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A sequel to "A Wedding at Uppercross" and "Any Woman Who Truly Loved."
Prologue
Uppercross
July, 1822
"Walter!" exclaimed his brother. "Leave them be!" He splashed into the muddy water, bending over the crying little girl. "Are you all right, Anne?" he asked. "Come, let me help you." He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Her white muslin dress was covered with mud, the red sash hung bedraggled and wet, and her white stockings and black boots were soaked. The muck had even splashed into her shining dark hair, ruining the pretty red ribbons that held it away from her face.
Elizabeth was crying, too; unlike her cousin, she had managed to avoid falling into the puddle, but her dress was also splashed with mud and her fair curls and ribbons equally besmirched. "I hate you, Walter Musgrove!" she screamed at her brother. "I hope you get--eaten--by a--a--tiger!"
"Small chance that I shall encounter a tiger in Somersetshire," replied Walter with all the wisdom of nearly ten years. "And if you girls are big enough to play with us, then you are big enough not to cry when you meet with an accident."
"I saw you," said Charles darkly. "That was not an accident, Walter. You pushed them into that puddle. You should be ashamed of yourself, teasing little girls in such a way. They are not old enough to defend themselves." He took the girls' hands and led them away toward Uppercross Cottage.
"I suppose you shall tell Papa," said Walter offhandedly. He would rather that Charles did not disclose his actions to their father. Mr. Musgrove turned a blind eye to any disputes between the brothers, under the dictum that boys will be boys, but he was more protective of his daughter and his niece. Anne was spending the summer at Kellynch Lodge, visiting Lady Russell along with her parents and brother and new baby sister. Walter knew that his father would be angry if he discovered that his youngest son had teased his sister's playmate.
"No," said Charles. "I shall not tell." Walter was momentarily relieved. "But if I am asked I shall not lie." Walter watched them as they walked away. Elizabeth's head was drooping and her feet were dragging; even at not quite five years of age, she became upset when her pretty clothes got dirty. Anne had stopped weeping and was gazing worshipfully up at Charles.
They don't know how to have fun, he thought balefully. I will show them. I shall go and have fun all by myself.
He ran into the woods, following a familiar path that he had learned from his father, who allowed the boys to accompany him when he went out shooting. Next month, when grouse season started, Mr. Musgrove had promised that Walter would have his own gun and be allowed to practice. Charles had gotten a gun the previous year and was a good and careful shot, but he preferred to spend his spare time at the stables, helping the grooms muck out the smelly stalls and clean the tack. Walter laughed at his brother's choices, and went with his father, who was always glad to have him along.
But Papa will be angry when he finds out what I've done. Walter already regretted pushing the girls into the puddle. It seemed like a great joke at the time, and he had thought the girls would see the humour in it, but as soon as he saw little Anne fall into the mud, he knew he had done wrong. She was a pretty little girl, good-humoured and always ready for fun, but she was barely five years old, and Papa would say that big boys like Walter and Charles should know better than to involve such small girls in their games. As if Charles would ever tease Eliza or Anne.
Walter ran down a path that he knew led to a clearing containing a small pond. He could see the patch of sunshine on the grass ahead of him; he planned to run out of the woods, yank off his boots and coat, and plunge head-first into the water, sun-warmed near the top and deliciously cool below the surface. He burst out of the trees and was brought up short by a vision.
The vision had long, wavy golden hair and was dressed in white. Walter knew all the children in the neighbourhood, and he knew he had never seen this girl before. His nine-year-old mind did not admit strangers in such familiar settings, so he immediately jumped to a conclusion that an adult would have considered outrageous but that made perfect sense to him.
He slowly walked closer to the vision, not sure if the species was skittish like wild birds, winging away at the first hint of danger. Suddenly the vision turned her head and saw him. She gasped and jumped to her feet.
They stood a few yards apart, staring at one another. Finally Walter found his voice. "Are--are you an angel?" he asked tentatively.
"No," the girl said. "Why did you think so?"
"Because you look exactly like a picture of an angel in a book my Aunt Anne reads to me."
"I wish I were. Then I could be with my papa." As Walter drew closer to her, he saw that his former conclusion was silly. Angels did not weep, and this girl's face was marked with the evidence of tears. She clutched something in her hand that winked golden in the sunshine.
"My grandfather has gone to be with the angels," said Walter importantly. This event had occurred only a few months before. Walter's mamma had wept copiously and spent a great deal of time on the sofa, and Father had said that the boys were not to tease her, that she was sad because she had lost her papa. "He lived at Kellynch Hall."
