Simply Love (30 page)

Charles, aged nine.

David was with the children, his cousins, somewhere else in the house. He was probably reveling in their company and in their relationship to him. He never seemed to be able to get enough of other children, particularly cousins. Yet his life until a very short while ago had been quite devoid of the latter.

Anne sipped her tea without tasting it and was content to leave all the talking to her mother, Sydnam, Matthew, and Susan.

She had not expected this sort of reception. She had expected her mother and father to be alone. She had imagined that Matthew, as a clergyman, might disdain to receive her. She had expected Sarah and Henry to stay well out of her sight until she was long gone. She had not decided if she would try to force them to confront her.

But they had come here, knowing she was expected.

Neither of them had spoken a word.

But then neither had she since coming inside the house except to murmur thanks every time someone offered her food or tea.

The last time she had been in this house was when she had come from Cornwall to spend a short vacation. They had celebrated Henry's twentieth birthday and planned that the
next
year they would celebrate his coming of age by announcing their betrothal. But by his twenty-first birthday she was with child and Henry was married to Sarah.

Sydnam was telling them all about Alvesley and his family. He was telling them about Glandwr, where he was the Duke of Bewcastle's steward, and about TÅ· Gwyn, which he had recently purchased and to which he was eager to take his bride and stepson. He told them that he had been a military officer in the Peninsula, where he had sustained his injuries.

“But I survived.” He smiled at all of them. “Many thousands did not.”

It struck Anne suddenly that at Glandwr Sydnam had always been quiet, that he had always taken up a position in a quiet corner of the drawing room, that while he was never morose or unsociable, he never put himself forward either. Yet here he was, taking upon himself the brunt of the conversation, knowing himself to be the very center of attention.

She felt a wave of gratitude and love.

Her mother got to her feet.

“Matthew and Susan live five miles away,” she said, “and Sarah and Henry scarcely less. It is quite a distance with young children. They are all to stay here tonight since no one wanted to rush away before dinner. You must be tired after your journey, Anne. And Mr. Butler too. Come upstairs to your room and have a rest. We can all talk again later.”

Yes, she had come here to talk, Anne thought. She had come here to face them, to confront them, to make some sort of peace with them if it was possible. But perhaps it was best left until later. Her mother was right—she
was
tired.

But she did not get up. She stared at her hands spread in her lap instead.

“Why?” she asked. “It is what I want to know from all of you, what I came to ask. Why?”

She was appalled at her own words. It
was
why she had come. But there was surely a better time. When, though? When would be a better time? She had already waited ten years.

Everyone else was appalled too. She could tell that by the quality of the silence that filled the room. But they must have known she would ask the question. Or hadn't they? Had they thought she would come now that she was married and respectable again to be taken back to the bosom of the family, content that nothing be said about the past?

Her mother sat down again. Anne looked up at her.

“What did you mean,” she asked, “when you said that you forgave me.
We
was the word you used. Who was
we
? And what had I done to need forgiveness?”

Matthew cleared his throat, but it was their father who replied.

“He was a wealthy man, Anne,” he said, “and heir to a marquess's title. I daresay you thought he would marry you, and so he ought to have done. But you should have known that such as he would not marry such as you—especially after you had already given him what he wanted.”

Anne's mother made an inarticulate sound of distress, Sydnam got to his feet and crossed to the window, where he stood looking out, and Anne clasped her hands very tightly in her lap.

“You thought I was trying to snare Albert Moore as a husband?” she asked.

“Maybe not quite in the way it turned out,” her father said. “But I daresay you teased him and he lost control. It is what happens. And the man always gets blamed.”

Blamed.

The man always gets blamed.

“I was to marry Henry,” Anne said, ignoring the almost palpable discomfort of Henry himself—and of Sarah. “You knew that. I had known him and loved him all my life. I did not look higher. It never even occurred to me to be ambitious. I lived for the day when I could come back home to marry.”

“Anne,” Sarah said, but she did not continue, and everyone ignored her anyway.

“But you must have been able to stop him if you had really wanted to do so, Anne,” her father said. “Surely you could have.”

“He was stronger than I,” she said. “
Much
stronger.”

He winced almost noticeably and then frowned. Her mother's face was hidden in her handkerchief.

