Sorrow paced in the garden. Things seemed to have gone from bad to worse, with her wedding set for the next day. Lord Newton, when Bert had demanded an apology, said he would rather leave than either apologize or be an inmate of such an impossible place for another minute. He was expected to leave that afternoon.
Harriet Liston was staying for the wedding, she said, but could not be in the same room with Lord Newton, who had, apparently, apologized, but then tried to explain why he felt he was offering her a valuable boon by inviting her to become his mistress. He had made it sound, Harriet said, as if he was offering a chambermaid a spot in his household.
Bert was moody and unhappy, and Sorrow didn’t know how to make it any better. Surely this was not the way to start a marriage. Her mother and father came up the garden walk toward her, arm in arm and with identical serious expressions on their faces.
“Sorrow, is everything all right between you and young Bertram?” her father asked.
The two flanked her and pulled her to them in a hug. She buried her face in her father’s neck. “Yes. No. Not exactly.”
“Why don’t we sit down?” Sorrow’s mother said. “We haven’t had a chance for a family talk for a while.”
They sat together on a bench in the garden, with gray clouds scudding overhead across the stormy sky. Rain threatened, and Sorrow felt as though the dismal weather was reflecting her own mood. She had thought everything would be so simple once she decided that Bertram Carlyle was the right man for her and he proposed. What else was there to worry over? But now it seemed that the mere act of becoming engaged had driven a wedge between Bert and his father. When she had tried to express her concern over that, Bertram had merely said that the wedge was always there, but he had never noticed it before. She wasn’t to worry, he said. It was Lord Newton’s problem, not hers.
But she did worry. Harmony was a guiding principle in her own life, and how could one live harmoniously with such bad feeling, and especially when it was her very own wedding that was causing so much trouble?
“Sorrow, you don’t have to marry on Friday,” her mother said. “You don’t have to marry at all if it is a worry to you.”
“But I want to marry Bert,” Sorrow said. “And I want his father to approve. Bert says it doesn’t matter, but I think it does.”
“However, my dear, the problem is really between Lord Newton and his son,” her father said. “I don’t think it has anything to do with you, or even with us and how we live. I think Lord Newton has been shocked at how young Bertram has matured. Perhaps he didn’t realize until now that his son is a grown man and will no longer be under his thumb.”
“I just don’t want my wedding to be marred by unpleasantness. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life.”
“Then you have a decision to make, my dear,” her mother said, laying a kiss on her brow. “You must decide whether you will go ahead or if this is all too hurtful, and then you must tell Bertram he either solves his differences with his father or the wedding is canceled. We love you and want you to be happy, but it is your wedding, after all.”
“I know. I want to think about it, and then I want to talk to Bert about it.”
“That’s wise,” her father said, standing and pulling his wife to her feet. “Whatever you decide, we will support.”
“I’m a fortunate girl. The things I heard from other girls in London . . . I came back to Spirit Garden knowing what a lucky girl I am. Most parents would not behave as you, you know?”
“Maybe not, but they should, if they love their daughters,” her father said. He took his wife’s arm and they strolled away. “Just tell us in time to let the vicar know,” he said over his shoulder.
• • •
It was later in the day and Sorrow still didn’t know what to do. The day had turned sunny, the sun burning off the gloom to reveal another brilliant June day. She was not alone, for one of the footmen had carried old Mr. Howard out to enjoy the sunshine, that being one of the pleasurable sensations that he craved.
She held his hand and he squeezed it every once in a while, his weathered face turned up to the sun, his almost sightless eyes closed. When he had first come to them he was still able to speak, though now he was wordless. But not, she knew, without feeling and hearing. She talked to him often.
“What am I going to do, Mr. Howard? You’ve seen how wonderful Bertram is. He’s everything I hoped for and feared never to find. But his father . . . he’s going to make Bert miserable.”
The old man squeezed her hand.
“I know. I’m marrying Bert, not his father. But I want them to be friends. And I want Lord Newton to approve of me for his son. I’m afraid he doesn’t now.”
She looked up from Mr. Howard’s face just then and saw the viscount striding toward her. Her companion squeezed her hand more firmly and she clung to it, drawing strength from the old man’s love. Lord Newton stopped before her, cast one irritated glance at the old man in his Bath chair, and then glared at Sorrow.
“Walk with me, Miss Marchand.”
“Whatever you wish to say to me can be said in front of Mr. Howard.” The old man squeezed her hand.
The viscount cast a disgusted look at her companion. “This won’t take long. When I first saw you, I thought you would do for Bertram. You are not too young, nor is your family of the first stare. Bertram needed a lady with a little more sense than some of the young girls in London. I thought you were that one.”
Sorrow didn’t feel the need to say anything. The viscount’s implication was clear: he had been wrong about some things, among them Sorrow’s good sense.
The viscount paced on the flagstone pathway, not even seeming to see the lovely garden, nor feel the sweet warmth of the sun. “But I was not apprised of many things concerning your background and your family. I have been sorely misled. I did not know you are only an adopted daughter to the Marchands and not their real daughter.”
Ire bit into Sorrow, but she pushed it back. She drew her hand away from Mr. Howard, not wanting to communicate her anger to her old friend. Lord Newton’s opinion did not mean a thing to her, she tried to tell herself.
“Nor did I know of this utter chaos that the Marchands choose to live in!” He waved his hands around, encompassing the house and the garden and by implication all the members. He stopped and glared down at her. “How can you live like this? And how can you . . . how can you . . .” He waved a hand at Mr. Howard. “I will not countenance this marriage, nor will I attend the wedding. I’m leaving. I will never understand how you can live in this disorder and deal with such people.”
