A Summer to Remember

Chapter 21

After dinner Lauren stood with Kit and the earl and countess in the receiving line at the ballroom doors. The dowager was seated on a comfortable chair inside surrounded on three sides by great banks of flowers—her own private bower, she had said when she saw it. There she was greeted and kissed by everyone who passed and showered with gifts.

There had been no rest at all for Lauren after returning from the lake. Apart from having to bathe and dress and have her hair done, she had taken it upon herself to help the countess check the decorations the servants had worked upon during the afternoon. The ballroom was like a garden. It had been Lauren’s idea to confine the colors to varying shades of pink and purple, together with white. And green, of course, so often neglected in floral arrangements. She definitely had a gift for color and design, the countess had told her approvingly.

It was not exactly the squeeze of a London ball. But the room was pleasingly full nonetheless before the dancing began. Most of the guests were not quite as fashionably dressed as their London counterparts would have been, or as bedecked with costly jewels, but all were wearing their best and looked bright and festive. She liked country gatherings better than town ones, Lauren decided as Kit led her into the ballroom and onto the floor to signal the imminent opening of the ball. There was something warm and intimate about them.

Kit looked very handsome in shades of gray and silver and white. She was wearing the violet gown she had worn to the Mannering ball, a deliberate choice. It seemed fitting somehow that she should wear it the last time she danced with him as she had worn it the first. More than one of the guests, as well as a few family members, had commented on how well they complemented each other in appearance, on what a handsome couple they made.

She was going to enjoy the evening, Lauren decided as other couples gathered around them. Every single moment of it. Her maid was above stairs, packing her trunks. But there was this evening left.

“You look particularly lovely tonight,” Kit said, leaning a little closer so that only she would hear his words. “And do I mistake, or— No, indeed I do not. Your gown really does match the color of your eyes.” His own eyes laughed into hers.

“Absurd.” She smiled back. How much had happened since the first time he had spoken those words to her! And yet not so very much time had passed. He had been a roguish, unwelcome stranger then. Now he was . . . well, now he was Kit. And achingly dear to her.

The music began and she concentrated on the steps and figures of the quadrille. She could never be happier than she was at this moment, she thought—and realized in some shock that it was precisely what she had told herself on her wedding eve ball when she had been in company with Neville.

The day following that had been the bleakest of her whole life. . . .

She smiled more brightly and noticed that the Duke of Bewcastle had just stepped into the ballroom with his brothers and Lady Freyja.

Sleeping Beauty, Kit had called her this afternoon. She felt more like Cinderella, dancing at the ball with her prince—with the knowledge that midnight would inevitably come and turn everything into rags and pumpkins.

But she had no glass slipper to leave behind on the stairs.

Lauren had taken to the floor with Bewcastle, who was looking elegant, austere, almost satanic in black and white. Kit had never seen him dance at any assembly or ball before this. He did so now, it would seem, to allay any lingering suspicion there might be in the neighborhood that he nursed some resentment against the Earl of Redfield and his family. Ralf was leading out Lady Muir while Alleyne bent his head close to Kit’s grandmother to hear what she was saying.

“May I have the honor, Freyja?” Kit bowed to her and extended his hand. She was looking particularly handsome tonight in gold satin overlaid with blond lace. Her hair was tamed and dressed high on her head with gold ornaments that gleamed in the candlelight.

She was small—smaller than Lauren, but fuller figured. Quite voluptuous, in fact. And she had the boldness, the energy, the vitality, to which he had always responded. As they danced without talking, he tried to re-create in his mind and his emotions the madness that had possessed him three years before when he had been consumed by passion for her. He could do it with his mind. She had always been his friend—and he had needed a friend that summer. A male friend would not do, as he had discovered when he had tried pouring out his woes to Ralf, and Ralf had told him rather impatiently not to be an ass. He had done his duty and also saved Syd’s life, had he not? And brought him home? What did he find to blame himself for? Freyja had shown no greater sympathy, but Freyja was a woman. All his grief, all his anger, all his guilt, had been converted to physical, sexual passion and focused on her person.

If he had anything to remember with guilt from that summer, it was surely the way he had used Freyja. It had been unconscious and quite unintentional, of course. But that was what had happened. She had been there, and he had used her.

