When Flavian returned with the doctor, he brought Mrs. Parkinson too. It was that lady who hurried into the drawing room first. She curtsied low to Imogen and Hugo and assured them that His Grace was kindness itself, that they were kindness itself, that she would be grateful to Lord Ponsonby for the rest of her days for bringing her word of her dearest friend’s accident so promptly and insisting upon bringing her here in His Grace’s carriage despite the fact that she would have been happy to walk ten times the distance if it had been necessary.
“I would walk five—nay, even ten—miles for dear Lady Muir’s sake,” she assured them, “even if it was careless of her to wander onto His Grace’s land when I had specifically warned her to be careful to avoid giving offense to such an illustrious peer of the realm. His Grace would have been quite justified if he had chosen to refuse her admittance to Penderris, though I daresay he hesitated to do so when he learned she is Lady Muir. I suppose it is that fact I have to thank for my invitation to ride in the carriage, for such a distinction has never been offered me before, you know, despite the fact that Mr. Parkinson was the younger brother of Sir Roger Parkinson and was fourth in line to the title himself after his brother’s three sons.”
It was only after she had delivered herself of this remarkable speech, looking from Hugo to Imogen as she did so, that the lady turned toward her friend, her hands clasped to her bosom.
Hugo and Imogen exchanged a poker-faced glance in which volumes were spoken. Flavian had come to stand silently just inside the door, looking openly bored.
“Gwen!” Mrs. Parkinson cried. “Oh, my poor dear Gwen, what have you done to yourself? I was beside myself with worry when you did not return from your walk within the hour. I feared the worst and blamed myself most bitterly for having felt too low in spirits to accompany you. What would I have done if you had met with a fatal accident? What would I have said to the Earl of Kilbourne, your dear brother? It was really too, too naughty of you to cause me such panic. All of which I felt, of course, because I love you so dearly.”
“I twisted my ankle, that is all, Vera,” Lady Muir explained. “But unfortunately, it is impossible for me to walk, at least for the present. I hope not to have to impose upon the duke’s hospitality for much longer, however. I trust he will be kind enough to allow the carriage to return to the village with the two of us once the doctor has looked at my ankle and bound it up.”
Mrs. Parkinson regarded her friend with open horror and uttered a slight shriek as she clasped her hands even more tightly to her bosom.
“You must not even think of being removed,” she said. “Oh, my poor Gwen, you will do your leg irreparable damage if you attempt anything so reckless. You already have that unfortunate limp from a previous accident, and I daresay it has deterred other gentlemen from paying you court since dear Lord Muir’s passing. You simply must not risk becoming entirely lame. His Grace, I am assured, will join me in urging you to remain here until your ankle is quite healed. You must not worry that I will neglect you. I shall walk over daily to bear you company. You are my dearest friend in the world, after all. I am sure this lady and this gentleman as well as Viscount Ponsonby will also urge you to stay.”
She smiled graciously in turn upon Imogen and Hugo, and Flavian, sounding even more bored than he habitually did, introduced them.
Mrs. Parkinson was probably close to Lady Muir in age, Hugo guessed, though time had dealt less kindly with her. Whereas Lady Muir was still beautiful even though she was probably past the age of thirty, any claim to good looks Mrs. Parkinson might once have had was long past. She also carried too much weight upon her frame, and most of it had settled quite unbecomingly beneath her chin and about her bosom and hips. Her brown hair had lost any youthful luster it might once have had.
Lady Muir opened her mouth to speak. She was clearly dismayed at the suggestion that she remain at Penderris. She was prevented from expressing her sentiments, however, when the door opened again to admit George and Dr. Jones, the physician he had enticed from London years ago when he opened his home to the six of them, and others whose stay had been of shorter duration. The doctor had remained ever since to tend the poor who could not pay his fee, as well as the richer folk who could.
“Here is Dr. Jones, Lady Muir,” George said. “He is the most skilled of physicians, I do assure you. You may feel confident in entrusting yourself to his care. Imogen, would you be so good as to remain here with Lady Muir? The rest of us will withdraw to the library. Mrs. Parkinson, may I offer you tea and cakes there? It was good of you to come with Flavian and the doctor at such short notice.”
“It is I who ought to remain with Lady Muir,” Mrs. Parkinson said, nevertheless allowing herself to be ushered toward the door. “However, my nerves are stretched thin, Your Grace, after tending my poor dear husband for so long. Dr. Jones will tell you that they have come very near to breaking altogether since his passing. I do not know how I am going to be able to give dear Lady Muir the care she is going to need in my home, though I am more than eager, as you may imagine, to have her removed there. I feel responsible for what has happened. If I had been with her, as I would have been if I had not been feeling so low in spirits this morning, then I would have kept her a decent distance from Penderris. I am vexed that she trespassed, though I suppose it was more careless than deliberate on her part.”