“Your mother wanted to go to you,” her father said. “I was going to write to the marquess to ask what his son's intentions to you were. But what would have been the point? You were a governess there. I would merely have made myself look foolish. And then Sarah told us that she was going to marry Arnold, and he came on the heels of her announcement to offer for her and when I refused my consent they both threatened to elope. Matthew was about to take up his first curacy where he is now and there was all the question of what the scandals would do to his career. I refused to allow your mother to go to you—there was a wedding to arrange, anyway. But I did instruct her to write to you and tell you we forgave you. I did not believe you had been deliberately depraved.”

It was, Anne supposed, little different from what she had imagined. She gazed at her father, at the pillar of strength she had loved and admired and obeyed as a girl. But there came a time in everyone's life, she supposed, when one's parent became a person in one's eyes. And persons, unlike parents, were never perfect. Sometimes they were far from perfection.

Her mother lowered her hands.

“And your father—and
we,
” she said, “thought it best that you not come back here, Anne—at least for a while. It would have been upsetting, and there would have been scandal in the neighborhood. It would have been dreadful for you.”

And for her and Papa and Sarah and Henry and Matthew, Anne thought with a half-smile.

“But I have missed you dreadfully,” her mother cried. “I have pined for you, Anne. And for David.”

But not enough ever to come and visit her? Anne thought. But then her mother had always been a dutiful wife. She had never done anything without Papa's full approval and consent. It had always seemed to be a virtue…

“He is such a handsome child, Anne,” her mother said. “And he looks just like you.”

“David looks,” Anne said, “like Albert Moore, his father. He was a handsome man. David also has some of my characteristics. But more than anything else, he is himself. He has most in common with his new father. Sydnam is a painter and so is David. They paint together.”

It astounded her that she could admit aloud that David looked like his father without cringing from the very fact that Albert Moore
was
his father. She glanced at Sydnam, who still stood with his back to the room, and felt a knee-weakening love for him.

“Anne,” Sarah said, “please forgive me.
Please
do. It was a terrible thing I did, but I was
so
in love. That was no excuse, though. I have not known a day's happiness since. I am so very sorry. But I cannot expect you to forgive me.”

Anne looked at her fully for the first time. She
had
grown plumper. She looked very much like their mother. But she was still the sister who had been Anne's closest friend and confidante throughout their growing years.

“Anne,” Henry said, “I would have married you if you had come home as planned without—Well…You must know I would have. But you were there and Sarah was here.”

Anne bent her gaze on him. She would have liked to see him as ugly and unappealing. She would like to wonder what she had ever seen in him. He certainly had weaknesses of character that were unattractive. But he was Henry, and they had been close friends for years before planning a closer relationship.

“All things happen for a purpose,” she said, “though sometimes they take their time. If I had married you, Henry, there would not be David, and he has been the most precious person in my life for many years. And if I had married you, I would not have been able to marry Sydnam. And so I would have lost my chance for a lifetime of happiness.”

Matthew cleared his throat again.

“You have done well for yourself, Anne,” he said. “First you had a home and some pupils in that village in Cornwall, and then you got that teaching post in Bath. And now you have married a son of the Earl of Redfield.”

“It is strange,” Anne said, “that you know all these things about me. I have known nothing about your lives. I did not even know of the existence of any of my nephews and nieces.”

“I thought it best, Anne,” her mother said. “I thought you would pine.”

“I need to ask you all,” Anne said, “if the fact that I have come through these years rather well makes you feel better about turning your backs on me.”

“Oh, Anne.” Sarah's voice was high with distress.

But it was her father who gave a lengthier reply.

“No,” he said abruptly. “No better at all. It was easier to believe that you had brought your suffering on yourself and then to feel relieved that you were coping on your own. It was easier to believe that you were better off where you were, away from the gossiping tongues of our neighbors. You did suffer and you did cope, and perhaps it really was good that you avoided the gossip. But no, I for one do not feel better about my treatment of you. I never have felt good about it. And now today, now that I have to look you in the eye, I feel worse—as I deserve to do. Don't blame your mother. She would have come to you at the start, but I would not countenance it.”

“I ought at least to have written to you, Anne,” Matthew said.

“If it had not been for my extravagances at Oxford, you would not even have had to take a position as governess.”

“Sarah has always been miserable about the whole thing,” Henry said quietly. “So have I.”