"I have come to live at Kellynch Hall," said the girl. "I used to live with my grandpapa in Crewkherne, but now I must live with Mamma and her husband."
"I thought your papa was with the angels," said Walter skeptically. "Besides, my cousin Sir William has come to live at Kellynch Hall." He had heard his parents discussing Sir William Elliot. He could not hear everything they had said, but his father had sounded angry.
"Sir William is married to my mamma," the girl explained.
"Then he is your papa," Walter persisted.
"No!" the girl cried. She turned away. "He is not my papa." She began to weep again.
Walter felt badly. He did not mean to make the girls cry, but they always seemed to do so around him. He went to the girl and touched her arm. "I am sorry," he said.
The girl wiped her eyes. She opened her fist and held out something to him. "This is my papa," she said.
Walter took the object that she proffered. It was a miniature in a gilt frame, showing a handsome young man with golden hair and green eyes like the girl's. "I miss him so much," she sniffed. "He went away when I was little, but I remember him. He used to hold me on his lap and call me his best girl." She reached out and took back the miniature.
"I am sure your new papa will be just as nice," Walter said encouragingly.
"I tell you, he is not my papa!" she cried. "I shall never be happy here, never! I want to go back to my grandpapa!" She sat on the bank of the pond, buried her head in her arms, and burst into tears.
Walter sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her as he had seen Charles comfort Eliza. He did not know what to say, but the girl leaned against him and wept luxuriantly. After a bit her sobs grew less, and finally they stopped. She looked up at him, and despite her red eyes and wet cheeks, she was still the prettiest girl he had ever seen. "I must get back," she said. "They will miss me, and Mamma becomes angry when I stay away for so long. She says she will send me away to school."
"I am going to school," said Walter. "At Winchester, like my brother."
"I am glad that they are sending me away," the girl said fiercely. "I do not want to be here. They do not want me." She stood and wiped her eyes, and put the miniature in the pocket of her pinafore. Walter remembered his manners and stood to say good-bye to a lady.
"It was very nice to meet you," the girl said, holding out her hand. Walter shook it, and she turned and began to walk toward Kellynch.
"Wait," said Walter. She stopped and turned back. "I do not know your name," he said.
"Gwendolyn," the girl said. "My name is Gwendolyn Clay."
"I am Walter Musgrove," he said. "It was very good to meet you."
She smiled at him, and Walter instinctively ran to her and kissed her on the cheek. "I still think you look like an angel," he whispered, and ran toward Uppercross without looking back.
Chapter I
London
June, 1839
Walter Musgrove looked about him and sighed. It never changes, he thought tiredly. The same people, the same mendacity, the same intrigues and gossip. It was here long before I arrived and will be here long after I am gone.
He had come to this assembly, along with everyone in London, it seemed, at the behest of his friend Julian Leverett, whose company he had formerly enjoyed but had lately become onerous. Leverett lived for such social occasions. Like Walter, Mr. Leverett was tall, handsome, and charming, and unlike Walter, he was rich.
"You must come, Musgrove," Mr. Leverett had said. " 'Twill be a famous soiree."
"Indeed," Walter had replied dryly. "And your attendance at this famous soiree would have absolutely nothing to do with the lovely Miss Sarah Wolfe?"
Mr. Leverett's flushed countenance gave Walter all the answer he required. At heart, Walter was a romantic, and this admission warmed him toward the young man. "Very well, I shall accompany you," he declared, and it took many more words than he cared to hear for Mr. Leverett to properly express his happiness.
Miss Wolfe was currently enjoying Mr. Leverett's undivided attention, and Walter roamed the perimeter of the room alone. In previous years, nay, previous months, Walter Musgrove would have enjoyed exerting all his considerable charm on the most attractive young ladies in the room, but tonight his mood did not permit such activity. Of late, his delight in such activities had palled. There must be something more to life than this endless round of meaningless public display!
His brother Charles stood across the room with their parents and sister, who clung blushingly to the arm of her fiancé. Walter had been delighted but surprised by Elizabeth's choice. Mrs. Musgrove had always encouraged her daughter to hold out for a title, but Elizabeth's taste ran more to red and blue coats. Walter had expected her to end up a soldier or sailor's wife, and she always seemed to have admirers both military and civilian, but none whose offers she felt inclined to accept. Then Charles had invited James Leigh to visit Uppercross the previous summer.