George had closed the drawing room doors by this point and was making his way downstairs with Mrs. Parkinson on his arm. Hugo and Flavian were following along behind them.
“It will be my pleasure to have Lady Muir remain here, ma’am, until she can walk again,” George said. “And the doctor has already confirmed that you are worn down after your devoted attention to your husband during his long illness.”
“That is very obliging of him, I am sure,” Mrs. Parkinson said. “I shall come every day to visit Lady Muir, of course.”
“I am delighted to hear it ma’am,” George said, nodding to a footman to open the library doors. “My carriage will be at your disposal.”
Flavian and Hugo exchanged glances, and the former cocked one eyebrow. Shall we sneak off while we may? the look seemed to ask.
Hugo pursed his lips. It was tempting. But he followed George and his guest into the library, and Flavian shrugged and came behind him.
“I do regret this imposition upon your hospitality, Your Grace,” Mrs. Parkinson assured George. “But it is not in my nature to abandon a friend when she is in need. And so I will accept your kind offer of a carriage each day even though I would be delighted to walk here. I will be absolutely no bother to you or your guests while I am here. It is Lady Muir I will be visiting. I shall certainly not expect tea each day.”
A maid had just come into the room and was setting down a tray on the large oak desk by the window.
It was hardly surprising, Hugo thought, that Mrs. Parkinson cultivated the friendship of Lady Muir. She was, after all, the widow of a lord and the sister of an earl, and Mrs. Parkinson was obsequious to a fault. It was less clear why Lady Muir was her friend. She had struck Hugo as being decidedly haughty and high in the instep. He had not warmed to her despite her undeniable beauty. Though she had laughed at her own predicament after she demanded to be set down and he obliged her. And then she had asked to be carried after all. But she had once lost her unborn child through the incredible recklessness of her own behavior and the carelessness of her husband’s. She was the sort of upper-class woman he most despised. She seemed totally wrapped up in self. And yet she was Mrs. Parkinson’s friend. Perhaps she enjoyed being worshipped and adored.
Poor George was being left to bear all the burden of conversation alone since he, Hugo, was standing in morose silence wishing that he had not stopped earlier to climb to that ledge on the cliff but had come straight back to the house. And Flavian was over by one of the bookshelves, leafing through a book and looking disdainful. Flavian always portrayed disdain exceedingly well. He never even needed to speak a word.
This was grossly unfair to George.
“You have known Lady Muir for a long time, Mrs. Parkinson?” Hugo asked.
“Oh, my lord,” she said, setting down her teacup and saucer in order to clasp her hands to her bosom again, “we have known each other forever. We made our come-out together in London when we were mere girls, you know. We made our curtsy to the queen on the very same day and danced at each other’s come-out ball afterward. People were good enough to call us the two most dazzlingly pretty young ladies on the marriage mart that year, though I daresay they were merely being kind to me. Though I did have more than my fair share of beaux, it is true. More than Gwen, in fact, though I suppose that was in part due to the fact that she took one look at Lord Muir and decided that his title and fortune were worth setting her cap at. I might have married a marquess or a viscount myself had I chosen, or any one of a number of barons. But I fell deeply in love with Mr. Parkinson and never regretted for a single moment relinquishing the dazzling life I might have had with a titled gentleman and ten thousand or more a year. There is nothing more important in life than romantic love, even when its object is the mere younger brother of a baronet.”
How had Muir died, Hugo wondered, having allowed his mind to wander. He did not ask.
The doctor was being shown into the room, and he confirmed Hugo’s suspicion that his patient’s ankle was severely sprained though not apparently broken or fractured. Nevertheless, it was imperative that she rest her leg and put absolutely no weight upon it for at least a week.
The Survivors’ Club was going to have to expand to admit one more member, it seemed, even if just temporarily. George had allowed Mrs. Parkinson to win her point and give herself the opportunity to insinuate her company upon them for some days to come. Lady Muir was staying.
Mrs. Parkinson was the only one among them who looked gratified at the verdict, even though at the same time she dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes and heaved a soulful sigh.
It would have been better, Hugo thought, if he had not gone down onto the beach at all today. Last evening’s joke ought to have been warning enough. God sometimes enjoyed getting in on a joke and giving it his own peculiar twist.
