Howard, Mr. Watson, and Sir Peregrine and Lady Grace Lampman.
Ellen was enjoying herself in a somewhat tense sort of way. It was not comfortable to be in the same house as Lord Eden, of course, and she fully expected that he would find the opportunity soon to carry out some of the threats he had made at her father-in-law’s house. But so far he had stayed away from her. He had been out visiting friends much of the time. He had sat talking with his sister and the lieutenant for hours on end. He had accompanied Jennifer to the Carringtons’.
But if she could ignore what she knew must be coming, she could feel a certain contentment. The house and its surroundings were quite magnificent, though she had not yet seen the sea or been up onto the cliffs or been inland along the valley, all of which she had been told they would do during the next few days.
And the earl and countess were kindness itself, and treated her as a real friend rather than merely as a guest in their home. The countess had taken her to the nursery to see the children, and had marveled again that the baby was willing to come to her, though she did not smile. She rarely smiled for anyone except her father, Lady Amberley had explained.
The dowager countess was equally kind, as was Lady Madeline, though her time was taken up mainly with her betrothed.
And yet they must all know. They must know that she was with child. And they must suspect that it was not her husband’s. Yet nothing was said, and there was no detectable hostility in their manner.
She sat between Mr. Carrington and Sir Peregrine Lampman at dinner and was thoroughly entertained by the humor of both. She could not remember when she had laughed quite so much.
And after dinner, when some of the young people went downstairs to the music room and Susan Jennings held court to Mr. Watson, Lord Agerton, and Sir Peregrine, telling them of her dreadful experiences in Spain, Ellen sat with Lady Amberley and Lady Lampman, who talked of their children.
“We are being dreadfully rag-mannered,” the countess said after a few minutes. “I am afraid, Mrs. Simpson, that we mothers of young children become dreadful bores when we discover other ladies in like case. Grace has a daughter just a little older than Christopher, and a son a little older than Caroline. And I must make sure, you see, that my two cut their teeth and smiled and crawled and slept through the night, and so on and so on, at no later an age than hers. It would be shameful to find that mine had lagged behind.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.
“We have to make a desperate effort not to match Christopher with Rose and Paul with Caroline,” Lady Lampman said. “It would be the depths of degradation for us to become matchmaking mamas, Mrs. Simpson. But Paul’s fair coloring would be a wonderful complement to Caroline’s dark beauty, Alexandra.”
All three of them laughed.
Ellen liked Lady Lampman. At first she had thought the Lampmans quite mismatched. Sir Peregrine, with his laughing eyes and relaxed, amiable manner, must be several years younger than his wife, whose slim, upright figure and narrow face and dark coloring gave her a rather severe appearance. But there was a quiet charm about her that became obvious on closer acquaintance.
And Ellen had noticed an exchange of looks between husband and wife at the dinner table. There had been nothing very significant. She had not smiled, though there had suddenly been a great depth to her gray eyes. He had smiled, though more with his eyes than with his facial muscles. It had been an entirely private and very brief interchange that had made Ellen’s stomach quite turn over inside her with a longing and a nostalgia.
“You must tell me something about yourself, Mrs. Simpson,” Lady Lampman was saying now. “You lost your husband at Waterloo, I understand. I am so very sorry. Is it painful for you to talk about him?”
“No.” Ellen smiled. “For a few months I thought of him continuously and unwillingly-it hurt quite dreadfully. But I am beginning to remember with some pleasure. He was, I think, the kindest man I have known.” She proceeded to tell them about Charlie’s habit of buying her gifts for no reason at all except that he felt like doing so and knew they would give her pleasure.
And then the moment came. Just at a time when she was relaxed and enjoying the company of the two ladies who she felt could be real friends.
“Would you care to walk in the formal gardens, Ellen?” Lord Eden was standing in front of their chairs, his head inclined toward her. “Susan and Agerton, Anna and Howard have decided that they must take the air.”
Ellen looked at him and nodded, resisting her first impulse to make some excuse-any excuse. The moment must be faced. There was no point in putting it off. Somehow tonight she must find the words to tell him what he wanted to know, and what he had a right to know.
“You will need a cloak,” he said. “There is no wind, and it is rather a lovely evening. But of course it is autumn.”
“I will fetch one,” she said, getting to her feet and turning to the other two ladies to excuse herself.
JENNIFER HAD GONE downstairs to the music room with Anna and Madeline, Mrs. Carrington, and the dowager countess. She listened while her two friends played on the pianoforte, and stayed at the instrument after they had crossed the room to sit with their mothers.
She had never been an accomplished musician. The music mistress at school had despaired of her when it seemed that she always had an excuse for having neglected her practicing. She would be sorry one day, the teacher had warned, when other young ladies were playing their way into the admiration of handsome young men.
It had sounded a little silly to Jennifer. Was the playing of a pianoforte the only way to a man’s heart? And did only handsome men appreciate good music?
She sat down on the bench and played quietly to herself from the music that was propped against the stand. She was quite competent enough to play for her own amusement. She had no wish to play for an audience anyway.
“Are you going to play again?” a voice said from behind her when she was finished, and she jumped and turned in some embarrassment to find Lieutenant Penworth standing there, leaning on his crutches.
“Oh,” she said, “I did not know anyone was listening. I’m afraid I am not good.”
“Fairly competent,” he said. “There was something missing in the expression and feel for the music, I must confess.”
Jennifer was unreasonable enough to feel offended. “The piece is rather difficult,” she said. “Perhaps there is something easier in the pile.” But even as she reached out for it, she turned and looked at him again. “You are wearing just a small eye patch. I saw it as soon as we arrived, but have not had a chance to tell you that I had noticed.”
He propped one of his crutches against the pianoforte and seated himself at the end of the bench next to her. “Everyone has noticed,” he said. “How could they fail to do so? My face is a repellent sight. I wish now that I had not come.”
“Repellent?” she said in some surprise. “It is a great improvement on those bandages.”
He gave a bitter little laugh.
“Let me see.” She leaned forward over the keyboard so that she could see the right side of his face, which was turned away from her. “It is indeed a nasty scar. It curves all the way around from your eye to the corner of your mouth. And it is rather livid at present. That is because it is still quite new and because you have kept it covered for so long. In time it will fade, no doubt.”
He laughed again.
“I think,” she said, still peering around into his face, “that in time it will not be unsightly at all. In fact, I think it might make you look rather distinguished. And certainly very heroic.”
“Don’t mock me,” he said.
She clucked her tongue. “Your sense of humor is something else you left behind on the battlefield of Waterloo,” she said. “You really should learn to laugh at yourself a little, sir. And if you find people shunning you, you know, it is only because you have such a ferocious and morose manner. It is not because of your appearance. I feel sad for you.”
“Don’t pity me!” he hissed vehemently through his teeth. “For God’s sake, don’t pity me. I am mortally sick of being pitied.”
“I have no intention of pitying you,” she said tartly. “One has to like someone in order to pity him, does one not? You go out of your way to make yourself disagreeable, sir. I really do not know how Lady Madeline can tolerate you.”