Mr. Leigh's regard for Elizabeth had been obvious, but at first the lady was not interested in his attentions. James was not discouraged by her diffidence, and plied her with wildflowers and poetry. One day Walter had been walking in the Uppercross shrubbery when he heard voices; he stepped around a hedgerow and saw James and Elizabeth sitting together on a small bench, hand in hand, the gentleman whispering in the lady's ear. Elizabeth's glowing countenance had clearly indicated her feelings, and Walter Musgrove, hopeless romantic, had smiled and retreated to the house before he could interrupt the lovers. When the engagement of the squire's daughter to the baronet's son had been announced some months later, the malicious gossips of the neighbourhood surrounding Uppercross had sniped that the Elliot pride had been passed from mother to daughter, but Walter was happy in the comfortable knowledge that his sister would marry very much for love.
A hand on his arm brought him back to the present, and he looked down in delight at his cousin Anne Wentworth. "Hello, love," he said, kissing her hand warmly. "I did not know that you were in town. Are my aunt and uncle with you?"
"Yes," said Anne, smiling. "Are you acquainted with my father's good news?"
Walter laughed. "My mother lost no time in advertising her brother-in-law's good fortune. My congratulations, Lady Anne," he added, sweeping into an elegant bow.
It was his cousin's turn to laugh. "The daughter of a knight is not addressed thusly, Walter, as you well know, and besides, his elevation will not take place until September." Admiral Wentworth was to be rewarded for his long and distinguished service to the crown with the title Grand Commander of the Order of the Bath, and his family rejoiced, although the admiral himself suffered no emotion so much as embarrassment at all the fuss.
"Is your family here tonight?" Anne asked him.
"Yes, my mother is busy displaying her future son-in-law to all London, and she even managed to drag Charles away from his books long enough to make an appearance," he replied, watching her carefully. He had long suspected that Anne had feelings for his brother, and he had also noticed Charles' gaze resting on Anne more often than not.
"I will be glad to see Eliza," said Anne noncommittally, her eyes fixed on an undetermined spot in the distance.
And my brother, too, I suspect, he thought, swallowing a grin. "They are standing over there by the pillar," he said, nodding to the other side of the room. "I am sure that they will be delighted to see you as well. All of them," he added, endeavouring to give her a hint, but she did not seem to hear or understand it, and her eyes darted eagerly to the pillar, a small smile gracing her pretty features.
"I must pay my respects to your parents," she said, then turned back to him and laid a gloved hand on his arm. "It was very good to see you, Walter," she added softly, then made her away across the room to where Charles stood.
Walter watched her go with mixed feelings. He had always liked Anne, since they were all children; she was pretty, ladylike but not missish, and had a spark of laughter in her eyes that always made him smile. Walter had entertained some fleeting thoughts to the effect that Anne Wentworth would make him a fine wife, but something had always held him back from pursuit; perhaps he had always known, somehow, that she was for his brother. The romantic in him wondered whether he should give Charles a hint as to Anne's feelings, but he knew instinctively that Anne would not have appreciated his interference, and he was content to let nature take its course. My brother is a simpleton, he thought, watching Anne talking to Eliza, and Charles studiously ignoring them both. One of these days he will wake up and realize that they are perfect for one another.
He continued his circuit of the room, watching the dancers, both those on the dance floor and those engaged in the dance of social interaction. The mammas seeking alliances for their daughters; the impoverished noblemen seeking moneyed wives, even a tradesman's daughter, to save their ancestral estates; the flirtations, the affairs, the gossip, the malice, they all fed the darkness that pressed upon his soul. Why did I come here? he wondered in exasperation. What did I expect to find? Walter decided that he might as well depart; there was nothing for him here, and solitude at the inn was better than solitude in the midst of a roomful of people.
As he made his way to the door, his elbow was seized; Mr. Leverett protested, "Musgrove, you are not leaving so soon! I am astonished. You are depriving all the lovely young ladies present of one of the most accomplished dancers in town!" He laughed and waved his hand toward the other side of the room. "Look there. Dalton's latest bit of muslin can't take her eyes from you, you dog."
Walter's gaze followed Julian's hand, and his eyes met those of a young woman, her hair perfectly dressed and her gown in the latest style, except that the neckline was cut a bit lower than current fashions dictated. She smiled and inclined her head to him. Walter stared back at her in amazement. "Do you know her, Leverett?" he asked.
