Two
Joy lay sprawled across her father’s lap as their coach bounced along. She had been asleep for the better part of an hour. Justin caressed her golden curls, twining one of them around his finger. This child had been a marvel to him from the moment she was born. Her first coherent word had been “Papa.” It had not taken her long to start stringing two, then three and more words together. At first only he and the nurse—and often Belinda—had been able to understand her babble. She was soon speaking clearly and asking dozens of questions, most frequently “Why?” He had loved listening to her at play with her dolls as she carried on imaginary conversations.
It has been such a long time, he mused. “I surely hope your Aunt Irene is right about this,” he said softly to the sleeping form.
Joy’s eyes had glowed with pleasure when he told her of the proposed visit. They had been in the nursery and she went immediately to pick up her favorite doll, clearly asking if she could take it along.
“Of course you may bring Penelope,” he had said. When she then picked up three more dolls, he had laughed and said, “No, poppet. Only one. Sarah and Becky have a closet full of dolls you may play with.”
She had readily accepted this, though she had to have her “blanket”—a scrap of an old blue blanket that had been given to her for her doll’s bed, but which Joy carried around as a constant attachment to her person. Even now she hugged it in her sleep. Persuading her to give it up for an occasional washing usually involved diversionary tactics like a ride in the park with her beloved papa.
Justin sighed. “Why, little one? Why do you refuse to speak?” He had asked the question hundreds of times.
He knew the surface answer.
Belinda, ordinarily a patient and loving mother, had been cranky and out of sorts intermittently for months before her death. She complained of terrible headaches. When they were upon her, she demanded total darkness and absolute quiet. She had once asked him to silence two maids who were giggling in the hallway as “their noise was killing her.” He knew a little girl’s chatter had probably been most unwelcome to the suffering woman. Had she said something similar to Joy?
Doctors called in to examine Belinda surmised that she suffered some sort of growth that put pressure on her brain. In any event, her pain seemed to intensify and there was little anyone could do to alleviate it. She began to take larger and larger doses of laudanum to combat the agony.
The medication seemed to help, though it often left her in a state of unconsciousness. In their concern for the mother, few noticed that, as Belinda spent more and more time in a drug-induced stupor, her daughter had begun to withdraw. Finally, Belinda had taken an unusually large dose of the medication and had simply never awakened.
Joy, arriving in her mother’s chamber for their customary time together and prattling happily as she went through the door, had been the one to discover Belinda just lying there. She seemed instinctively to sense that something was terribly wrong. Servants had discovered her screaming “Mama! Mama!”
When she understood that her mama had gone away and would not come back, she had simply quit talking. Period. She no longer babbled to her dolls. Those incessant questions were silenced. Nor did she often smile.
“If only I knew what to do,” Justin murmured. Never in his life had he felt so helpless.
He deliberately turned his mind to Everleigh’s house party. He looked forward to renewing some old friendships. Even with Meghan Kenwick? he twitted himself. Well, maybe not Mrs. Kenwick—especially if she were still inclined to blame him for her losses.
Justin did not know her well, though he remembered dancing with her once or twice at a ball. He had liked the feel of her in his arms and her conversation in a social setting had been pleasant enough. It was a shame such an attractive woman was possessed of such a negative character. She was not an accredited beauty in the classic manner, but there was something very appealing about the petite Mrs. Kenwick. She had dark brown hair and her clear gray eyes bespoke intelligence. A rare smile transformed her appearance to a dazzling degree.
She apparently had little patience with fools. Yet she had chosen to marry one. Well, maybe not a fool, precisely, but certainly a fellow with few ideas of his own and little initiative, albeit he was an agreeable fellow. Perhaps she was just one of those controlling females who liked to run things her way. Kenwick had complained often enough of his wife’s demands. Justin had not approved of the man’s publicly airing grievances against his wife. However, hints to divert him had proved ineffective.
Mrs. Kenwick, according to her husband, was never satisfied. She belittled him, ignored him, and disapproved of his decisions regarding their son. She was, Kenwick said, always pressing him to read some treatise on chimney sweeps or some such, or attend this or that political or literary meeting. Kenwick lamented the fact that the social debutante he had married had “turned into something of a bluestocking.”
With a wife so indifferent to her husband’s interests, perhaps it was understandable that a man like Kenwick had sought comfort elsewhere.
Bitter cold had arrived by the time Meghan journeyed to Everleigh. When she had to break a thin sheeting of ice in the water pitcher in her room at an inn, she was thankful to have only one overnight en route. Wrapped in a hooded cloak lined with white fur, she stepped out of the inn door. The air was crisp and she noticed that everyone’s speech was punctuated with misty puffs.