“Perhaps you’re right, my lord, about one thing. You will never understand if you can look at Mr. Howard, here, and say such things. Look at his face,” she said, leaning forward. “Look at him.”
The viscount reluctantly did so.
She put out one hand and traced the wrinkles on the old man’s face. His filmy eyes opened and he smiled at Sorrow, putting one gnarled and ancient hand over her young one. Quietly, she said, “There is so much terrifying beauty and dignity in his pain. I don’t know how else I can explain it. Ugliness and death . . . they’re a part of life, and when embraced they’re beautiful, too. I don’t mean in and of themselves; that would be sophistry, for there is nothing beautiful in our end except what we have learned and given back to this world. But just look at the acceptance in his eyes, the patience. It’s glorious and humbling.” She patted his cheek and turned back to the viscount. “When I met Bertram I knew he would understand that. I don’t know how I knew, I just did. He had . . .”
She paused, searching for the right words as the viscount stared at her in incomprehension. How to express to this man who had so long denigrated his son that there was one person in the world who thought Bertram everything fine and noble? “My lord, your son has a more powerful spirit than any man I ever met in London or anywhere else. When I look deep into his eyes I see my future. I see kindness and humility. He’s wonderful. If you don’t know that about him, if you don’t understand what a fine man he is, then I pity you, sir. I sincerely pity you.”
A movement caught her eye and she saw that Bertram had been nearby and likely heard her. He stared at her, and there was such a speaking look of love in his eyes that it took her breath away. Lord Newton looked from one of them to the other, and as Bertram made his way toward Sorrow, his eyes never leaving hers, he shook his head.
“I don’t understand.” His voice held genuine bewilderment.
“Maybe you never will,” Bert said as he joined Sorrow and took her hand.
Lord Newton stared at them both. “You will go ahead with this marriage, even against my wishes?” he said to his son.
Bert just smiled. “I think you know better than to even ask. Why would I leave Sorrow? I’m a fortunate man that you happened to point out to me the one woman in the world who makes me . . .” He turned his gaze to Sorrow, and finished, “Whole. And happy.”
“You are both doomed to unhappiness, don’t you see that?”
Sorrow looked back up at the viscount and met his troubled gaze. She was stricken by the expression of utter perplexity on his handsome visage. “No, we aren’t. I’m sorry you don’t understand.”
“Sir, it’s more than just love,” Bertram said, sure now of his feelings. “Though I know for most people the love we . . . we share would be enough.” He looked down at his bride-to-be and his voice choked off for a moment as he gazed into her beautiful eyes. He couldn’t believe what he was feeling and thinking, it had hit him so forcefully. She truly loved him, and he had fallen in love with her. But there was more . . . so much more! She chose him, she didn’t just blindly acquiesce to an eligible offer of marriage. And she chose him because she thought him to be more than he even thought himself to be, a man with a good and true heart, a man who could do anything. She believed in him, and he knew now that he couldn’t live without that.
Her face, upon hearing his words, his admission of love, glowed with astonished joy. He realized he had never even told her he loved her yet. How much they had to talk about! How much he had to tell her of all the new discoveries in his heart. But first, his father.
“I can’t put into words what it feels like, Father, to know that Sorrow isn’t marrying me because I will one day be Viscount Newton. Nor is she marrying me because I’m wealthy. Nor because she is afraid no one else will ask her. Somehow she knew—and I’m so grateful to her, for I have been blind for too long—that in each other we have found our souls’ true mates.”
Lord Newton was silent. He shook his head and stared at Sorrow, then at his son. “I won’t pretend to understand. I don’t.”
“Father,” Bertram said, pouring all of his hope into his tone. “If you would open your heart to Spirit Garden and to the people here, to Mr. Howard and Billy and poor Joshua—”
“Good God, do not counsel me to hobnob with madmen and invalids,” the viscount said. He turned away, but then turned back again and gazed at the young couple. Bert had taken Sorrow’s hand in his and she had caught up Mr. Howard’s hand again. “I just don’t understand.” He walked away.
“Bert,” Sorrow said, leaning against him, “will he ever understand?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “His attitude may sadden us, but we can’t live for him.” His heart thudded and he couldn’t contain the bubbling spring of purest joy that welled up in him despite the chasm between his father and himself. “Mr. Howard,” he said, “will you excuse us for a few moments? I would like to tell my bride of all the discoveries I’ve made and it’s a private moment.”
He could see the old man’s hand flex around Sorrow’s, and she said, “He says all right, but to behave ourselves!” She giggled and Mr. Howard smiled and nodded.
Bert led her away, out of the garden and to the long green grassy slope, and pulled her to him, finding her lips, kissing her softly, then with increasing passion. No man had ever felt like this in all the years of creation. “Sorrow,” he murmured into her hair, “I love you. My soul has been reborn and I love you. I’m such a lucky man to have found you, and then to have convinced you to marry me. I didn’t love you then. What blind stupid luck that you said yes!”
“No, not luck. Bert, I didn’t say yes with no notion of our future. I knew this day could happen, I just didn’t know you would be so intelligent as to discover you could love me so quickly!”
They chuckled together and gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. The light breeze riffled through her curls and he pushed back her stray tendrils. “You really saw something in me, something no one else had ever seen, not even me or my father.”
“Especially not your father,” she said with a trace of acerbity in her voice.
“Let’s not talk about him,” Bert said.
“I will agree to that. Bert, you will marry me anyway, won’t you, even though your father doesn’t approve?”
“You could not push me away if you tried. I have had a taste of heaven, and I want to pass through the gates.” Another few moments were lost in kissing.
“Then let’s get married.”
“I think we will,” Bert said, and putting his arm around her, walked back toward the house. They had more plans to make.