“Well,” Anne said, getting to her feet, “if I was not tired before I am exhausted now. I will avail myself of the suggestion that I withdraw until dinnertime. I am sure Sydnam is weary too. Ancient history is a dreadful thing when it is one's own, is it not? It cannot be changed. None of us can go back and do things differently. We can only go forward and hope that the past has at least taught us some wisdom to take with us. I have stayed away in more recent years because I bore a grudge, because I hoped you were all suffering, because I could feed my bitterness, which somehow seemed my right. But here I am. And though I will doubtless weep when I get upstairs, I am glad I came. For what it is worth, I forgive you all—and hope you will forgive me for what I have contributed to your unhappiness.”

They were all on their feet and all hovering. The scene could degenerate into high sentimental drama at any moment, Anne thought. But no one moved to hug her, and she did not move to hug anyone.

It was too soon yet.

But the time would come, she believed. They were all very much in need of pardon and peace. And, when all was said and done, they were family. And they had come today.

Sydnam was at her side and offering her his arm. She linked her own arm through it, half smiled about at the room's occupants, and followed her mother from the parlor and up the broad wooden stairs, past her old room, and on to the room that had always been kept for such special guests that in effect it had almost never been used.

They had been deemed very special guests, then, had they?

After she had stepped inside the room, Anne turned to look at her mother, who was hovering in the doorway, looking anxious.

“I am glad you have come home, Anne,” she said. “I am glad you have brought David. And I am glad you have married Mr. Butler.”

“Sydnam, if you please, ma'am,” he said.

“Sydnam.” She smiled nervously at him.

Anne stepped forward without a word and wrapped her arms about her mother's stout form. Her mother hugged her back tightly and wordlessly.

“Rest now,” she said when Anne stepped back.

“Yes.” Anne nodded. “Mama.”

And then the door closed and she was alone with Sydnam.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but I think I am going to weep.”

“Anne,” he said, and he was laughing softly as his arm came about her and his hand drew her head down to rest on his shoulder. “Of course you are.”

“Was painting again this difficult for you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said with conviction, kissing the top of her head. “And there is much anguish to come. I have only just begun, and the first effort really was quite abysmal. But I am not going to stop. I have begun and I will continue—to failure or to success. But failure does not matter because it will only spur me on to try harder as it always used to do. And even if I never succeed, at least I will know that I tried, that I did not hide from life.”

“At last,” she said, “I have stopped hiding too.”

“Yes,” he said, laughing softly again. “You surely have.”

The tears came at last.

Both the younger Jewells and the Arnolds remained at the manor
for longer than the one night they had planned.

David was in heaven. Though he dragged Sydnam off one morning to paint, taking Amanda with them, he was content to spend almost all the rest of his time with his cousins, particularly Charles Arnold, who was only a few months younger than he.

Sydnam went out riding a few times with the men after they discovered—through David—that he
could
ride. He found them all very willing to make his acquaintance. He had been prepared to dislike them—the elder Mr. Jewell no less than Henry Arnold, but though he had seethed with rage while listening to what they had to say to Anne on the first day, he discovered on closer acquaintance that they were just ordinary, basically amiable gentlemen with whose views on life and justice he could occasionally disagree.

Anne spent most of her days with her mother and sister and sister-in-law, and her evenings with everyone. They all appeared to be making a concerted effort to be a family together again.

It would take time, Sydnam guessed, remembering how it had taken a while for him and Kit to feel thoroughly comfortable with each other again after their lengthy estrangement following his return from the Peninsula. But it seemed to him that Anne and her family had been restored to one another and that the last of the dark shadows had been lifted from her life.

She seemed happy.

And he? Well, he could not forget one thing Anne had said to Arnold in the parlor that first afternoon—
If I had married you, I would not have been able to marry Sydnam. And so I would have lost my chance for a lifetime of happiness.

How much of that was the truth and how much had been spoken entirely for the benefit of the man who had rejected her and promptly married her sister, Sydnam was not sure. But he
thought
he knew.

Yes, he was happy too.

They had intended to stay for a few days if they were made welcome, less if they were not. But Anne seemed in no hurry to leave now that she had found her family again, and Sydnam was content to give her time. They stayed even after Matthew and his family returned to the vicarage where they lived and Henry Arnold took his family home—bearing David with them for a couple of days.

Mrs. Jewell, who was clearly beside herself with delight to have her elder daughter at home, planned a whole series of visits to neighbors and teas and dinners for various guests. And the younger Jewells and the Arnolds were eager to entertain them in their own homes.

And so the planned few days stretched into a week.

