper nodded. He had been a soldier, once.
For a moment, the mood dipped and darkened.
“Benjamin!” Emma squealed. She jumped up, knocking over her chair before Travers or the nearest footman could help, then ran the length of the tent.
Ben bent and caught her as she threw herself at him. He straightened, holding the young girl tight, while her boots dangled a foot above the ground.
As everyone surged to their feet once more to greet the latest arrival, Sharla lowered her spoon back into the soup bowl. Her middle turned hot and ached.
Ben was here, after all.
Now what was she to do?
* * * * *
Jenny reached the center of the maze and sat upon the stone bench there, even though the last thing she wanted to do was sit. Despite the rows of hedging, the sounds of the family finishing their meal—calling for coffee and brandy, tea and more custard, please—was loud. It sounded as though they were just on the other side of the innermost layer of bushes. In fact, the pavilion was around the corner of the big house. The volume did not ease Jenny’s heart.
She leapt to her feet again as soft steps sounded from around the last turn of the maze.
Jack appeared. He saw her and breathed out a deep sigh of relief, as he glanced over his shoulder.
“Did anyone see you?” Jenny asked, keeping her voice low.
“I headed for the stables and came right around the house to get here.” He moved closer. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled his shirt sleeves out of the way. Jack liked cricket. He and Will were both bowlers. Jack had been bowling when Jenny had first noticed he had become a man, three years ago. She had watched his big body moving as he ran and tossed the ball, her heart quickening.
Her heart skittered even now, as Jack inched closer to the bench. “Their talk of marrying cousins…” She swallowed. “Oh, Jack, we’re more than that! We’re nearly brother and sister!”
He settled his hand against her waist. She could feel the heat of it through her corset, which did little to stifle her heart.
“We’re not related. Not at all,” he said, his voice low.
“We grew up in the same house.”
“That means we know each other better than most husbands and wives.” His lips brushed hers.
Jenny sighed as they pressed more insistently. His tongue touched her lips. Slid inside her mouth. She trembled as heated longing rushed through her.
Jack stroked her cheek, then picked up her hand. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“The carriage house.” His gaze met hers.
Jenny drew in a shaky breath. She understood what he was not saying. If she went with him, this moment would not end with the wild, desperate kisses with which all such moments had ended, for a year now.
“What else is there, for us?” Jack said, as if he read her mind.
Indeed. What else was there? Any formal union between them was impossible. Jack’s real mother, the Lady Laceby, had seen to that.
Jenny’s eyes stung with building tears. She nodded and let Jack draw her through the maze.
* * * * *
A sudden rainstorm brought the afternoon’s outdoor activities to an abrupt end shortly after three o’clock.
As squalls and blustery, unpredictable weather was common along the Cornish coast, the family had long ago learned to accommodate the conditions. Everyone rushed inside, laughing and chattering. The smaller children ran upstairs, where a dormitory on the top floor had become a room dedicated to indoor games. Quoits and hopscotch, charades, blindman’s buff and forfeits, along with a good supply of lemonade and fruitcake, kept them occupied.
The adults lingered in the drawing room while Travers organized impromptu pots of tea and circled the room with the brandy decanter, his two senior footmen in tow.
Bronwen threw herself in the big armchair in the corner of the room, that was usually reserved for the older men. Her narrow hoops collapsed about her knees, which she draped over one arm. She propped an elbow on the back of the chair. “Brandy, please, Travers!” she called.
Princess Annalies scowled at her.
Sharla stared, for Bronwen was barefoot. Her pink toes peeped beneath her hems.
Sharla sat in one of the other corners, as far away from Elisa and from Ben as geography would allow. She monitored both of them, for they stayed on their feet, wandering about the room, talking to everyone. Neither of them seemed to have noticed her in the corner, which was a relief.
No one came to speak to her, which was an even greater relief. Alone, she was free to watch everyone in the room, tallying differences. It wasn’t just the twins who had changed.
Morgan, Ben’s younger brother, was twenty now and very tall. He had his father’s Welsh looks. His hair was pitch black. So were his eyes. His skin was pale. He was a baritone, just as Cian and Daniel were. The last time Sharla had seen him, Morgan had been a foot shorter and not as wide in the shoulders.
Iefan was the oddity in the Davies family. Older than Morgan and the oldest natural child, he had honey brown hair and full lips, that did not favor either parent. Ben was eight years older than Iefan. He had spent his childhood getting into trouble with Will and Jack. Iefan had instead played with Cian, Daniel and Peter. Iefan was not as tall as Morgan, either, yet he had a commanding presence that made up for the difference. He was twenty-one now.
