Slightly Married (3 page)

And now what the devil was he supposed to do with himself? Aidan wondered. It was scarcely noon and the whole of the rest of the day yawned emptily before him. Sit in the taproom fraternizing with the locals? Explore the spacious metropolis of Heybridge? Take a brisk walk along the village street and back? That might kill ten minutes. Go for a long ride up one country lane and down another? Lie on his bed making pictures out of the stains on the ceiling?

He was hungry, he realized suddenly. It was five hours since he had had his breakfast, and he had refused the offer of refreshments at Ringwood Manor. The taproom and dining room were all one at the Three Feathers. There was no such thing as a private dining room. He went downstairs, ordered a steak-and-kidney pie with a tankard of ale, and struck up a conversation with the innkeeper and a group of his local patrons. Anything to pass an hour or three without expiring of boredom.

The main item of news with which the whole village was buzzing, not surprisingly, was the death of Percival Morris. They all knew that Aidan had brought the news and probed for more information without ever being impertinent enough to ask a direct question of such a grand gentleman. They had a curious way of asking the questions of one another or the empty air and then pausing for him to answer.

“I wonder exactly 'ow young Mr. Percival died,” one of them asked of the pipe smoke above his head.

“I wonder what them big battles against the Froggies are like,” another mused into the ale in his tankard.

“You all knew Captain Morris?” Aidan asked after he had satisfied their curiosity by providing a few suitably gory details of the Battle of Toulouse.

Ah, yes, indeed, they all had, though he had not been home for years.

“Broke his father's heart, he did, running off like that to take the king's shilling,” one of them said, showing a woeful lack of understanding of how a man became a cavalry officer.

A spirited discussion followed as to whether old man Morris had had a heart to break.

“Look what 'e done to 'is own daughter, 'oo nursed 'im like a saint with one foot in 'eaven through all the years 'e was ill,” someone else observed.

“Done?” Aidan repeated, his interest piqued. He did not bother to correct the man's grammar.

“Aye,” the man said, shaking his head and sighing soulfully into his ale.

No further explanation was forthcoming. The conversation turned toward Miss Morris herself and her saintliness, which apparently extended beyond nursing an infirm father for four or five years before his death—a father who may or may not have possessed a heart. Among other things, it seemed, she had started and financed a village school, brought in a village midwife and paid her salary, taken in two orphans to live with her when no one else wanted them, and employed an assortment of undesirable types whom no one else would have touched with a ten-foot pole—or so one of them declared, and no one rushed to contradict him. Miss Morris, it would seem, took the Christian ideal of charity to an extreme. She also, Aidan concluded, must be very wealthy indeed.

“Too easily taken in she is, though,” the landlord said, shaking his head and pulling out a chair to settle his large bulk at an empty table. “Too soft in the 'ead.” He tapped his own with one finger to illustrate his point. “If you 'ad a penny to sell and a sorry enough tale to tell, she would give you a guinea for it as sure as I am sitting here.”

“Aye.” One of his listeners shook his head sadly.

“If you was to ask me,” the landlord said, though no one had, “old man Morris done the right thing before 'e popped off. Women are too soft about th 'eart to 'ave the running of a grand place like Ringwood and to 'ave their fingers in such a deep purse as Morris's was.”

“I was under the impression,” Aidan said, reluctantly showing open curiosity, “that Mr. Morris left Ringwood to his daughter.”

“Ah, 'e did,” the landlord said. “But it was to go to Mr. Percival after one year. Now 'e 'as gone and got 'imself killed just before the year is up and Mr. Cecil Morris will get it all instead. I don't expect to see
him
in any deep mourning for 'is cousin.”

Morris senior had left his property to his daughter for one year only? Now, since her brother was dead, it was to go to another relative? That would be unpleasant for her, Aidan thought, if she had had the running of the place since her father's demise. But at least the new owner
was
a relative. Doubtless she would soon adjust to the new way of things.

But still, she had lied to him to all intents and purposes. He felt annoyed. She might at least have told him she was about to lose ownership of her home. Except, he admitted with an inward sigh, that she did not owe him that knowledge. She owed him nothing. The debt was all on the other side.

Protection
was the word Captain Morris had used. Aidan could remember the captain's hand plucking feebly at his sleeve with a dying man's last surge of energy.