“It is too warm in here,” she said when the set was almost at an end. The words, typical of Freyja, were issued almost like a challenge.

“It is,” he agreed. “It has been a hot day. It probably still is warm outside.”

“At least,” she said, “the air must be fresh out there.”

“Do you want to find out?” He grinned at her. “You are not about to faint, are you?”

She looked at him with mingled haughtiness and contempt.

The ballroom was at the east side of the house, on the ground floor. The east entrance was close to it, and on such a warm night the doors stood open and several guests had stepped outside, some merely to stand in the cooler air, a few to stroll among the parterres of the formal gardens. There was no one in the rose arbor, toward which Freyja turned. Kit walked beside her, hoping she would turn back before they actually reached the arbor.

“We need to talk,” she said.

The arbor it was, then. She sat on the very seat where Lauren had sat the evening of her arrival at Alvesley, and Kit stood looking down at her, his hands clasped at his back.

“What is it?” he asked. But he did not wait for her to reply. “Freyja, allow me to apologize—for three years ago. You never did say you loved me, did you? You never did say you would marry me and come with me to follow the drum. It was all in my imagination. I had no right to come banging on the door at Lindsey Hall and to force that fight on Ralf and create such an atrocious scene. Please forgive me.”

She looked at him coolly. “How foolish you are, Kit,” she said. “How utterly foolish.”

“You had an understanding with Jerome,” he said. “You would not have married me.”

“Of course I would not,” she said impatiently. “You were a younger son. I am the daughter of a Duke of Bewcastle.”

“Well, then.” How devastating those words would have sounded to him three summers ago. How relieved he was to hear them now. “There was no permanent harm done, then, was there? Did you love Jerome?”

“Oh, fool, Kit,” she said softly. “Fool!”

He had known her for a long time. They had been close friends. Sometimes meanings did not have to be spelled out in words.

“Freyja—” he began.

“For what are you punishing yourself this time?” she asked him. “Still for Sydnam? For Jerome? Because you broke his nose and had no chance to beg his pardon before he died? You have become a bore, Kit. Just look at her! If you had chosen to flagellate yourself with a nail-studded club you would not have been picking a worse punishment. She is primness and dullness personified. You have made your point, believe me. Now, what do you plan to do to extricate yourself?”

For a brief moment he closed his eyes. Ah, he had not expected this. He moved a little closer, fearful suddenly that they might be overheard. He lifted one foot to the seat beside her and draped one arm over his raised leg.

“Freyja,” he said, “you are mistaken. Very mistaken, I’m afraid.”

There was one thing about Freyja—she had never been slow of understanding. And it was quite against her nature to grovel, to beg, to weep, to make any sort of scene. She stared up at him, all cold haughtiness, and then she moved to jerk to her feet.

“No, don’t.” He grasped her shoulder. “Don’t hurry back without me. It might be noted and commented upon. Take my arm and we will return together. Perhaps we can smile?”

“You, Kit,” she said, getting to her feet more slowly and linking her arm through his, “may go to hell. I hope you burn there. Better yet, I hope you live well into your nineties with your lady bride. I cannot imagine a more hellish sentence for a man of your nature.”

She lifted a smiling face to his. Freyja had always been mistress of the feline smile.

He did not respond. There was no point. Besides, he was reminded that if he did live into his nineties, sixty or so of those years were going to have to be lived without Lauren. Unless even yet he could get her to change her mind. Surely he could. Once this day was over he would be able to concentrate all his efforts upon coaxing her to love him.

We must not snare each other now. . . .

He would not remember that she viewed marriage with him as a sort of imprisonment, as a loss of all her newly won freedom.

He would teach her that there was more than one kind of freedom.

Kit was nowhere in sight when the dance with the Duke of Bewcastle was over. But Gwen was approaching on Lord Rannulf’s arm. Lauren smiled at them both. She would suggest to Gwen that they slip away for a few minutes to find a cool drink. It was a warm night. But Lord Rannulf gave her no opportunity to make the suggestion. He bowed to Lauren and asked for her hand in the next set.

He was one of the few gentlemen of her acquaintance, she thought after she had accepted, who could make her feel almost diminutive. He really was a giant of a man.

“You are looking becomingly flushed, Miss Edgeworth,” he said with that look in his eyes that she had never been able quite to interpret. Was it mockery or simply amusement? “But one would hate to force you into further exertions too soon. Do come and stroll with me outside.”

