A Summer to Remember

Chapter 13

For the rest of that day and all of the next Lauren felt that she would have been entirely happy if she had not kept remembering that she was living a lie. She pushed the thought aside as much as she could. She had committed herself to doing just what she was doing, and it was too late now to withdraw. There would be time enough to deal with her guilt over the deception when she had put an end to it.

She set herself the task of acquainting herself with Kit’s relatives. It was not difficult to do. They were a close and basically cheerful family and were quite prepared to take Kit’s betrothed into the fold and to be kind to her family too. Aunt Clara was appropriated by Lady Clifford and Mrs. Butler, Kit’s aunts, and by Mrs. Vreemont. Viscount Hampton, who had a previous acquaintance with Baron Galton, was pleased to renew it. Gwen became an instant favorite with Baron Born’s numerous offspring, especially with Frederick and Roger, who were soon vying with each other over her smiles and attention.

Lauren was everyone’s favorite, simply because, she thought, Kit was everyone’s favorite too. The quarrel with his family three years ago had certainly not tainted his relationship with his numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins. It felt seductively pleasant to be the focus of attention much of the time. Lady Irene Butler liked to pat her hand and tell her what a pretty child she was. The aunts and older cousins liked to talk to her about London and the latest fashions. The uncles liked to tease her about anything they thought might draw her blushes. The younger female cousins wanted to know who her modiste was, who chose the lovely fabrics and the elegant designs and the perfectly coordinated colors of her clothes. And how her maid styled her hair so perfectly just so. They wanted to know what she was planning for her bride clothes. The younger male cousins paid her compliments, some of them very extravagant and foolish indeed. They called Kit a lucky dog and he agreed with them wholeheartedly, his eyes twinkling at her. The young mothers took her to the nursery to meet their children, assuming that she liked infants. She was rather afraid of them, in fact, having had little to do with children during her adult life. But she learned all their names and was touched when they wanted to ask questions and show her their treasures and be picked up and played with.

She was careful to give much of her attention to Kit’s immediate family since it was his full reconciliation with them to which she had pledged herself. The Earl of Redfield was inclined to look favorably upon her, she believed. And he and Kit were no longer avoiding each other even if they were still treating each other with a somewhat stiff cordiality. The countess was pleased to accept the help she offered. Apart from all the plans for the birthday itself, there were meals and activities and floral arrangements to think of each day with such a large number of guests. Although she was perfectly capable of handling everything alone, she seemed grateful to listen to a second opinion on some details and even a few new suggestions. The countess seemed well inclined to treat her elder son with affection.

Lauren had grown truly fond of the dowager countess. It was never any trouble to walk with her or to sit and listen to her. The old lady’s left hand was stiff and curled inward as a result of the apoplexy she had suffered. But it was not quite paralyzed. Lauren took it in both of hers the evening after everyone’s arrival and massaged it gently, opening the fingers back with her own. It felt good, Kit’s grandmother said, and they smiled at each other. It was for her sake that Lauren felt most guilty, for she believed that her affection was fully returned.

It was only with Sydnam Butler that she had so far failed to set up any rapport—or any communication with his brother.

She did not see a great deal of Kit. Or rather, she did since it rained for the rest of that first day and most of the second and everyone was forced to remain indoors, but she did not spend much time in his company and none at all alone with him. Her swimming lesson had to be canceled on account of the weather, though why it should be when they were going to get wet anyway he did not know, he had added over her protests. She missed the morning outing, though, the sheer fun of floating and splashing in the water. She wondered how she was going to do without such activities when the time came, but she determinedly pushed such thoughts aside.

They played charades in the drawing room during the second evening, a game in which most of them participated and which gave rise to a great deal of noisy animation and laughter. The younger people were not willing to see the game end, with the result that they were all rather late going to bed. Lauren sat with Gwen for an hour after that, as she did most nights, talking. It was after midnight when she returned to her own room, and even after that she did not go immediately to bed, but blew out the candles and stood at the window, brushing her hair, enjoying the sight of the moon and stars again. The rain had stopped late in the afternoon and the clouds had finally moved off.