Promise me you will protect her. Promise me! No matter what!

Damnation! Was there more to all this than was even now apparent?

The men about him had settled into a lengthy discussion of Mr. Cecil Morris, but Aidan had not been listening.

“What was Mr. Morris like?” he asked. He hated to pump strangers for information, but he felt the need to know more. “Captain Morris's father, I mean.”

“Him?” one of the drinkers said. “He was no better nor any of us though he put on airs good enough for the King of England. He were a coal miner down in Wales before he married the mine owner's daughter and got rich. When the old man died, Morris sold the mine, got richer, bought the manor here, and set up as a gentleman. He had his son and daughter brought up as a gentleman and lady, but he was disappointed in them and serve him right too. Mr. Percival went off to the wars and Miss Morris wouldn't marry none of the nobs he trotted out for her inspection.”

Ah, Aidan thought. The slight Welsh accent was explained. So was the very Welsh aunt.

“Ah, but it were the Earl of Luff what refused to let his son marry
her
when Morris suggested it,” another man said after showing the innkeeper his empty tankard. “She weren't given no chance to refuse him.”

“But she probably would 'ave,” the innkeeper said, hoisting himself to his feet. “There never was any snobbery about Miss Morris.”

Aidan got to his feet too, nodded genially to the innkeeper and the other occupants of the taproom, and went back to his room. He was going to go out for a long ride, he decided. He was going to have to decide what to do . . . if anything. It would be ill-mannered indeed to go back to Ringwood and start probing into Miss Morris's affairs again. But—very reluctantly—he no longer felt he could simply ride for home tomorrow morning.

C
HAPTER III

L
ATER THAT SAME AFTERNOON,
E
VE WALKED INTO THE
village alone. Aunt Mari would have accompanied her if she had brought the carriage. But it was fresh air and exercise she needed more than company—except perhaps the chance to think and to plan.

What were they all going to do? Blank terror clawed at her. She had been trying hard ever since yesterday morning to concentrate upon the only fact that was of any real significance—Percy's death. She had loved him dearly. She wanted to be able to mourn him properly. But . . .

But he had died too soon.

Percy had left a will, and in that will he had left Ringwood to Eve. But Ringwood had never been his. It was still Eve's until the anniversary of her father's death. Now by an irony of fate it would go to her cousin Cecil on that anniversary. Percy's will was useless. He had died too soon. As if it would have been perfectly all right for him to die later, she thought bitterly.

In five days' time they would all be homeless.
All
of them. Her stomach churned with panic. If she could have focused merely upon her own predicament, she could have found a solution, employment being the most obvious. But she did not have the luxury of thinking only of herself.

She walked onto the humpbacked stone bridge that spanned the river between Ringwood and Heybridge and paused a moment to gaze down at the gently flowing water before entering the village and approaching the vicarage. There were five days during which to make plans. She could spare today to concentrate upon Percy. He deserved that much of her.

The Reverend Thomas Puddle was at home, Eve discovered when he answered her knock at the door himself. But his housekeeper was not, and he was a man who assiduously observed the proprieties. Instead of inviting Eve inside, he suggested that she stroll with him in the churchyard. A lanky, fresh-faced, auburn-haired young man, the vicar was always awkward and blushing with Eve—as he was with all his other young female parishioners, with many of whom he was a great favorite.

He had been about to set out for Ringwood, he told her now, having just returned home from two days away to learn the news of her brother's tragic demise. He spent some time commiserating with her before they discussed the memorial service she had come to ask him to perform.

“Tomorrow will suit me well enough,” she assured him after learning that he must leave again on business the day after. “I can see to it that everyone is informed. I may leave all the details of the service to you, then?”

“You may indeed,” he assured her. “Is there anyone who would be able to deliver a eulogy for your brother, Miss Morris? I never knew him personally and could talk about him only in very general terms.”

She thought for a while as they came to a stop beneath the shade of a beech tree.

“I believe James Robson would be willing to do it,” she said. “He and Percy were the same age and grew up together as neighbors and friends. I will write to him as soon as I return home.”

But the hollow sound of hooves clopping over the bridge distracted them both at that moment. Eve was surprised to see that it was Colonel Bedwyn who was riding toward them, presumably on his way to the inn at the other end of the village. Why was he still in Heybridge? She would have expected him to be several hours along on his journey home by now.