“ ’Tis dreadful cold, ma’am.” Her coachman stood back as a footman handed her and her maid into the vehicle. “We reheated the bricks, though, so it should be warm fer ye and Betsy here.”
Sure enough, as the carriage door opened, she felt the warmth emanating from the bricks on the straw-covered floor.
“Thank you, Mr. Hawkins,” she said.
“Leastwise, the cold will make our going easier,” the talkative coachman observed. “Mud is the worst thing for slowing us. Won’t have that till midday at earliest. Should practically be there by then.”
“Good. You and Tony be sure to wrap yourselves tightly.”
The journey itself was uneventful and the day too dreary to afford much enjoyment from passing scenery. Betsy dozed in the opposite seat and Meghan was alone with her thoughts and memories. Recalling Eleanor’s comment about meeting an amiable gentleman, Meghan snorted quietly. If Eleanor only knew. . . .
Burton Kenwick had been the very epitome of “an amiable gentleman” as he courted her. She could do nothing wrong. She was a goddess to be treasured. Once she was his, however, she lost her value. Only now was she beginning to understand the extent to which she had lost herself in trying to please a man who could not be pleased.
Her friends were the wrong people. Her taste in dress was abominable. Her interests were trivial, her opinions unimportant. The more she tried to please, the more he found to criticize. No wonder sweet, accepting Stephen had become the focus of her life! How she missed him. Would that pain ever go away? It had been well over a year now.
As for her husband—yes, she had experienced sincere and wrenching sorrow at his death. But within a few weeks she also began to experience a growing sense of freedom—then guilt for feeling it. The guilt was followed by anger. She was angry at what Burton had done to her; she was angry that he had escaped unaware; she was angry at herself. Gradually, the anger turned to resolve.
Never again would she put herself in a position to suffer such pain. One could enjoy life and other people without allowing them opportunity to inflict pain, and she fully intended to do just that.
By the time they arrived at Everleigh in the late afternoon, the bricks had long since lost their warmth. Meghan had but to look at Betsy’s reddened cheeks and nose to know how her own appeared.
Another coach drew up at Everleigh’s entrance just ahead of her own. Three fashionably dressed people—two ladies and a gentleman—descended from it as Meghan was handed from her own carriage. The entranceway of the stately mansion was a beehive of activity as the arriving guests were greeted by the marquis, his wife, and his brother with handshakes, hugs, and air kisses as appropriate.
“Oh, Lord Justin, how very glad I am to see you,” one of the two other female arrivals trilled, throwing back her hood. She was young—nineteen or twenty, Meghan surmised—with honey-blond, almost red hair, amber-colored eyes fringed with dark lashes, and a porcelain complexion unsullied by the cold. Meghan felt a veritable frump next to this beauty.
“Miss Hamlin.” Justin acknowledged her and greeted the couple with her, who were obviously her parents.
Meghan held back slightly, then felt herself enclosed in a warm hug from Irene. “I am so glad you came,” Irene said. “I had visions of your crying off at the last minute.”
Meghan laughed. “What? And endure your censure? Oh, I think not.”
Irene kept her arm around Meghan’s waist as she quickly introduced her aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Hamlin, and her cousin Georgiana. “And of course you know Justin,” she finished.
“Yes. My lord.” She extended her hand to him and looked into his eyes just as she had with Lord Hamlin and Robert Wingate, Marquis of Everleigh. However, with neither of the other men had she felt the tremor of excitement that ran through her body at Lord Justin’s touch. She dismissed it instantly as the result of previous nervousness. Averting her gaze from his, she caught a speculative look from Miss Hamlin.
Irene gestured to an older woman who had hovered in the background. “Mrs. Ferris, our housekeeper, will show you to your rooms. You may all have a rest before the evening meal. Should you need anything, Mrs. Ferris will be happy to supply it.” The housekeeper smiled and dipped a quick curtsy as Irene went on. “Come, Robert and Justin, on to the nursery. Our children await.”
“Oh! May I join you?” Miss Hamlin asked. “I should love to see the children—especially darling Joy. Such a sweet child.” She gave the sweet child’s father a meaningful look.
“Of course. All of you are welcome.” Irene gestured invitingly.
“Later, please,” Meghan said. “I need to remove the road grime first.”
“You young people go ahead.” Lady Hamlin waved them on. Her daughter, who was quickly relieved of her cloak, fell into step with Justin Wingate as the foursome left the remaining three guests to Mrs. Ferris.