And then on the eighth day a letter arrived for Anne. Mr. Jewell brought it to the breakfast table one morning and set it down beside her plate.

“It is from Bath,” she said, picking it up to examine it. “But it is not Claudia's handwriting or Susanna's. I have seen it before, though. I should know it.”

“There is one way of finding out,” her father said dryly.

She laughed and broke the seal with her thumb.

“Lady Potford,” she said, looking first to the signature. “Yes, of course, I have seen her hand before.”

“Lady Potford?” Sydnam asked.

“Joshua's grandmother,” she explained. “She lives in Bath. I have visited her several times.”

She read the letter while her mother plied Sydnam with more toast and then watched as he chased it around his plate with the butter knife.

“Oh, Sydnam,” Anne said, looking up, “Lady Potford is quite hurt over the fact that I did not inform her of our nuptials. She would have come, she writes here, and she would have arranged a wedding breakfast for us. Is that not kind?”

“It is very obliging of her,” her mother agreed. “She must be fond of you, Anne.”

But there was more in the letter than just regrets.

“Oh,” Anne said, her eyes moving over the rest of its contents. “Joshua is expected in Bath next week. Lady Potford is quite convinced that he will be upset at missing our wedding and not even seeing us afterward. She wants us to return to Bath before going on into Wales so that she can arrange a small reception for us.”

She looked up.

It was not a great distance to Bath. However, going there would take them in the wrong direction. And really, Sydnam thought, he
was
longing to be home. He wanted to establish his new family at TÅ· Gwyn. And Anne was increasing. She ought not to be traveling more than was necessary.

But Bath had been Anne's home for a number of years. Her friends were there. Hallmere was a relative—of David's anyway—and had been remarkably kind to her. Without the Hallmeres he, Sydnam, would never have met her.

Her teeth sank into her lower lip.

“Do you wish to go?” he asked.

“It would be foolish,” she said. “All that way in order to have tea or perhaps dinner with Joshua and Lady Potford.”

“But do you want to go?” he asked again.

He knew the answer, though. He could see it in her eyes.

“He invited David and me to Penhallow for Christmas this year,” she said. “We will not be able to go, of course. David will probably not see him for a long time. But…” She bit her lip again. “But he
is
David's cousin. I…”

He laughed. “Anne, do you wish to go?”

“Perhaps we ought,” she said. “Will you mind terribly?”

TÅ· Gwyn, he thought, would have to wait.

“Next week?” he said. He turned to Mrs. Jewell. “May we impose upon your hospitality for a few days longer than expected, then, ma'am?”

“A
month
longer if you wish, Sydnam,” that lady said, and clasped her hands to her bosom.

Mr. Jewell smirked slightly at some private thought—or as if he knew a secret no one else even suspected—and left the breakfast parlor, presumably to return to his study.

And so in the middle of the following week, well after they had originally expected to be home in Wales, Anne and Sydnam were on their way back to Bath, David sitting with his back to the horses, partly tearful at having just taken his leave of his grandparents, partly excited at the prospect of seeing Joshua again—and Miss Martin and Miss Osbourne and Mr. Keeble, the school porter who apparently used to slip him sweets from the depths of his pocket whenever no one was looking.

Anne had been a little tearful at the parting too, but her father had assured her after kissing her on both cheeks that they would all doubtless see one another again before they knew it, and her mother had hugged her and agreed with her husband.

Now Anne sat with her hand in Sydnam's, her shoulder resting companionably against his.

Marriage was beginning to feel like a very pleasant state indeed.

                  

They had been invited to stay at Lady Potford's in Bath. When their carriage drew up outside the tall house on Great Pulteney Street, the door opened almost immediately and her ladyship's butler peered out. But David's whoop of joy as Anne descended to the pavement, her hand in Sydnam's, alerted her to the fact that Joshua was already here. And sure enough, David dashed out and past her and up the steps to be scooped up and swung about in a circle.

“You have not grown one ounce the lighter since the summer, lad,” Joshua said. “And so your mama has got herself married, has she?”

“Yes,” David cried as if he were addressing someone half a mile away. “To my stepfather. He can ride. He can even jump hedges, though I haven't seen him do it and Uncle Kit says that he will tie him to the nearest post and leave him there if
he
ever sees him try it. And he is teaching me to paint with oils. He was going to get me a teacher when we go home to TÅ· Gwyn, but he decided to teach me himself. He is the
best
teacher—much better than Mr. Upton,” he added disloyally. “I have
lots
of cousins where my mama used to live. Charles is nine too, but he is younger than I am and only comes up to here.” He smote himself just above the right ear. “Are Daniel and Emily here?”