Was he sleeping? She knew that, like her, he suffered at least sometimes from insomnia. She had seen him more than once outside the house after everyone was in bed. On that one occasion he had walked off down the driveway until he had been lost to sight. He did not seem like the sort of man who would have trouble sleeping. He seemed always to be cheerful and laughing. But she knew too that the outer appearance was in some ways not the real Kit. There were depths to his character that he hid carefully from the view of most of his acquaintances.

What troubled him enough that he could not sleep?

It was as if her thoughts conjured him. He appeared below her on the terrace, wearing breeches and topboots and a riding coat rather than the evening clothes he had been wearing an hour or so ago. He walked across the terrace to the edge of the lawn and stood there, his feet slightly apart, his hands behind his back, gazing out into the darkness. He looked lonely.

Perhaps he wanted to be lonely or at least alone. Perhaps he treasured times like this, when everyone else was supposedly asleep and finally he could enjoy an hour of solitude. Or perhaps insomnia had driven him outside, and perhaps that sleeplessness was caused by a troubled mind. Perhaps he was tired, restless, unhappy. In need of a kindred soul to listen to him or be silent with him—a sympathetic presence.

Or perhaps it was she who needed company.

It would be terribly improper to go down and join him. Even if they were truly betrothed it would be improper before they were wed. But she was growing mortally tired of propriety, of her prim devotion to a way of life that put all the emphasis upon what was correct rather than upon what one’s heart knew ought to be done. Perhaps the heart was a poor and unreliable guide for behavior, but so surely was cold, blind propriety.

She was hurrying into her tiny dressing room even as she was thinking. If he did not want her, he could tell her to go away. She would not stay out long anyway. She would just stand beside him for a while and they would talk. Perhaps then he would be able to sleep. Perhaps then she would.

Descending the stairs and crossing the hall in the dark was no easy matter. And all the time she was afraid that perhaps he had gone out a different way and she would find the doors bolted and impossible to open. But when she turned the great handle of one of them, it opened easily, and she stepped outside onto the marble steps.

He had gone.

There was only empty space where he had been standing a short while ago. So much for her boldness, she thought, descending the steps slowly, holding the ends of her shawl crossed at her bosom. He had gone. But even as she thought it she saw him. He was striding across the lawn in the direction of the driveway. He was walking rather fast, she thought. She hesitated for one moment before going after him.

“Kit.”

He was on the driveway already, not far from the bridge. Lauren was half running over the grass. She could feel its wetness about her ankles and the hem of her dress.

He stopped abruptly and turned toward her even though she had not called out loudly.

“Lauren?”

He sounded surprised. Was he also displeased? Had she done entirely the wrong thing? She came up to him in a few moments but stopped several feet away.

“I saw you from my window,” she said. “It is not the first time. Could you not sleep?”

“And could you not?” It was impossible to tell from his tone whether he was annoyed or not.

“I thought I might walk with you,” she said. “I thought it might be . . . comforting to have some company.”

“Do you have trouble sleeping, Lauren?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. She had not used to. But despair after her aborted marriage had robbed her of the oblivion of sleep she had so longed for, and then sleeplessness had become a habit. It was the time when she most ached with nameless yearnings. She could usually keep herself well occupied during the day, but at night . . .

“We should stroll back to the house,” he said. “You would not want to come with me where I was going.”

“Where?” she asked.

“A gamekeeper’s hut in the forest actually,” he said. “I suppose I have spent too many of my adult years alone, living under rough conditions. A civilized home, especially one filled with other people, oppresses me. I feel that I cannot breathe freely. Since I came home I have equipped the hut with the bare necessities, and sometimes I go there at night. It somehow soothes my mind. Sometimes I sleep there.”

“Ah,” she said, wishing she had not acted so hastily. “You do wish to be alone, then. I am sorry. And you do not need to walk back to the house with me, Kit. Really you do not. Good night. I will see you in the morning. Will we—will we swim?”

He did not answer immediately. She felt awkward, rather humiliated. She turned to hurry away. But his voice stopped her.

“I would like you to come with me,” he said.

“Truly?” She looked back at him. “You need not say so just to be polite, Kit. I do not wish to intrude.”

But he was smiling at her and looking his usual self.

“Truly.”

She walked beside him, holding her shawl. He did not offer his arm.