Meghan smiled ruefully at being relegated to the oldsters, but she was glad to put off facing the children just yet. She chatted amiably with Mrs. Ferris, whom she knew from previous visits. In her own room, she removed her traveling dress and washed up. Then, carefully setting a miniature of her son on the bedside table, she lay down for a few moments as Betsy disappeared with the gown she would wear later.
Well, that did not go too badly, she congratulated herself. She would still have to apologize to Lord Justin, but at least he had been cordial. To her surprise, she actually fell asleep, for suddenly Betsy was shaking her shoulder with the news that the dressing bell had sounded:
Her gown was a deep blue that intensified the blue cast to her gray eyes. The square neckline was modestly cut, revealing only a hint of rounded bosom. Betsy arranged her hair in a simple but rather severe style—one altogether fitting for a widow who intended to remain so, Meghan thought, pinning up an errant curl.
Entering the drawing room, she discovered that yet more guests had arrived in the afternoon, swelling the number to more than a dozen. Meghan’s attention strayed to Lord Justin Wingate. The Hamlin mother and daughter hovered near him and seemed perfectly at ease with him, for Georgiana’s trill of laughter rang out often. Meghan was not surprised when the beauty turned out to be his dinner partner, but she was surprised to find that she herself experienced a twinge of envy at this.
Later, when the ladies withdrew, Meghan had a moment of relative privacy in which to ask Irene, “Are you up to your old tricks, my friend?”
Irene spoke in mock umbrage. “I beg your pardon? Whatever do you mean?”
“Are you trying to promote a match between your husband’s brother and your cousin?”
“N-not precisely. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. She is a lovely girl and I was once told that Wingates usually chose Hamlins as spouses. And you have been known to play matchmaker.” Meghan grinned as her friend gave her a telling look.
“Not always very successfully . . . But, to answer your question—yes and no.”
Meghan rolled her eyes. “Oh, that certainly answers the question.”
“It is true that Belinda was also my cousin—a different branch of the family from Georgiana’s. And Justin liked being married, I think, but I am not sure his interests lie in that direction.” Irene nodded toward Georgiana.
“And hers?” The question was out before Meghan thought.
“Oh, I think there is little doubt of her interests. He is, after all, a very prime item on the marriage mart.”
“So you are playing matchmaker again!”
Irene shrugged. “What will be will be. I have invited a number of persons who are unattached—including you, my dear.”
“Oh, no! You are whistling into the wind if you seek to practice your craft on me again!” It had come out more vehemently than Meghan intended.
Irene’s eyes were full of concern. “Was it so very bad for you, then? I am so sorry, Meghan.”
Meghan shrugged. “It was no better or worse than many another pairing in our circles.” She paused. “But I will not go through it again.”
And, she thought, certainly not with another rake. Justin Wingate and Burton Kenwick were, after all, birds of a feather.
And with that thought, Meghan’s little tête-à-tête with Irene was interrupted as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies and tables were set for card games. Meghan found herself partnered by her host. She had always liked Robert, whose quiet solidity contrasted with his wife’s energetic gaiety. Georgiana, of course, was partnered by Justin, though Meghan did not observe whether that was by his machination or hers. Perhaps Irene had arranged it, or the girl’s mother. Anyway, why should it matter?
Altogether, it had been a pleasant evening, she thought later as she blew a kiss toward the miniature of her son and turned down her lamp. So what if she felt herself more an observer than a participant? Observers paid no dues in pain.
In his own chamber, Justin leaned on pillows pushed against the headboard of his bed and reviewed this third day of the visit. So far, so good. Joy seemed relaxed with the other children, though she remained on the sidelines of their noisy games. She had readily allowed Irene to hug her, though that bit of progress had come only this morning.
When Miss Hamlin had offered her own arms, however, Joy had turned shy, hiding herself behind her papa.
“Come, darling,” Miss Hamlin had coaxed, “I would dearly love to hold you.”
But Joy had demurred, clutching her blanket and snuggling even closer to her father, who patted her head and said, “Perhaps later, Miss Hamlin.”
Miss Hamlin had shrugged and murmured, “Of course.”
He had supposed—from her eagerness to accompany them to the nursery—that Miss Hamlin was well acquainted with the other Wingate children. This did not seem to be the case, for the younger ones had to be reminded of who she was, and all of them greeted her in only the most formal manner. She had made little effort to secure the affection of the others once Joy had rejected her overtures.
He smiled to himself. Irene was clearly up to her old tricks. Everleigh’s marchioness was so happy in her own union that she felt it some sort of divine duty to help others to such marital felicity. Well, give Irene credit. She had promoted his marriage to Belinda, urging the relationship from a vague understanding between families to getting the principals to the altar. And it had turned out well enough. He was not averse to being married again—sometime.