She had absolutely no wish to walk outside with him even though she knew there were several other guests out there to make all proper. But it was not a request he had made, she realized. He had drawn her arm through his and was moving purposefully out of the ballroom and toward the outer doors. Well, she decided, a little fresh air would feel good.

He could be an amusing companion. He pointed out several of the neighbors and told her brief anecdotes about them. He was a keen observer of human nature, it seemed, and yet none of his observations were quite malicious. Lauren found herself feeling well entertained. They were strolling above the parterres, in the direction of the rose arbor.

“Ah,” he said softly when they were close, “foiled! There is someone there before us—two persons actually. We must walk into the flower gardens instead.” And he turned her into the parterres.

He must have known even before coming out here, she realized, even before asking her for this set of dances, who was in the rose arbor. He had wanted her to know, to see for herself. Probably Lady Freyja wanted it too.

She was sitting on one of the seats. Kit, in a characteristic pose, stood close to her, one foot on the seat, one arm draped over his leg. The other hand was on her shoulder, bringing his head very close to hers.

Lord Rannulf was recounting some other anecdote, to which Lauren was not listening. He stopped, obviously without finishing.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I would not for worlds have had you see that.”

“Would you not?” she asked. Ladies did not call gentlemen liars.

“It is not what you think,” he said. “They have been friends all their lives, you know. They are still friends. You have seen for yourself how much they have in common, how they love to challenge each other and compete against each other, how much they come alive in each other’s company. But there is no more to it than friendship, I do assure you.”

“Lord Rannulf,” she said, “you were in the middle of a story. Please finish it. You need not concern yourself with what I think. My thoughts are private. You could not begin to guess their contents.”

Despite herself she had been wavering in her resolve. She did not even realize it until now when her determination to leave in the morning was strengthened, when staying even one more day was finally no option at all. It was a good thing this had happened, she thought as Lord Rannulf at her side, far from completing the story he had begun earlier, fell silent.

She had known that it would happen, of course, that it was inevitable. But now she had seen for herself and could entertain no niggling doubts. No faint hopes.

She would not let it upset her. It would be vastly unfair—to both Kit and herself. She had had her adventure and now it had come to an end. It was understandable that her spirits were rather flat after such a splendid adventure. But she would soon cheer up once she was back at Newbury. There would be her mother’s letters to read, Elizabeth and the baby to fuss over, Lily to rejoice with—oh, yes, finally, finally, she would be able to rejoice with Lily—and her future to plan. There would be her new freedom to enjoy. How many women had the freedom she now had?

“I am sorry,” Lord Rannulf said softly, and for the first time it seemed to Lauren he spoke with sincerity. “I am truly sorry, Miss Edgeworth. You have not deserved this.”

“Deserved what, Lord Rannulf?” she asked him. “Trickery? But life is full of tricks and lies and masks. One would be foolish not to be armed against them.”

Especially when she herself was the biggest perpetrator of deception.

He took her to where Aunt Clara was talking with the Countess of Redfield in the ballroom, bowed over her hand before raising it to his lips, and walked away without speaking another word to her.

Lady Freyja was back in the rose arbor when Lord Rannulf found her. She was sitting on the same seat she had occupied a few minutes before.

“Go away,” she said ungraciously when she saw him coming.

The Bedwyns rarely did as they were bidden. He moved closer and sat beside her.

“Well?” he asked.

“Bloody hell and a thousand damnations,” she said, quiet venom in her voice. “No, make it a million.”

He clucked his tongue but attempted no other admonition. Years ago none of a long string of governesses had ever been able to impress upon their headstrong pupil the reality of the fact that she was a lady and must learn to conduct herself accordingly. Her brothers had never made much effort to reinforce what the governesses had tried to teach.

“I want to go home,” she said. “I want to raid Wulf’s wine cellar. I want to get foxed. Blind drunk. With you. You can drink with me.”

“That is very generous of you, Free,” he said. “It is very tempting too after what you have just put me through—I like the woman, damn it. But Wulf and Alleyne would not appreciate being stranded here without the carriage. And it would offend my sensibilities to haul up the best liquor with the sole purpose of drinking ourselves three sheets to the wind with it. Inferior liquor would serve the same purpose but Wulf does not keep any.”