“What sort of troubles keep you from sleep?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“What happened last year?” he suggested.

She shook her head again. “I don’t know.”

“What masks we wear,” he said. “No one looking at the beautiful and dignified Miss Lauren Edgeworth in Lady Mannering’s ballroom a couple of months ago would have suspected that she nursed an utterly shattered heart. I am sorry that I did not have the sensitivity to know it or even suspect it. I am so very sorry, Lauren.”

“It was my life that was shattered more than my heart,” she said. “But looking back, I am not sure . . .”

“Of what?”

They were walking through the Palladian bridge. She could hear the water rushing beneath it.

“I am not sure it was quite the disaster I thought it at the time,” she said. “I was only half a person at that time. Don’t ask me to explain, Kit. I am not sure I know quite what I mean myself. Life was lived by a rigid set of rules. It had a set pattern. But that is not real life, is it? At some time surely I must have woken up to that fact. Life could not have continued placid and perfect to the end.” And maybe placidity and perfection did not go hand in hand, anyway, although she had used to think so.

He looked curiously at her, but they did not speak again. Soon after they crossed the bridge they reached the trees, and he took her arm and turned off the driveway. It was very dark among the trees. She would have been totally lost and not a little frightened if his own steps had not been sure. As it was, all she had to do was put her trust in him—a remarkably easy thing to do. She would always feel perfectly safe with him, she believed, even if a hungry wild beast were to step into their path. She smiled to herself at the thought.

She had no idea how he found the hut in the dense darkness, but he did. He felt along the top of the lintel, produced a key, and turned it in the lock. He left Lauren standing on the threshold and went inside. A few moments later the feeble light of a lamp sprang to life, and she stepped into the small wooden cabin and closed the door. He was on one knee, setting a light to the fire that was laid in the small grate.

It was a remarkably cozy interior. There was a low bed covered with blankets, an old wooden rocking chair, and a roughly hewn wooden table with a single chair pushed beneath it. There were two books on the table, and the lamp. Apart from those things and a rush mat on the floor, the hut was bare.

“Take the rocking chair,” Kit said. He had pulled the top blanket from the bed and was spreading it over the bare wood.

“Thank you.” She sat down and the chair rocked gently beneath her weight.

Kit sat on the side of the bed, his arms across his spread knees, his hands dangling between. It was an informal, relaxed pose. Lauren smiled at him, relaxed back in the chair, and closed her eyes. It was not a cold night, but the warmth from the fire felt good. She listened to the crackling of the kindling.

“Why do you have trouble sleeping?” she asked.

“Sleeplessness is a defense against nightmares, I suppose,” he said, “though not always a conscious one.”

“Nightmares?”

“You would not want to know, Lauren,” he said. But he continued speaking anyway. “I became a military man because it was what my father had always planned for his second son. And it was my personal choice too. I cannot remember a time when I did not dream of becoming an officer and distinguishing myself on the battlefield. I was not disillusioned after my commission was purchased for me, either. The life suited me. The tasks at hand were ones I could do and do well. I jumped at the opportunity to become a reconnaissance officer when it came my way, and I never regretted my choice. Selling out last year was a hard thing for me to do. In some ways I felt that I was giving up a part of my identity. And yet . . .”

The rockers of the chair squeaked. It was not an unpleasant sound. It was almost lulling.

“And yet?” she asked.

“And yet it involved killing,” he said. “I lost count long ago of the number of men I have killed. There are all sorts of ways of justifying killing in war, of course. It is a kill-or-be-killed situation. It is most comforting, though not often possible, to think of the enemy merely as a mass of evil monsters who deserve no better than death. Certainly when one is a soldier one must find a way of overcoming one’s scruples and simply do what must be done. But the faces of dead men come to me in my nightmares. No, not dead. Dying. The faces of dying men. Ordinary men with mothers and wives and sweethearts at home. Men with dreams and hopes and worries and secrets. Men like me. In my worst nightmares the man who is dying has the face of the man I see in the mirror every day.”

“And so you prove that you are human,” she said. “War would be truly monstrous if it destroyed all horror of killing.”

“But it would be easier to sleep if one were an unfeeling monster,” he said.