He spotted them as his horse drew level with the beech tree and touched his whip to his hat. He
did
look extremely powerful on horseback, as she had expected, even though he was not wearing his uniform. He was not a man she would want to cross, she thought. He looked dour and humorless. He looked like a man who never smiled. But she must not be unkind. He had called on her twice. He had offered to help her in any way he could.

He hesitated and then drew his horse to a halt. He turned back toward the vicarage, dismounted, looped the reins over the garden fence, and came striding into the churchyard. Eve felt both startled and dismayed. She wanted nothing more to do with him. She disliked him, though she was honest enough with herself to realize that her only reason for doing so was that he was the one who had brought her the devastating news.

She introduced the two gentlemen.

“It was Colonel Bedwyn,” she explained to the vicar, “who brought word of Percy's death yesterday. He was Percy's commanding officer.”

“A tragic business,” the Reverend Puddle said. “His passing is a dreadful loss for Miss Morris and for the whole neighborhood. We have been planning a memorial service for tomorrow afternoon. Will you still be here, sir?”

“I have been delayed by the illness of my batman,” the colonel explained. “He has contracted a head cold since our return to Britain. I do not know quite when we will be on our way.”

The vicar murmured words of sympathy. Colonel Bedwyn looked at Eve and she felt the urge to take a step back. He had a piercing, very direct gaze. She pitied his men and was glad that Percy, although his subordinate, had at least been an officer.

“A memorial service?” he said.

She nodded. “Unfortunately,” she said, “I do not have his body to bury. But he grew up here. Most of my neighbors and friends remember him well. He was my brother. There is a need for some ceremony, some official good-bye.”

He nodded his understanding.

“We have been discussing whom to ask to give the eulogy,” the vicar explained. “I came here after Captain Morris left and would not do a creditable job of it myself.”

The colonel's black stare was still on Eve.

“Perhaps,” he said, “it would be appropriate if I spoke a few words, ma'am. Your neighbors should know what a courageous cavalry officer the Percival Morris they remember turned into and how bravely he fought for his country.”

“That is an extraordinarily generous offer, sir,” the Reverend Puddle said.

“You would stay one more day?” Eve frowned. “You would do that for me, Colonel?”

He inclined his head. “I gave my solemn word, ma'am.”

To protect her. It had broken her heart as she lay awake last night to realize that Percy had been plagued with very justifiable fears of what his death was going to mean to her. But what had he thought Colonel Bedwyn could do for her? He had been, she supposed, beyond rational thought.

“Thank you,” she said. “That would be very good of you.”

He nodded and finally looked away from her to take his leave of the Reverend Puddle. A moment later he was striding away to mount his horse again.

“A formidable gentleman,” the vicar observed.

“Yes,” Eve agreed. Also, very clearly, a man of his word. She realized that his offer to help her this morning and his offer now to stay an extra day in order to deliver a eulogy at Percy's memorial service tomorrow had nothing to do with simple kindness. His life had been saved and he felt himself in Percy's debt. He had given Percy his word that he would protect her, and in the absence of any other way of serving her, he would stay to say uplifting things about Percy for her comfort and her neighbors' edification.

She was grateful to him.

A
IDAN DID NOT CONSIDER HIMSELF AN ELOQUENT
man. Certainly he had never before delivered a eulogy. He had attended so many burial services for his men and fellow officers that it was depressing to think of, but the regimental chaplains had always said all that needed to be said.

“Captain Percival Morris once endangered his life and suffered severe wounds in order to save
my
life,” he began when it came time for the eulogy, facing the impressively large congregation gathered in the pretty, typically English village church.

Miss Morris, dressed all in gray, sat in the front pew, her black-clad and -veiled aunt beside her. The young blonde-haired woman who had been teaching the children on the lawn at Ringwood was there too, as was the housekeeper, who would have made an excellent sergeant if she had been of the other gender, Aidan had thought when he saw her march down the aisle behind her mistress. Most of the congregation was dressed respectfully in black. Perhaps some of them wondered why Miss Morris of all people was not.