“Wulf be damned,” she said.

Her brother raised his eyebrows. “Drinking like a fish is no cure for what ails you, you know,” he said. “All you will get out of it is a crashing headache and a fervent wish that you were dead.”

“When I need your advice,” she said with woeful lack of originality, “I will ask for it.”

“Quite so.” He shrugged. “It was foolish to fall in love three years ago and never fall out again, you know.”

He saw it coming despite the darkness. But he thought it might do her more good than drinking herself under the nearest table. She clenched her right hand into a tight fist, drew back her arm, and punched him hard on the chin. His head snapped back, but he was not swayed from his comfortable posture on the seat.

“Ouch!” he said quietly after a few moments. “If you really insist upon getting foxed, Free, we will steal two horses from the stables here and be on our way. Or we could go back inside and dance. You could show everyone what you are made of. Show that you don’t care a fig for Kit or any other mortal so far beneath the notice of Lady Freyja Bedwyn.”

“I don’t care for him,” she said, getting to her feet. “I hate him if you want to know the truth, Ralf. And as for that mealymouthed lady he has brought home with him, well—I would have to say he richly deserves her. And that is all I have to say. Are you coming or are you not?”

“I’m coming.” He got to his feet and grinned down at her. “That’s the girl, Free. Up with the chin. The Bedwyn nose can be a priceless asset on occasions like this, can it not?”

Freyja looked at him along the length of hers as if he were a worm beneath her dancing slipper.

Country balls, even when they were of the elaborate nature of the one at Alvesley, did not continue until dawn as the most memorable of London balls did. Supper was served at eleven and was followed by the first and only waltz of the evening for the relatively few couples bold and skilled enough to dance it. After that the dancing continued, but the guests began gradually to drift away. And the Dowager Countess of Redfield retired to bed.

Kit and Lauren took her up to her room. They had just waltzed together, and Kit had been powerfully reminded of their first waltz, when he had been struck by her beauty, daunted by her apparently cold dignity, and challenged to try to shock her out of her complacency.

His grandmother was tired. There was none of her fierce independence tonight. Instead of clutching her cane with her good hand, she had one arm linked through Lauren’s and the other through his, and she was leaning heavily. But Kit knew it had been an extraordinarily happy day for her.

“Good . . . night.” She relinquished Lauren’s arm when Kit had opened her dressing room door and her dresser had come hurrying to assist her. “P . . . recious boy.”

“Good night, Grandmama.” He hugged her gently as she kissed his cheek.

“Good night.” She turned to kiss Lauren, who leaned down to hug her too. “Sweet . . . child.”

“Good night, ma’am. Happy birthday.” There were tears in Lauren’s eyes when she took Kit’s arm again.

“We have just danced together,” he said as they made their way back downstairs. “If we return to the ballroom, we will have to take other partners.”

“So we will,” she said. “It is the polite thing to do.”

“Would it be impolite to walk outside together?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Everyone has a partner for this set anyway.”

There were still a few other people outside, mostly the young cousins, who were chattering and laughing together in a group. Kit led Lauren past them, exchanging cheerful greetings as they went. They strolled without talking through the parterres and across the lawn below until they came to the little wooden bridge across the stream. They stopped there by unspoken assent and rested their arms along the wooden rail. There was the sound of water bubbling below, though it was invisible in the darkness cast by the trees. In contrast, the lawn and flower beds and house were bathed in moonlight.

Kit sighed. “A long day almost over.”

“But a wonderful day,” she said. “It has been perfect, has it not? Perfect for your grandmother and perfect for everyone else too.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

He could hear distant laughter from the direction of the house. And the faint sound of music. It was good to be alone with Lauren. She was a restful companion. He had not realized until recently how important a component of friendship the ability to be quiet together was. And to feel as comfortable as one felt when alone. No, more comfortable.

“Kit,” she said softly, “we did the right thing, did we not?”

He understood the question immediately.

“If you had come here alone,” she said, “you would be feeling now that you had been forced into a betrothal without any freedom of choice. You might always have resented it, and your family would have sensed it even if you had not put it into words. There would be awkwardness and friction and hostility whereas now there are peace and love and harmony. It was not wrong, was it?”

“It was not wrong,” he said, finding her hand with his own on the rail and covering it.