She had never thought to wonder if men’s minds were permanently damaged by the atrocities of war. She had always considered that Englishmen fought for right and justice and so would have nothing on their consciences.

“If I am thankful for one thing,” he said, “it is that you and my mother and grandmother and those children in the nursery have never been in the path of warring armies. I am grateful for that, at least.”

She opened her eyes and turned her head to smile at him. It was time to change the subject, she thought, time to lighten the gloom, to make it possible for him to return to the house and sleep dreamlessly.

“What a delight the children are, Kit,” she said. “I have not encountered many since I was a child myself. I was a happy child, you know. Were you?”

“Yes.” He smiled back.

“That is something we have in common, then,” she said. “It is rare, I believe. I do not often think back to my childhood, but there were so many happy times. I was fortunate to have Gwen and Neville for companions, and there were cousins too that we used to see quite frequently.”

They began exchanging stories of their childhoods, as she had intended. Stories full of humor and adventure and nostalgia—and of mischief on his side. At first their stories alternated with no pause between. But eventually Lauren put her head back and closed her eyes again, and when the pauses between stories grew longer, they were not at all uncomfortable, but were filled with warm thoughts and a cozy companionship that had no need of words. The fire, which he had built up once, burned down again, spitting and crackling a little as it did so. The rocker squeaked with slowing rhythm.

Yes, she had had a happy childhood, which she might not have had if her mother and stepfather had returned from their wedding trip and taken her off somewhere to live alone with them, away from her adopted brother and sister. Yet she had spent much of her childhood pining secretly for the mother whose face she could not even remember. Strange!

She sighed deeply.

Kit was still sitting upright on the side of the bed, even though he had been growing sleepier by the minute. The squeaking of the rocker on the old chair should have been annoying but was not. It was lulling him before it stopped altogether.

Lauren, he guessed, had fallen asleep. She had not spoken for several minutes, and she had not responded to the last story he had told.

He had stopped thinking of his childhood during the past few years. There were almost no memories that did not include Jerome and Syd, and very few that did not involve the Bedwyns. But tonight he had opened up the memories again and had found them pleasant, surprisingly free of pain or bitterness. Despite all that had happened three years ago, those had been happy years. The friendships and the brotherly love had shaped him, nurtured him, made him the man he was now, he supposed.

Lauren’s head had tipped to the side. It was an endearing pose, so different from her usual disciplined dignity. He should wake her up and take her back to the house. He rather thought he would sleep peacefully himself for what remained of the night. Indeed, he could nod off right now if he allowed himself to. The thought of the walk back was daunting.

She had done that deliberately, he thought, gazing at her. She had allowed him to talk about his nightmares, but she had not let him wallow in them. She had changed the subject. She had done it so deftly that he could not recall now how they had suddenly found themselves talking about their childhoods. What had created the link from his talk of war and killing? He could not remember, but he was convinced that she had done it deliberately and skillfully. So that his spirits would be lifted, so that his thoughts would be softer, brighter, more conducive to sleep.

He yawned widely.

If he did not wake her soon, she was going to have a sore neck. He got to his feet and reached out a hand to shake her shoulder—and then returned it to his side without touching her. He looked at the bed and then pulled back the two remaining blankets. They were alone together in the middle of the night in a room with a bed—a potentially dangerous situation if ever he had heard of one. Though strangely enough the thought of seduction had not once crossed his mind since they had come inside the hut. And even now the desire he knew he could feel for her was not dominating his mind.

He turned back to the rocking chair, bent down, and scooped her up gently into his arms. She woke up, of course, but she was too sleepy for resistance. He set her down on the bed, as far to the inside as he could. He removed her shoes and then his boots and lay down beside her. He drew the blankets up over both of them. She watched him sleepily the whole while. It was not a wide bed. It was impossible to leave any gap between them.

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

He thought she might already have been asleep before he spoke. He could smell that fragrant soap smell of her hair again. He could feel the soft contours of her body all down his right side, and her body heat. Strangely, although he was half aroused, it was merely a pleasant, easily controlled feeling. He did not want to desire her any more urgently. He did not want this to be turned into a sexual orgy.

It was too precious for that.

She was too precious.