The new sprain had been aggravated by the old break, which in its turn had been poorly set. He would dearly like to have a word with the physician who had set it, Dr. Jones said with some severity after he had explained the situation to Gwen. He ordered her not to put her foot to the ground for at least a week but rather to keep it elevated at all times, not even on a low stool but whenever possible on a level with her heart.
It would have been a gloomy enough pronouncement under any circumstances. Even at home, the prospect of remaining inactive for so long would have been irksome. And at Vera’s, another week without any escape from the company of her hostess and her friends would have been rather like being sentenced to a stay in Purgatory. Nevertheless, even that would have seemed like Paradise in comparison with the reality she faced. She was going to have to spend a week—at least a week—at Penderris Hall as a guest of the Duke of Stanbrook. She was being forced to impose herself upon a reunion of men—and one woman—who had spent long months together here recovering from wounds sustained during the wars. They were surely a closely bonded group. The last thing any of them would want was the forced presence of an outsider, a stranger to them all, who was nursing nothing more lethal than a hurt ankle.
Oh, this was the stuff of nightmares.
She was humiliated and in pain and homesick—dreadfully homesick. But most of all she was angry. She was angry at herself for continuing along the beach after discovering how difficult a terrain it was to walk upon, and for choosing to climb that treacherous slope. She had a weak ankle. She knew her limitations and was usually quite sensible about the sort of exercise she undertook.
Most of all, though, she was angry—quite furious, in fact—at Vera. What true lady would suddenly close her home to the very friend she had begged to come and keep her company in her grief and loneliness, just because that friend had suffered a slight accident? Should her reaction not have been quite the opposite? But Vera had been patently, embarrassingly self-serving in her unwillingness to allow Gwen to be conveyed to her house. Much as she had railed against the Duke of Stanbrook before today, she had obviously been thrilled beyond words at being offered a chance to come here to Penderris today, and in his crested carriage, no less, for all the other inhabitants of the village to witness. She had seen the chance to extend the thrill and become a daily visitor here for the next week or so and had proceeded to grasp it, without any consideration whatsoever for Gwen’s feelings.
Gwen nursed her humiliation and pain and anger while she reclined upon the bed in the guest room that had been assigned to her. Lord Trentham had carried her up here and deposited her on the bed and left her almost without a word. He had asked if he could fetch her anything, but both his face and his voice had been without expression and it was clear he did not expect her to say yes.
Oh, she must not give in to the temptation to shift all the blame for her discomfort onto the occupants of Penderris Hall. They had taken her in and been remarkably kind to her. Lord Trentham had carried her all the way up from the beach, or very close to it. And his hands had been surprisingly gentle when he removed her boot. He had brought her that cool cloth and pressed it to her forehead just when the pain had been threatening to get beyond her control.
She must not dislike him.
She just wished he did not make her feel like a spoiled, pampered, petulant schoolgirl.
A maid distracted her after a while. She brought more tea and the news that a portmanteau of her ladyship’s belongings had been brought over from the village and was now in the dressing room adjoining the bedchamber.
The same maid helped her wash and change into a gown more suitable for evening. She brushed out Gwen’s hair and restyled it. And then she left the room and Gwen wondered what would happen next. She hoped desperately that she could remain in her room, that the maid would bring up a tray at dinnertime.
Her hopes were soon to be dashed, however.
A knock on her door was preceded by the appearance of Lord Trentham, looking large and actually rather splendid in a well-fitting tailed evening coat and other evening attire. He was also glowering. No, that was unfair. His face in repose rather naturally glowered, Gwen thought. He had the look of a fierce warrior. He looked as though the niceties of civilized living were unimportant to him.
“You are ready to come downstairs?” he asked
“Oh,” she said. “I would really prefer to stay here, Lord Trentham, and be no bother to anyone. If it is not too much trouble, perhaps you would ask for a tray to be sent up?”
She smiled at him.
“I believe it would be too much trouble, ma’am,” he said. “I have been sent to bring you down.”
Gwen’s cheeks grew hot. How very mortifying! And what a vastly unmannerly answer. Could he not have phrased it differently? He might have told her that her company would be no bother to anyone. He might even have gone as far as to say that the duke and his guests were looking forward to her joining them.
He might have smiled.
He strode toward the bed, bent over her, and scooped her up.
Gwen set one arm about his neck and looked into his face even though it was disturbingly close. She could retain her manners even if he could not.
“What do you all do during your reunions?” she asked politely. “Reminisce about the wars?”
“That would be daft,” he said.