“After it is all over,” she said, “the harmony will remain here, and you will be free to choose your own future.”

“From tomorrow on,” he said, “I am going to be free to woo you more aggressively. I am going to do it. Be warned. I am going to convince you that the best ending for what had been started here is going to be our wedding. Happily ever after and all that.”

“Kit,” she said after a short pause, “I am going to be leaving with Aunt Clara and Gwen tomorrow.”

“No!” His fingers closed tightly about hers. Panic gripped his insides.

“It will be the best possible solution. You will surely agree when you think about it,” she said. “They are from my own home. They accompanied me here as my chaperones. They are eager to return home because Elizabeth is coming with the new baby. It will be the most natural thing in the world for me to leave with them. And your mother and Aunt Clara between them have assumed that our wedding will take place at Newbury. It will seem, then, that I am going in order to start the preparations. No awkward explanations will need to be made. By the time I write to put an end to our betrothal, your family guests will all have returned home and you will be able to break the news quietly to the earl and countess. And to your grandmother and Sydnam.”

Her voice was quiet and sensible. There was no trace of regret there, of pain, of any emotion whatsoever.

“Stay a little longer,” he said. “A week. Give me one week to persuade you. Don’t leave tomorrow, Lauren. It is too soon.”

“I have accomplished everything I came here to do,” she said. “And I have had my adventure, my summer to remember. There is no good reason to prolong it and every reason to end it. It is time, Kit. You will soon realize it for yourself.”

“Stay,” he urged her, “until we know for sure whether or not you are with child.”

“If I am,” she said just as coolly as before, “I will write to you immediately. If I am not, I will write to cancel our betrothal. I will wait until I know, Kit. I can do that just as easily at Newbury. And I really believe I am not. There were only two occasions, after all.”

One. There had been only one occasion when she might have conceived. “I hope you are,” he said, gripping her hand even more tightly. “I hope you are with child.” Did he? Was he so desperate that he wanted her to be coerced?

“Why?” she asked.

Because I love you. Because I cannot bear the thought of life lived without you. But he could not hang that albatross about her neck. It would be horribly unfair. She might somehow feel honor-bound to stay with him, to marry him, to give up the life she dreamed of, now so close to being in her grasp.

“It is because you have . . . possessed me, is it not?” she said. “As a gentleman you feel you must persuade me to marry you at all costs. There is no need—not unless I am with child. It was not seduction. What I did, I did freely. It was part of the adventure, part of the memorable summer. I will never regret it. I will always be glad that I—that I know. And that it was with you. And that it was so . . . wonderful. But you owe me nothing, certainly not a lifetime of devotion. You are free, Kit. So am I. Free!”

She made freedom sound like the most desirable state of the human condition. He might have agreed with her a month or so ago.

He tasted defeat. How could he argue against a plea for freedom?

“There is nothing I can say to change your mind, then?” he asked.

“No.”

He lifted her hand, set his forehead against it, drew a slow breath.

“Thank you,” he said. “For all you have done for me and my family, thank you, Lauren. You have been sweetness and patience and generosity and unfailing dignity.”

“And thank you.” She set her free hand on his arm. “For my adventure, Kit. For the swimming and riding and tree-climbing. For the—for the laughter. And for persuading Grandpapa to tell me the truth about my mother. That is a more precious gift than I can put into words. Thank you.”

He felt her lips against his cheek and fought the urge to pull her into his arms, to use his superior physical strength, to flatly refuse to let her go—ever.

“Tomorrow morning, then?” he said, his eyes tightly closed. “We will need to be cheerful, will we not? Regretful for the brief parting, but cheerful because wedding plans are being set in motion. Basically cheerful, yes. I’ll kiss you, I believe. On the lips. It will seem appropriate.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “There will be others gathered to see us on our way, I daresay. There will be others watching.”

“But now,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips, “we are alone together. For the last time. Good-bye, then, my friend. Good-bye, Lauren.”

“Oh, my dear,” she said, and for the first time it seemed to him that her voice faltered and emotion crept in. “Good-bye. Have a good life. I will always remember you with—with deep affection.”

He stood there for several silent moments, his back to the house, his eyes closed, her hand to his lips, memorizing the feel and the soap fragrance of her and the gentle aura she seemed to cast about him, before escorting her back for what remained of the birthday ball.