“They are,” Joshua said, chuckling. “You had better put Daniel out of his misery and dash up to the nursery without pausing for another breath, if you will, lad.”

And he turned to grin at Sydnam and to catch Anne up in a bear hug that was quite undignified considering the fact that the front door was still wide open.

Lady Hallmere and the children had come to Bath too, then, Anne realized. Lady Potford's letter had not mentioned that fact.

“Freyja and all the other Bedwyns and assorted spouses had decided that their matchmaking skills must have eluded them this past summer,” Joshua said. “But it would seem they were wrong. One can only imagine on what poor unwed mortal their collective eye will alight next. Marriage must agree with you both. I do not see a single gray hair between the two of you.”

Anne laughed. The Bedwyns really had noticed her relationship with Sydnam during the summer, then, and had even tried to promote it? How mortified she would have been if she had realized that at the time.

“It agrees,” Sydnam said. “Very well indeed, in fact.”

“Come up and report to Freyja and my grandmother,” Joshua said. “Neither one of them was best pleased to learn that you had slunk off and got wed with great secrecy. They would have liked nothing better than to have given you a royal send-off.”

Anne felt a little wistful despite herself. Most people, she supposed, dreamed of a large wedding surrounded by family and friends—and she was no different from the norm. But she must not complain. She had had Claudia and Susanna with her, as well as David, and her marriage since that day had brought her far more happiness than she had expected when she sent off her letter to summon Sydnam.

Of course
he
had had no one of his own at their wedding.

It was only as she proceeded up the stairs on Joshua's arm, Sydnam coming up behind them, that it occurred to her to wonder how Lady Potford had learned of their marriage—and, even more puzzling, how she had known to send her letter to Gloucestershire.

But it was something she did not feel she could ask.

                  

If Lady Potford had intended to host her small reception at home, it appeared that she had changed her mind. Indeed, there was no further mention of an actual reception. Instead, she announced that she had booked a table at the Upper Assembly Rooms for tea the following afternoon. It would be a nice treat for all of them, she said, now that the weather had turned wintry and prevented much outdoor exercise. They must all get dressed up in their finest attire as if they were attending a wedding.

The children must come too, she added—she would arrange for Daniel and Emily's nurse to look after them there.

“I hope you do not mind this too terribly much,” Anne said to Sydnam the next day, meeting his eye in the mirror of the dressing table after the maid Lady Potford had insisted upon sending up to her had left and he had come out of the adjoining dressing room, all ready to go. “Oh.” She swiveled about on the stool. “You look exceedingly handsome.”

He was wearing a black-tailed coat with ivory silk breeches and embroidered waistcoat and very white linen.

He looked nothing short of gorgeous, in fact.

“And you,” he said, “are looking quite exquisite.”

She was wearing her rose pink muslin dress, the prettiest of all her new ones, with its flounced, scalloped hem and soft folds falling from the high waistline, its short, puffed sleeves and modestly scooped neck. Lady Potford's maid had done something very elaborate but very becoming with her hair. She was wearing her diamond pendant and earrings.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling and getting to her feet. “But we are merely going to the Upper Assembly Rooms for
tea,
Sydnam. Whatever will the other people there think of us? We look far too grand for afternoon.”

Of course, she had always dreamed of taking tea and even dancing at the Upper Rooms and could remember how envious she had been more than two years ago when Frances had been invited to an assembly there.

“Well,” he said, “they will probably take one look at me and scream and run long before they can notice how grand we look.”

“Oh, Sydnam!” she exclaimed, but he was grinning at her in his lopsided way, and she ended up laughing with him.

“There is just this afternoon to live through,” she said as they were leaving the room together, “and a brief visit to the school tomorrow if you do not mind—I did send off a note to Claudia this morning to tell her we were here—and then we may go home. You will be so glad.”

“And you?” he said, offering his arm.

“Oh, yes,” she said, taking his arm and squeezing it. “I can hardly wait.”

But first there was to be tea in the Upper Rooms, and Anne looked forward to it. She and Sydnam traveled in Lady Potford's carriage while Joshua and Lady Hallmere came behind and the children came behind
them
in a carriage with the nurse.