Was he always so rude? Or was it just that he resented her and could not even be civil to her? But he could have carried her to the village instead of bringing her here. Obviously he was such a strong giant that her weight was no object to him.
“You studiously avoid all mention of the wars, then?” she asked as he made his way downstairs with her.
“We suffered in this place,” he told her. “We healed here. We bared our souls to each other here. Leaving here was one of the hardest things we had had to do in a long while, perhaps in our whole lives. But it was necessary if our lives were ever to have meaning again. Once a year, though, we return to make ourselves whole once more, or to bolster ourselves with the illusion that we are whole.”
It was a lengthy speech for Lord Trentham. But he did not look at her as he spoke. His voice sounded fierce and resentful. It put her in the wrong again. It implied that she was a soft and pampered lady who could not possibly understand the sort of suffering he and his friends here had endured. Or the fact that that suffering never quite came to an end, that the sufferer was forever scarred by it.
She did understand.
When wounds healed, everything should be mended. The person concerned should be whole again. That seemed to make good sense. But she had not been mended when her leg knit together after being broken. Her leg had been poorly set. She would not have been whole even if her leg had healed perfectly, though. She had also lost her unborn child as a result of the fall. It might even be said that she had killed her child. And Vernon had never been the same after it had happened, though that did beg the question—the same as what?
When one had once suffered a great hurt, there was always a weakness afterward, a vulnerability where there had been wholeness and strength before—and innocence.
Oh, she did understand.
Lord Trentham carried her into the drawing room and set her down on the same sofa as before. But this time the room was not empty. There were, in fact, six other people present apart from the two of them. The Duke of Stanbrook was one, Lady Barclay another, Viscount Ponsonby a third. Gwen wondered fleetingly what his wounds had been. He looked dazzlingly handsome and physically perfect, just as Lord Trentham looked large and physically perfect.
It was obvious what was wrong with one of the other gentlemen. He hauled himself to his feet when Gwen came into the room, using two canes strapped to his arms. His legs looked unnaturally twisted between the canes, and it appeared as though he was supporting much of his weight on his arms.
“Lady Muir,” the duke said from his position before the hearth, “I appreciate your making the effort to join us. I fully understand that it must have been an effort. I am delighted to have you as a guest in my home, though I regret the circumstances. I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you during the coming week. You will not hesitate, I hope, to ask for anything you may need.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, flushing. “You are very kind.”
His words were courtesy itself, though his manner was stiff, distant, austere. But at least he was courteous. Unlike Lord Trentham, he was clearly a gentleman from head to toe. An extremely elegant gentleman too.
“You have met Imogen, Lady Barclay, and Flavian, Viscount Ponsonby,” he continued, crossing the room to pour a glass of wine, which he brought across to her. “Allow me to introduce Sir Benedict Harper.”
He indicated the man with the twisted legs. He was tall and slim, with a thin face and angular features that had once perhaps been purely handsome. Now they gave evidence of prolonged suffering and pain.
“Lady Muir.”
“Sir Benedict.” Gwen inclined her head to him.
“And Ralph, Earl of Berwick,” the duke said, indicating a good-looking young man if one ignored the scar that slashed across one side of his face. He nodded to her but neither spoke nor smiled.
Another dour man.
“My lord,” she said.
“And Vincent, Lord Darleigh,” His Grace said.
He was a slight young man with curly fair hair. He had an open, cheerful, smiling face, and the largest, loveliest blue eyes Gwen had ever seen. Now there was a man destined to break young hearts, she thought. There was no sign of any injury he might have sustained either to body or soul. And he was so very young. If he really had been an officer during the wars, he must have been a mere boy …
He seemed out of place in this group. He looked too young and carefree to have suffered greatly.
“My lord,” Gwen said.
“You have the voice of a beautiful woman, Lady Muir,” he said, “and I am told you have the looks to match. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Imogen says that you are horribly embarrassed to be here, but you need not be. We sent Hugo down onto the beach today to find you. He has a well-earned reputation for never failing in any mission set him, and this was no exception. He fetched a rare beauty.”
Gwen was feeling a jolt of shock that had nothing to do with his last words. Indeed, for a few moments she did not even fully comprehend what they were. She had suddenly realized that despite the loveliness of his eyes and the fact that he appeared to be gazing directly at her, Lord Darleigh was blind.
Perhaps his was the worst injury of all, she thought. She could imagine little worse than losing one’s sight. Yet he smiled and was purely charming. Did his smile extend all the way inside himself, though? There was something slightly disturbing about his cheerful demeanor now that she understood the devastation the wars had wreaked upon his life.