“I was with Captain Morris when he died,” he concluded after delivering his planned speech for a few minutes. “His last thoughts were of his sister. He asked me to bring her the news of his passing myself. And he asked me to beg her not to wear mourning for him. It is in honor of that plea that she wears gray today. We must all feel honored that we knew so courageous a man, one who gave of himself unstintingly in the service of his fellow countrymen and of the country itself. We must show our respect for him by directing it toward the sister whom he loved to the end. Ma'am?”

Aidan made her his stiffest, most formal military bow before returning to his seat. She sat straight-backed and dry-eyed and as pale as a ghost, he noticed. Mrs. Pritchard and several other members of the congregation were sniffling into their handkerchiefs.

He did not pay much attention to the rest of the service. The church bell tolled mournfully as the service ended.

He shook hands with the Reverend Puddle and congratulated him on a tasteful and dignified memorial service. He was wondering if this would be an appropriate time to have a word with Miss Morris or if he should more decently wait yet another day, but she took the decision from him by approaching him herself. She was holding out a gloved hand to him.

“Thank you, Colonel,” she said. “I will always treasure the memory of all you said about Percy, most of which I did not know before. And I will always remember your kindness in staying another day for my sake.”

“It was my pleasure, ma'am,” he said, taking her slim, warm hand in his.

“How is your batman today?” she surprised him by asking.

“Much better, I thank you, ma'am,” he said.

“I am pleased to hear it.” She nodded. “A number of my friends and neighbors are coming back to the house for tea. Will you come too, please?”

It was everything he could have hoped for. The chances were that there would be little opportunity for a private word with her, but perhaps he could create the opportunity. He still did not know what he would say to her, though, what he would ask, how impertinently he would probe.

Before he could answer, someone else stepped forward, bowing and smiling and clad from head to toe in unrelieved black. Even the handkerchief dangling from one of the man's black-gloved hands was black.

“A speech of affecting sentiment indeed, my lord,” he said to an astonished Aidan. “I could scarcely hold back my tears. My mama positively could not. What a comfort it must have been to poor Percival to have an officer of such illustrious lineage with him at his death—your father was the late Duke of Bewcastle, I understand, and your brother is the present holder of the title. I do thank you from the bottom of my heart, my lord, for condescending to honor us with your presence this afternoon.”

“Sir?” Aidan said with distant hauteur.

“Colonel,” Miss Morris said, her expression hard-eyed and tight-lipped, “will you permit me to present my cousin, Mr. Cecil Morris.”

“This is a great honor indeed, my lord,” the man said, bowing and scraping and simpering. “And if I might also present my mama? Where is she?” He turned his head to look among the groups of people gathered in the churchyard. “Now where did she go? Ah, there she is, conversing with Mrs. Philpot and Miss Drabble.” He waved the handkerchief from one uplifted arm.

Aidan looked at him with considerably more attention.
This
was the man who was to inherit Ringwood? He was small and plump with a puffed-out chest and an important, bustling air. And obsequious to a fault. Miss Morris's cousin. He did not, Aidan noticed, speak with even a trace of a Welsh accent. Quite the contrary. His accent would make even Bewcastle sound provincial.

“Colonel Bedwyn can meet my aunt at Ringwood, Cecil,” Miss Morris said. “He is coming for tea. At least, I believe he is.” She looked inquiringly at Aidan.

“Oh, you simply must come, my lord,” Cecil Morris added, abandoning his attempt to summon his mother. “I urge you to honor us with your company, as humble an abode as Ringwood Manor is compared to the ducal seat, I do not doubt. Lindsey Hall, I believe? Mama will be gratified beyond words.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Aidan bowed to Miss Morris and ignored her cousin. “I will be there.”

He strode off in the direction of the inn. He would have his horse saddled and ride over. Lord help the poor woman if she was going to have to live out her life in company with her cousin and his mother once the anniversary of her father's death had passed.

Was
this
what had so concerned Captain Morris?

E
VE HAD BEEN FEELING KINDLY DISPOSED TOWARD
Colonel Lord Aidan Bedwyn after church. By the time he left Ringwood after tea she despised him and was heartily glad she would never see him again.

Her neighbors were attentive. Almost all came back to the house and all spoke to her with kindly sensibility about the service and about Percy. Serena Robson, James's wife, sat beside Eve for almost an hour, holding her hand much of the time, chafing it, assuring her that this day was a dreadful ordeal for her but a necessary one, that once it was over she would feel better again.