Wakefield was the first to approach Sharla in her isolated corner. He put aside his glass of port, then lifted the upright chair sitting next to the sideboard and situated it so that when he sat, his knee brushed the arm of her chair. He put his hand on her chair, his arm straight. “You are comfortable?” he asked.
Sharla put her teacup on the round table next to her. “Perfectly, thank you.” She kept her tone polite, hiding her surprise. Wakefield had sought her out and was now inquiring about her comfort? What other surprises might the day hold?
Over Wakefield’s shoulder, Ben was watching them.
Her heart leapt.
Sharla looked at her hands to hide her reaction. “There is no need to keep me company,” she told Wakefield. “Although I thank you for the effort.”
“Oh, I’m not here to keep you company.”
“You are not?”
Wakefield’s smile was wry. “It is as I expected. I am not winning the approval of your family. I sit here to give them relief from having to speak to the virtual stranger among them.”
“That isn’t true,” Sharla blurted. “My family are not as exclusionary as you think.”
“No?” He turned his head and gave his chin a small lift. “Watch them,” he breathed. “They are easy with each other. Comfortable. No other family I know uses given names as freely as yours, while I am still Lord Wakefield. Even to you,” he added, the corner of his mouth turning down.
“You prefer to be treated informally?” Sharla asked.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was studying everyone else in the room as they talked in low voices, peppered with laughter and smiles and carefree gestures. Some sat, some stood. The little groups of three and four split and reformed, a complex dance without a beat.
Even Travers and his footmen were drawn into conversation here and there, as they moved about the room, filling glasses and cups and offering refreshments.
“I would prefer,” Wakefield said, as if he was speaking to himself, “to be treated as something other than an oddity, wherever I go. I had thought your family, at the least, might be different.”
Sharla stared at him, puzzled. “People do not treat you as an oddity.”
“Not in your presence,” Wakefield said, with a small smile, his gaze coming back to her. “Not in polite society, where manners and titles hold sway. My dukedom forces them to accept me. I have heard much about your Great Family and their insistence upon judging a man for what he is, rather than who he is. I thought…” He sighed and looked around the room.
Sharla bit her lip. “I don’t understand,” she confessed. Her bewilderment was making her heart work even harder.
Wakefield sat up and patted the arm of the chair, by her hand. “Pay no mind. Such matters spoil a day of simple pleasures.”
“I believe it is too late to save it, now you have spoken,” Sharla replied. Then she bit her lip again, realizing how her comment could be construed as inconsiderate. “I mean…”
Wakefield lifted his dark brow. “Ah. The directness of speech your family decries, even as they love you for it. I believe that is the first time you have directed it at me. How ironic, if the one person to accept me was you.”
Sharla scratched at the velvet covering the arm of the chair with her thumbnail. “I’m sorry, Your Grace—”
He sighed.
“Wakefield,” she corrected herself. “My temper often brings me to speak bluntly. It is an unfortunate habit I have spent my life trying to correct.”
“It is an endearing trait, one of many such traits and secrets I have discerned. Your apology is unnecessary.”
“Secrets?” Sharla repeated. The tension in her chest grew tighter. To what secret was he referring? She squeezed a fold of her traveling suit, her palm damp.
Wakefield nodded toward the center of the room. “Your honorary sister…Jenny, yes?”
“Guinevere. Jenny, yes. What of her?”
“And your older ‘brother’, Baron Guestwick, whose parents are in India?”
“Jack?”
“Neither of them are here,” Wakefield pointed out.
Sharla looked. Wakefield was right. They were both absent. She frowned. How odd that no one had noticed their absence, except Wakefield. Where were they? Could they be together? Yet there had been no hint in any of Jenny’s letters…
“A secret, perhaps,” Wakefield said. “Then there are the glasses your honorary mother tries to hide from everyone, that she keeps in her pocket.”
“Elisa is wearing glasses?” Sharla stopped herself from glancing at Elisa, where she was standing with the twins and Will.
“Only when she must,” Wakefield said. “I believe she is shamed by the necessity.”
“Oh.” Sharla’s heart squeezed. She stole a glance toward Elisa.
“Then there is the secret reason you will not speak to her,” Wakefield added. His tone was neutral. He was not judging.
Sharla dropped her gaze to her lap once more.
Wakefield gave a soft sound that might have been a sigh. “Even inside an intimate family like this one, there are layers and hidden pockets.”
“Is that why you speak to me now?” Sharla asked him. “To appear to be a…a husband?” She raised her gaze to look him in the eye. If he found direct speech endearing, she would smother him with it.