“If Hugo had fetched a gargoyle, Vincent,” the Earl of Berwick said, “it would have made no difference to you, would it?”
“Ah,” Lord Darleigh said, turning his eyes with great accuracy in the direction of the earl and smiling sweetly, “it would not matter to me, Ralph, would it, provided she had the soul of an angel.”
“A hit indeed, Ralph,” Viscount Ponsonby said.
And that was when Gwen heard the echo of what Viscount Darleigh had said to her—We sent Hugo down onto the beach today to find you … He fetched a rare beauty.
“Lord Trentham came to find me?” she asked. “But how did he know I would be there? I did not plan that walk ahead of time.”
“You would do well, Vincent,” Lord Trentham said, “to tie your tongue in a knot.”
“Too late,” Viscount Ponsonby said. “Your secret must out, Hugo. Lady Muir, for a number of reasons, all of which seem sound to Hugo, he has decided to take a bride this year. His only p-problem is selection. He is arguably the finest soldier the British armies have produced in the last twenty years. He is not, alas, equally renowned as an accomplished l-lover and wooer of the fair sex. When he explained his situation to us last evening and added, wise man, that he was not in search of any grand love affair, he was advised to look about him for a personable female, explain to her that he is a lord and really quite f-fabulously wealthy, and then suggest that she marry him. He agreed that he would go down to the beach today and find such a woman. And here you are.”
If her cheeks grew any hotter, Gwen thought, they would surely burst into flame. And all her earlier embarrassment and anger had returned with interest. She looked at Lord Trentham, who was standing stiff and erect like a soldier at ease, but not at ease, and her chin lifted and her eyes sparked.
“Perhaps, then, Lord Trentham,” she said, “you would care to inform me of your stature and wealth now, in the presence of your friends. And make me your offer of marriage.”
He looked directly at her and said nothing. He was not really given the chance.
“Ma’am,” Lord Darleigh said, his blue eyes on hers again, though now they looked as troubled as his voice sounded. “I spoke to make everyone laugh. It was not until the words were out of my mouth that I realized how unpardonably embarrassing they were to you. We were, of course, all joking last evening, and it was pure chance that you were on the beach and hurt yourself and that Hugo happened to be there to offer you assistance. I beg you to forgive me and to forgive Hugo. He is blameless in your embarrassment. The fault is all mine.”
Gwen transferred her gaze to him. And she laughed.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I can quite see the funny side of the coincidence.”
She was not sure she spoke the truth.
“Thank you, ma’am.” The young lord sounded relieved.
“It is time that particular topic of conversation was put to rest,” Sir Benedict said. “Where is your home, Lady Muir? When you are not staying with … Mrs. Parkinson, is it?”
“I live at Newbury Abbey in Dorsetshire,” Gwen said. “Or rather, my home is the dower house in the park. I live there with my mother. My brother and his family live at the abbey—the Earl of Kilbourne, that is.”
“I knew him slightly in the Peninsula,” Lord Trentham said, “though he had a viscount’s title then. He was shipped home, if I remember correctly, after his scouting party was ambushed in the mountains of Portugal, leaving him close to death. He made a full recovery, then?”
“He is well,” Gwen said.
“It was Kilbourne’s wife, was it not,” the duke asked, “who turned out to be the long-lost daughter of the Duke of Portfrey?”
“Yes,” Gwen said. “Lily, my sister-in-law.”
“Portfrey and I were close friends in the long-ago days of our youth,” the Duke of Stanbrook said.
“He is married to my aunt,” she said. “Those family relationships are a little complicated, to say the least.”
The duke nodded.
“Lady Muir,” he said, “it will be best for you, I believe, if we excuse you from sitting at the dining room table with us. Although I could provide a stool for your foot, it would not be adequate. The good doctor was quite adamant in his instruction that you keep your foot elevated for the next week. You will, therefore, dine in here. I do hope that will not be too inconvenient for you. We will not desert you entirely, however. Hugo has been appointed to bear you company. I can assure you that he will not assail your ears with tales of his wealth or with suggestions that you marry him in order to secure a part of it for yourself.”
Her smile was austere.
“I daresay I will never live down that faux pas,” Lord Darleigh said ruefully.
The duke offered his arm to Lady Barclay and led her from the room. The others followed. Sir Benedict Harper, Gwen noticed, did not use his canes as crutches even though they looked sturdy enough to bear his weight. Rather, he walked slowly and with painstaking care, using them for balance.
The silence in the drawing room after the door had closed behind the diners seemed almost unbearably loud.