Julian tittered. "We are not personally acquainted, my dear Musgrove. I have no desire for a dawn meeting with the Earl of Dalton. I understand that he is rather possessive about the lady."
"Are they married, engaged?" asked Walter, still staring at the lady, who continued to smile at him.
"Good Lord, no!" laughed Mr. Leverett. "She is currently under his protection, but there is no permanent alliance planned. Such a match would lay the Dowager Countess in her grave once and for all. She has had one foot there these ten years at least." He took Walter's elbow once again. "Come and have tea with Sarah and me."
"I thank you, Leverett, but no," said Walter, finally wrenching his eyes away from the lady's. "I must take my leave. You will give my best to Miss Wolfe." He resumed his movement toward the door, but yet another hand on his arm stopped him. He looked down in surprise at the Earl of Dalton's mistress.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Musgrove," she said in a low-pitched voice that washed over Walter like a warm bath. "I hope you will forgive me if I presume on a former acquaintance."
"I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, madam," he responded politely.
She smiled; her eyes were mesmerizing, deep jade green with glints of grey. "It is a family connection, of sorts," she said. "My mother is married to your cousin Sir William Elliot. My name is Gwendolyn Clay."
"Oh, yes!" he exclaimed. "Miss Clay, I beg your pardon!" He bowed over her hand. "Please forgive my ignorance. You have not been at Kellynch in a very long time, I think."
"No," she said. "I have lived here in town since I completed my education." Walter did not think it would be politic to comment on her living arrangements. He had heard a great deal of gossip about Gwendolyn Clay, who had acquired a reputation as a courtesan to moneyed and titled men. Walter could well understand why; she was lovely, with masses of golden curls and a shapely figure. And those eyes, he thought. A man could lose himself in those eyes.
They spoke for a time of inconsequential things, and finally Walter said, "I must excuse myself, Miss Clay. You caught me as I was taking my leave."
"The evening is young," she said with a smile. "Can I persuade you to stay if I promise to dance with you once?"
Walter, remembering Mr. Leverett's warning about his lordship's possessiveness in regard to his lady, said only, "That is a temptation indeed, madam, but one that I must refuse, however regretfully. I bid you good night." He bowed and would have turned away, but his sleeve was seized and he was turned about to find himself face-to-face with the Earl of Dalton.
"I would have a word with you, sir," said his lordship, and his unsteady gait and slurring speech alerted Walter that the Earl was intoxicated. He had sufficient social experience to know that such men were dangerous; he must tread carefully.
"I beg your pardon, my lord," he said as deferentially as possible. "I was just leaving."
"I am placing you on warning," said the Earl, thrusting a finger into Walter's chest, "that you are not to speak to Miss Clay. She does not want to be importuned by the likes of you, some--" he looked Walter down and up, contemptuously, "--some farmer from the country."
Walter, who knew perfectly well that he had more education than his lordship and, at the moment, a sight more gentility, nonetheless said, "You are correct, my lord. I beg your pardon. I will leave directly." What is the Earl of Dalton doing at a public assembly, anyway? He must be foxed beyond all reason!
The Earl grabbed the lapels of Walter's coat and pulled until their faces were only a few inches apart. "You will stay away from her in the future. You have been warned. Am I understood?"
"Clearly, my lord," said Walter, turning his face away slightly to avoid the smell of sour brandy on the Earl's breath. The Earl released him, and Walter walked hastily toward the door, hoping that none of his family had witnessed the encounter. As he reached the vestibule, he heard a feminine voice call his name. He turned and saw Miss Clay, who had followed him in great haste.
"Mr. Musgrove," she said, breathing heavily. "Please allow me to apologize on Dalton's behalf. He knows not what he does when he is in liquor."
Walter smoothed down his rumpled lapels and said only, "It is not your place to apologize for him, madam."
"No," she said. "But I seem to find myself doing so more often than I care to admit."
Walter glanced at her, at those green eyes, and said, "I wonder that you stay with him, then."
"I am leaving him," she said quietly. "He does not know yet. I am going to my brother's house." She hesitated, then said, "I hope that I can persuade you to call on me there."
He smiled. "I am afraid that you would find me disappointing, Miss Clay. I do not have his lordship's extensive financial resources. I am but a younger son, and I have my living to earn." Yet you earn it not, an inner voice reminded him. You have yet to take orders. You have continued to take the allowance your father hands you. You are no better than Dalton and his ilk, for all your fine Cambridge education.