He didn’t react as she thought he might. His gaze was steady. “I thought it prudent to appear to appreciate your company before anyone noticed how steadily you watched Benjamin.”
Sharla flinched. She gripped the velvet arm, squeezing it, as her heart slammed against her chest. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Horror turned her blood to ice.
“How long has he been boxing?” Wakefield added, his tone curious.
“Boxing?” The word emerged strangled, barely audible. Her throat was too tight to speak at normal volume.
“There is a cut above his brow and his knuckles are shredded. The unmistakable evidence of a pugilist. With those shoulders, I imagine he is rather good at it.”
“The Princess would faint, if she thought he was boxing. Rhys would, too,” Sharla breathed, her voice returning. “Ben is a solicitor and boxing…is it not prohibited, now?”
“Not yet, although there is talk of banning it.” Wakefield sounded as though they were discussing the merits of the new scented tea Lord Grey was importing from India, that was fashionable just now. “It isn’t the fighting the police object to, but the bribes and betting and other criminal activities it encourages. If your cousin is boxing, he is leading a precarious double life.”
Sharla’s throat tightened again. Her temples throbbed. She looked at Ben, openly this time. As he smoothed his trimmed beard and moustache, she saw the raw skin on his knuckles and the tiny cut over his eye. What on earth had made him take up boxing?
“Secrets, as I said.” Wakefield got to his feet. “Everyone has them. Even your great family. I will get you a fresh cup of tea.” He picked up her cup and saucer and moved away before she could protest.
Secrets.
Sharla twirled a lock of hair about her fingers, her heart working hard, her neck and her throat prickling uncomfortably.
Wakefield was far too observant. Just how much of her secret had he discerned?
* * * * *
Ben let Will’s conversation about the latest results from Goodwood wash over him. Instead, he focused upon not letting his gaze move to the corner of the room where Sharla sat. He had weakened once already, to be rewarded with the sight of her odious husband sitting next to her, leaning close and murmuring. The intimate tableau had driven into his chest deeper than Hyram Ott had managed, leaving him breathless, his bones aching.
Why was she here? Sharla had stayed away from the Great Gatherings for years. Jenny had complained to Jack, who had reported her nagging to Ben in letters and over cards at the clubs in London, when the Season was running. Ben had counted on Sharla staying away this year, too. Clearly, her husband was a more than adequate distraction.
He had thought himself recovered from the mad need for Sharla that had gripped him in the months before her wedding. He had gone about his life, believing he had banished her from his thoughts.
Now, the merest glimpse from the corner of his eye of her red locks, the bow of her full lips that turned down when she was not smiling, a hint of her temper and determination, had sent Ben reeling, his body throbbing.
He didn’t hear what Will was saying. Will’s voice wavered, booming and fading. Instead, Ben could hear his own breath, loud in his mind. His heart pounded in his ears.
A vise was squeezing his chest.
He couldn’t help it. He must look at her.
Ben turned his head.
Sharla was staring at her husband, her eyes wide, her attention upon him.
The impact was another blow to his aching chest.
It seemed appropriate that Sharla sit on the edges of the family as she was, drawing her husband away from the rest of them. She had shifted to the fringes of the family over the last few years, just as Ben had. They were standing in the same room, yet were a thousand miles away in spirit and intention.
Her marriage had tortured his soul, not simply because it forever removed her from his reach. Even as he cursed his fate, finding solace at the bottom of a glass of cheapest gin, he had admired Sharla for her determination to do the right thing. She had married to please her mother, Lady Laceby. The whole family had understood that without speaking of it, Ben most of all. Sharla’s loyalty to the family and to her mother should be applauded, even if Ben hated where they had placed her.
“Are you even listening, Ben?” Will said.
Ben shook himself. “Yes. Yes, of course, I’m listening.”
“What did I say, then?” Will asked. His teeth behind the blond beard flashed white as he grinned, knowing Ben couldn’t respond. Then his smile faded. “What ails you? You look like you’ve been run through with a rapier.”
The truth trembled on Ben’s lips. The need to speak of it, to remove the weight of it from his heart and mind, was powerful.
Yet, he could say nothing. Not to anyone and most especially not to Sharla. He must stay more silent than the grave.
He shook his head, the pressure in his chest increasing. “I need brandy,” he said and escaped before it exploded from him.
He had to do something. He couldn’t leave the house, not now, when he’d just arrived. It would raise questions he couldn’t answer. Now he had seen her again and was reacquainted with her odd beauty, the glow of her flawless skin and her direct gaze, he didn’t think he could leave. Not voluntarily.
How in Hades was he supposed to survive the next five days?