To Miss Hamlin? Hmm. A possibility. She was a trifle young for his usual tastes though she had been “out” for a year or more. He remembered her as an angular stick of a thing when he had first met her—what, six? no, seven years ago. Now here she was—a decided beauty and clearly encouraging.
And if that did not take, his dear sister-in-law had invited other “eligibles” in Lady Helen Bly and Miss Dierdre Thompson, both of whom were unexceptional females of passing good looks. And Mrs. Kenwick?
No. Even Irene would not promote quite such an impossible pairing. His inclinations had never leaned toward women of intellect. His urges were far more primal. And the delectable and willing Miss Hamlin, who had made such pretty overtures to his daughter, might suit very well after all.
Meghan knew both friendship and courtesy dictated that she look in on the Everleigh nursery. She also knew Irene was not one of those ton mothers who left the rearing of her children to nursemaid, governess, and tutor. The marchioness took an active role in her children’s upbringing, and she was rightfully proud of the results. So it was that after breakfast the next morning, Meghan asked to visit the nursery.
“Are you sure?” Irene asked doubtfully. “You need not feel obliged to admire my progeny. You will probably have your fill of them before the holiday is over.”
“Of course I am sure,” Meghan lied, for she was not at all sure, but it was something she needed to do.
The Everleigh nursery was actually a suite of rooms that included a dressing room, a schoolroom, and a large playroom, as well as various bedchambers. They found ten-year-old Jason and his sister of eight years, Sarah, in the well-furnished schoolroom. Meghan noted a large slate-board and a freestanding globe, as well as numerous books. Jason greeted his mother’s friend with a very grown-up bow, and Sarah executed a practiced curtsy. They had been working intently on a model of Lord Nelson’s ship, the Victory, and were clearly anxious to get back to it.
Irene and Meghan moved on to the playroom, which, despite its bright colors and a profusion of toys for both genders, seemed unusually quiet. The only sound was a single adult—male—voice. The marquis was reading a story. No, it was not the marquis seated on a thick carpet in the middle of the floor, his back to the entrance. It was Justin Wingate! Before him sat two little boys of eight and six, and on his crossed legs sat two little girls who were of an age—between four and five. Meghan knew the little boys were Wally and Matthew, the latter being Sarah’s twin. The little girls might have been twins as well, but she knew one to be Irene’s youngest, Rebecca, and the other must have been Justin’s own daughter.
Wally and Matthew looked up as their mother and her friend entered the room. This drew Lord Justin’s attention, cutting into his imitation of a fierce wild bear. He started to rise on seeing the women, but Irene put a hand on his shoulder.
“No, stay put, Justin. We merely came to say hello to the children. Matthew, you remember Stephen’s mama, your Auntie Meg, do you not?” Irene beamed proudly as both boys stood to bow graciously. Meghan’s heart wrenched as she recalled teaching Stephen such courtesies.
Irene then touched one little girl’s curls. “This is Rebecca—we call her Becky. And this”—Irene touched the other child in Justin’s lap—“is Justin’s Joy.”
“In every way,” he murmured, giving the child a quick little squeeze.
“Girls,” Irene said gently, but firmly, “how does one greet a guest?”
Both little girls clambered off his lap and executed charming if clumsy curtsies.
Meghan smiled and knelt to put herself on their level. “Becky, you have grown into quite a young lady since I last saw you.” Becky giggled and ducked her head. “And Miss Wingate,” Meghan said, offering her hand to the child as she would to a grown-up, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Joy gazed at her silently for a moment, then took the offered hand, but she did not smile. Nor did she say anything. She merely looked at Meghan out of sky-blue eyes exactly like her father’s. Meghan felt a jolt as she recognized profound loneliness in the child. Yet Joy was clearly much loved.
“Finish the story, Uncle Justin,” Wally demanded, thus shifting the mood of the moment.
“You must not be rude, Wally,” Irene admonished.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said. “But ’tis such a good story, Mama.”
His mother glanced at the book in Justin’s hand and laughed. “And I daresay one you have heard only a dozen times.”
Justin chuckled. “He does correct me if I get something wrong.”
“Well, we shall leave you to it, then,” Irene said.
As the two women left the room, Meghan let out a long breath she had not been aware of holding.
“There. That was not so very bad, was it?” Irene asked.
“No. Of course not. They are lovely children.”
“Your Stephen would have fit right in.” Irene’s tone was at once matter-of-fact and sympathetic.
“I am sure he would have.” Meghan had always been grateful to Irene, who never tiptoed around Stephen’s death as so many others did. Irene had always encouraged her to share her thoughts and memories and seemed to understand precisely what sort of response was needed.