Miss Clay was not embarrassed by the implication of his words; Walter felt the compliment she paid him of not denying her circumstances. "Does that mean we cannot be friends?" she asked. "You once did me a great service, sir. I would offer my friendship in return, poor repayment thought that might be."
"I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage once again, Miss Clay," he said. "What service have I rendered you?"
"You do not remember?" she asked, smiling. "You once comforted a small girl who was desperately unhappy, by a pond somewhere between Kellynch and Uppercross."
"I remember," he said softly, thinking of the angel who had wept in his arms.
"I have treasured that memory for many years," said Miss Clay. "I would return the favour, if I may. There are many who have found comfort in my company."
I am sure that there are, he thought wryly, but said only, "Perhaps I shall call upon you and your brother, Miss Clay." He said it only out of politeness; he had no intention of calling at Henry Clay's house. His reputation was little better than his sister's.
She smiled at him again, and Walter was struck anew by the beauty of her eyes. "I hope that you do, Mr. Musgrove." She curtseyed and went back into the ballroom.
"Miss Clay is at home, Mr. Musgrove, if you will follow me," said the parlourmaid, opening the door to admit him.
Walter went inside, surrendered his hat and umbrella to the girl, and followed her into the small parlour.
"Mr. Musgrove, ma'am," the girl said, then curtseyed and left the room, shutting the door behind her.
Gwendolyn smiled at him from behind the pianoforte. "Good evening, Mr. Musgrove," she said. "You find me quite by myself tonight. I am taking this unusual opportunity to practice my neglected musical skills." Her fingers never stopped moving as she spoke; Walter had heard the music through the open windows as he stood on the doorstep, and it had not faltered since. He had spent several nights at the townhouse over the past two weeks, drawn there almost against his will by the memory of glowing green eyes and the lovely woman to whom they belonged. Henry Clay was rarely present, and when he was, he ignored Walter entirely; but Gwendolyn always seemed glad to see him, and sat by him and conversed with him on every subject under the sun, even when the parlour was crowded with admirers and hangers-on. Walter knew that he tread on dangerous ground while in the intoxicating presence of Miss Gwendolyn Clay, but he cared not; her attentions kept the darkness at bay, for a few hours anyway, and he was grateful for that.
But tonight they were indeed alone. She did not seem to feel that it was improper to receive him without her brother present, or her maid; they were alone in the room.
"Neglect seems to have caused your skills to thrive," Walter said. "Beethoven, I believe?" The music was almost ghostly, perfectly suiting the low lighting of the room and the unusual stillness of the humid night.
"Oh, yes. Piano Sonata Number Fourteen, 'Quasi una fantasia,' although I have heard it called the 'Moonlight' Sonata as well." Her fingers continued to move as she spoke. "I am glad you are here. Would you be so kind as to sit next to me and turn the pages of my music? I have given Jeanne the evening out, or she would have performed that office for me."
Walter rather suspected that she had the music by heart and needed neither pages nor anyone to turn them, but he seated himself on the bench next to her. "You may turn," she said, and he did so; her fingers never faltered. He could not read musical notation and had no idea if she was playing from the pages. When he glanced at her, he realized that she could not be; her eyes were locked on his, a small smile on her lips. "Do you play, Mr. Musgrove?"
"No," he said. "My parents did not consider music a necessary accomplishment for a man. My sister had lessons, but she has never been a great musician. My talents lie more in the field, I am afraid."
"Such manly accomplishments," said Miss Clay. "Shooting, and riding, and jumping horses, I presume?"
"Yes," he said. "But sometimes I wish I had the opportunity to learn music. I am fond of it, but it is rare that I have the good fortune to hear a musician of your skill."
"Would you like to play?" she asked him. "I can help you to do so, quite easily."
Walter laughed. "I would much rather listen to you play, madam."
"And so you shall." She took her fingers from the keyboard and seized his left hand. She passed his arm over her head and around her shoulders. "Place your hands over mine," she said.
Walter manoeuvered himself so that she was between his arms. Her back rested against his chest. He placed his hands over hers, matching them finger to finger, and she began to play. The 'Moonlight' Sonata swelled from the pianoforte, each note dropping like a perfect, round pearl into a still pool of water. Walter had to place his head next to hers, his chin almost resting on her shoulder, in order to see the keyboard. The scent of her hair, musky yet sweet, was all around him.