She had worked her way into the affections of his mother and grandmother—he believed Grandmama adored her, in fact. She had won the respectful regard of his father. And all of it with quiet dignity. His own life here had been immeasurably more comfortable since her arrival—somehow he was finding it easier to relate to his family again, except for Syd, of course.

He had taught Lauren to be a little more outgoing. He had taught her to bathe in the lake and to climb trees. He had coaxed her into unbending enough to smile and even laugh. But it was not just the changes in her that were precious to him. It was the insight she had allowed him into the person behind the cool faзade. The person who did not demand much for herself but worked quietly and tirelessly for everyone else’s comfort.

He was surprised most of all, perhaps, by the fact that such a woman—apparently without any great charisma—attracted him.

She did attract him.

He turned his head, rubbed his face against her soft curls, and kissed the top of her head.

He was asleep within moments while the lamp burned itself out on the table and the last embers of the fire faded.

For just the merest moment when she awoke, Lauren did not know where she was. But then she remembered that she was still inside the hut in the woods where she and Kit had talked last night. She had been sitting in the rocking chair, growing more and more sleepy, finding it harder and harder to concentrate upon what he was saying. And then . . .

She was lying on the bed, she realized without opening her eyes. The pillow beneath her neck was warm and comfortable. She was lying on her side pressed against something equally cozy. One of her legs was wedged between . . .

She was not alone on the bed, she realized in a flash. She was in Kit’s arms. She could hear his heart beating. She could smell his cologne. For a moment she stiffened in alarm, and indeed a tentative wiggling of the toes on her free foot told her that she was without her shoes. But when she moved a hand slowly to touch herself on one hip, it was to the reassuring discovery that she was fully clothed. She was on the inside of the bed. There would be no wriggling her way out without waking him.

But did she want to? Wriggle her way out, that was?

What on earth would they think at the house?

Whatever had she done?

She had done nothing, that was what. Nothing to be ashamed of. She had talked with Kit, and they had comforted each other and made it possible to sleep peacefully. This was just one more incident in her summer to tuck away for future memories. How she would remember this night!

“You are awake?” he asked softly.

She opened her eyes, tipped back her head—it had been wedged between his shoulder and neck—and looked at him in the faint early morning light beaming through the hut’s one small window.

“Did I fall asleep in the middle of one of your stories?” she asked.

“The very best of them.” He shook his head in apparent sorrow.

“Kit,” she asked, suddenly anxious despite herself, “did—”

“No,” he said firmly. “This was one occasion on which I was the perfect gentleman. Well, almost perfect. I would have woken you and taken you back to the house to be quite perfect, I suppose. I could not face the walk back.”

“Did you sleep?” she asked him.

“Like a baby.” She saw the flash of his grin in the near-darkness. “Thank you, Lauren. Both for listening and for . . . being here.”

He was a man who needed to be listened to, she thought. He was not the uncomplicated, carefree man she had judged him to be on first acquaintance.

“However are we to get back to the house without being seen?” She could feel herself flush.

“Why would we arouse suspicion by even trying to creep in unseen?” he asked her. “We will walk boldly up the driveway, and anyone who sees us will assume we have been out for an early walk.”

He withdrew his arm from beneath her head and rolled away to sit on the edge of the narrow bed, his back to her. He set his elbows on his knees and pushed the fingers of both hands through his hair. He looked rumpled and . . . undeniably attractive.

Lauren could hardly believe she had spent the night in bed with a man. Even more amazing was the fact that she was feeling no shock, no horror, no sense of humiliation.

It would be as well for this masquerade to end as soon as possible, she thought as he got to his feet and she felt beside the bed for her shoes. She was turning into a wanton.

He smiled at her as he held open the hut door and she stepped out to the freshness of the morning air and the sound of the birds chirruping a dawn chorus from the treetops. It was his smile—and his laughter—that she would remember long after her other memories had faded, she thought. It was a memory that would surely bring a smile to her own lips down the long years ahead.

He took her hand in his as they began to walk.

“For the benefit of anyone who happens to be watching,” he explained. “There is no more tender sight than that of a betrothed couple holding hands.”

“Kit,” she said reproachfully, but she made no effort to pull her hand away.