“You were a wonderful mother, Meghan. I doubt not you will be again one day.”
“Perhaps one day,” Meghan said vaguely, but she was merely placating her friend. She knew very well there would be no more children for her. Losing them hurt far too much to take that risk again. Besides, to have another child she would have to remarry—and that was out of the question.
That afternoon yet more guests arrived. Justin was especially glad to hear the names of Viscount Winston Travers and Mr. Melvin Layton as the butler announced new arrivals.
“I see Kenwick’s widow is here,” Travers said later that evening when the three of them at last had some time alone. They were in the billiards room, where they sat in comfortable armchairs after a game.
“Yes,” Justin replied. “She and Irene have been close friends for years.”
“Does she still harbor resentment toward the three of us about that accident?” Layton asked. “I confess I have not seen her since Travers and I called on her immediately afterward.”
“Frankly, I do not know how she feels now,” Justin said. “She has been polite, of course—exactly what one would expect of a lady.”
“Perhaps we should have told the truth at the time.” Layton shifted to refill his wineglass.
“I believe we did, did we not?” Justin looked at Travers for confirmation.
“I meant the whole truth,” Layton insisted.
“It would serve little purpose to have a widow know her dead husband contributed to the accident that claimed him and her son,” Justin said. “Dredging that up now—a year-and-a-half later—would merely cause undue suffering.”
“I suppose you are right,” Layton conceded.
“What is done is done,” Justin added.
“Ah, but unlike Lady Macbeth’s little problem, this one can be undone, if necessary,” Layton responded.
Travers groaned. “I do hope the two of you are not going to spend the holiday challenging each other with obscure quotes from Shakespeare.”
Layton winked at Justin and said to Travers, “Of course not, dear boy, for we both ‘want that glib and oily art, To speak and purpose not.’ ”
Justin gave an exaggerated sigh. “ ‘Rude am I in my speech, And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace.’ ”
Travers rose. “I can see I shall have little peace with the two of you spouting on. I believe I shall go and find some fair maiden on whom to work my wiles.”
“You will let us know us know if they do indeed work, will you not?” Layton joked.
With the influx of additional guests, the evening meal became a more elaborate affair and the evening entertainments more varied. With careful attention to what she knew of personal preferences and to social protocol, their hostess managed to change her seating arrangements from day to day. Thus it was that Meghan found Lord Justin to be her dinner partner one evening. Irene had made her designations just prior to the butler’s announcing the meal.
“La! It is like musical chairs,” Dierdre Thompson observed with delight, taking the arm of Lord Travers.
“Only a marchioness could get away with bending the rules so,” grumbled one gray-haired dowager, but Meghan noted this was not expressed in a tone to reach the ears of their hostess.
“Mrs. Kenwick, I hope this arrangement garners your approval?” Lord Justin said, offering her his arm.
In the confusion of the large company sorting itself out, they were afforded a moment of privacy. Did she approve? She was not sure. In any event, a guest accepted the dictates of her hostess. And she had been hoping for a chance to speak with him.
“As a matter of fact, my lord—”
“Justin.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Call me ‘Justin.’ That is how my friends address me.”
His friends? He wished her to consider him a friend? “As you wish, Justin. And I do prefer ‘Meghan’ to the more formal means of address.”
“Good.” He patted her hand on his arm. “We are past that hurdle.”
“As I started to say, sir”—she caught a raised eyebrow and added—“Justin—I have wished for an opportunity to extend my apology to you.”
“Apology? Whatever for?” He looked down into her eyes with genuine surprise.
“F-for my rather ungracious reception when you called at the time of Kenwick’s death. I am sorry for that.”
“Think no more upon it. We were all overset by the accident. However, I must confess that I am glad you no longer seem to hold us responsible.”
“At such times there seems always to be sufficient blame—real or imaginary—to be shared. I found it difficult—and I still do—to forgive myself for not objecting to my son’s going on such a grown-up expedition.” Her voice was soft and tinged with regret directed wholly at herself.
“One is always tempted to consider ‘what ifs?’ in such a case,” he said. “I have often asked myself, ‘What if I had supervised my wife’s medications more closely?’ But—you know—‘that way madness lies. . . .’ ”
She looked up and held his gaze, warmed by the empathy she found there as the rest of his quotation popped into her mind. “And ‘let me shun that.’ Thank you. I think I needed to hear this.”
“You are welcome.” He smiled. “I hope you are skilled at charades.”
“Charades?” she asked, surprised at the abrupt change of topic.
He leaned closer and said in a stage whisper, “I happen to know Irene has charades on the evening’s agenda.”
She laughed. “Well, pity he who ends with me on his team!”