Her fingers continued to move, along with his own, resting lightly on top; her skin was soft and warm. Walter closed his eyes, relaxed his arms, and let her hands carry his own as the music wrapped around them. And the music never stopped, not for either of them; not when Walter's hands slid from the keyboard; not when his arms enveloped Gwendolyn's waist; not when her hands touched his face; not when she whispered his name; not when their lips met. It did not stop for the rest of the night, that ethereal music; it rose, note by exquisite note, through the warm, heavy air to the moonlit sky, filling the air and haunting their dreams.
Chapter II
Walter sat back in the chair, facing toward the window and the magnificent, red-stained sunrise, and smiled. He smiled a great deal these days; Walter Musgrove, hopeless romantic, was at last wonderfully, gloriously, ecstatically in love.
He had no reason to believe that the object of his affections, Miss Gwendolyn Clay, felt any differently. If other gentlemen had enjoyed her favours before him, that was no matter. Had she whispered the words of love to those gentlemen that she whispered to Walter? Had she covered their faces with kisses and begged them to stay as she had begged Walter just an hour ago, when he had left her bed to return to the inn before his family realized that he had not spent the night there? She could not have done so! He could not doubt her sincerity. There had been genuine tears spilling from her beautiful eyes while she watched him dress, poor girl. Her sobs, although she tried to muffle them in her pillow, had torn at his heart. And yet she did not reproach him for concealing their association from his parents--
My parents. How do I tell them? He knew that his father had no love for the inhabitants of Kellynch, but Gwen had hardly any contact at all with her mother and even less with her stepfather. She could not be categorized with them, could she? His mother would take to her sofa for a fortnight when she learned that Sir Walter Elliot's grandson was to ally himself with a woman of Gwen's reputation, but what did it matter, really? Walter's children were not to inherit Uppercross; that was for Charles' offspring. Walter had no doubt that Charles would marry, either Anne Wentworth or someone else, and produce an heir. Walter had been given an education, but had been otherwise left to find his own way in life. He would choose his wife where he desired.
And he had chosen Gwendolyn Clay. He had not proposed to her, not yet; but every day that he spent thinking of her, every night that they spent together, made him more resolute that he should do so, and very soon. Walter, though a romantic, was prudent as well, and he knew that Gwen would not care to be a country parson's wife. How was he to provide for them? He was too old to join the navy; he had not sufficient funds to purchase a commission in the regulars, and his father had already paid for his education at Cambridge and would probably decline to lay out the funds necessary to purchase his colours. Walter had puzzled over the dilemma, and the more he considered, the more he became convinced that the best choice would be to ask his uncle Harry Musgrove to take him on as an apprentice in his law practice. Harry would acquiesce, of that Walter had no doubt. He was only eight years older than Walter, and was fond of his nephews. Yes, that seemed the best plan. Gwen would have to give up the most fashionable of her dressmakers, and probably her French maid as well; but if Walter was willing to give up the profession for which he had spent so many years preparing, then surely Gwen, who loved him so, would be willing to wear muslin rather than silk and dress her own hair. Yes, that was the best plan. It seemed fortuitous, now, that he had delayed taking orders.
Walter had not chosen the Church as his profession; it had been chosen for him. Mrs. Musgrove thought it unfair that her son should be obliged to pursue a profession at all, but considered the Church suitably refined, even for her favourite son. She loved Charles and Elizabeth in her own rather abstracted way, but with their fair, curly hair and smaller builds, they most closely resembled their father's family. Walter was taller than any of his cousins, except Edward Wentworth, and had sleek dark hair like his mother and her sisters. He was the only one of Mrs. Musgrove's children whom she felt had inherited the Elliot countenance, although a closer perusal of her own mother's portrait, which still hung in Kellynch Hall, would have revealed that the features that graced Walter's handsome face were inherited not from the Elliots but from the Stevensons.
When Walter had attained his Master of Divinity degree, all the education that his father considered necessary for the rector of Uppercross parish, he had not yet been four and twenty years old, the required age of ordination; five months had to pass before he could go before the bishop. Somehow, five months had turned into nearly three years, and Mr. Musgrove had never tried to force Walter into taking orders, although Mrs. Musgrove was not above the occasional hint. But something had always held him back. Walter had not been disinclined to the profession, but he would have felt obligated to change his carefree, bachelor lifestyle a great deal when he took orders, and he had not yet felt prepared to do so. Yes, it was fortuitous that he had waited; if he had been in orders, he would not have accompanied his parents to London, and he would not have met Gwen. It seemed to Walter that the Almighty had revealed His plan, and it did not include Walter Musgrove as one of His ministers.
He would ask her today. Before the sun set that evening, he would claim his lady's hand. Walter smiled once again as the patch of sunlight on the floor slowly made its way toward the chair where he sat, dreaming though wide awake, hearing once again the music of the moonlight.
Before he rang the bell, he made a hasty inventory of his appearance. Everything seemed to be in order; he took a deep breath and pulled, hearing the muffled ringing as though through a mist. Why are you so anxious, Musgrove? You love this woman, you want to marry her. There is nothing about which to be apprehensive.
Hannah, the parlourmaid, opened the door with a smile that turned into an opened "O" of amazement when she saw who had rang. "Mr. Musgrove," she said nervously. "Are you expected, sir?"
"No, Hannah," he said, smiling. "I am here to see your mistress on an errand that cannot wait. Tell her that I am here, will you?"
The girl's mouth opened and closed several times. "I do not know that Miss Clay is receiving callers, sir," she said nervously.
"Never mind," said Walter, pushing his way past her with the easy assurance of the lover. "She will see me, I am sure." He dropped his walking-stick and hat on the table in the passage and continued toward the parlour. "Is she in here, love?"
"Oh, sir--" Hannah called after him helplessly as he reached the open doorway, then stopped in astonishment at the tableaux before him.
Gwendolyn stood before the large, ornately-framed mirror that hung on the far side of the parlour. Behind her stood the Earl of Dalton; he was placing a glittering necklace about her throat. Neither of them was aware of Walter's presence. Gwendolyn preened in front of the mirror, stroking the gems as if they were the fur of her favourite cat. She turned away from the mirror, the eyes that Walter loved so well turned up to his lordship's; the same affectionate gaze that had been directed toward Walter just that morning was now intended only for Dalton. Her arms went around Dalton's neck, he pulled her close, his mouth descended roughly upon hers, and Walter stayed to see no more. He snatched his possessions from the table, walked past the shamefaced Hannah, and left the townhouse, never to return.
Oakmont Park
September, 1839
Walter sat on the bench before the pianoforte, watching Catherine Leigh play. She would play Beethoven, he thought resignedly. Miss Leigh could not be more unlike Gwendolyn, with her raven hair and dark-blue eyes, but Walter could not help but remember the last lady he whose pianoforte bench he had shared.
"Will you turn, please, Mr. Musgrove?" Miss Leigh asked softly. Walter had to strain to hear her rather breathy voice. He turned the page carefully. He had to lean across her to do so, and he caught a whiff of her lavender scent. She exuded innocence, this lovely girl; her white skin, her white dress, her soft voice and scent all spoke of purity and chastity. Those were qualities that Walter craved like a starving man craved a crust of bread, and he had attached himself to Miss Leigh that night almost desperately, despite her obvious preference for his cousin Edward Wentworth.
The pain of Gwendolyn's infidelity had eased over the past three months, but had not entirely disappeared. It was like a wound that had scabbed over but never healed, bursting open with any unwary movement. He still dreamed of her, of the way her skin had felt under his hands, the way her golden hair had tumbled over him as she slept in his arms. He glanced at Miss Leigh, but she was concentrating on the music sheets and did not return his gaze; he looked up at his cousin, who was leaning on the pianoforte, his eyes never leaving Miss Leigh's face, a small smile playing about his mouth. I cannot blame him, Walter thought with wry affection; he liked his cousin a great deal. He's seen nothing but a boatload of hairy sailors for the past half year. Any reasonably attractive, available young woman would draw his attention. But Walter had known that he had lost Miss Leigh's regard forever when Lieutenant Edward Wentworth, resplendent in his blue coat and gleaming new sword, had entered his mother's dining-room.
And I cannot compete, he thought. Edward Wentworth would one day inherit Kellynch Hall as well as Oakmont Park; although his naval career had progressed at a much slower pace than his father's, the unhappy consequence of peace, there was good reason to believe that Edward might one day be called Admiral Wentworth as well. What young lady would not prefer such a future to a lifetime in Uppercross Parsonage? Especially a young lady raised in a house like Ashleigh Hall. And once again, in spite of every vow to himself that he would no longer think of her, Walter's thoughts turned to Gwendolyn.
And then she appeared, as if his tortured mind had somehow conjured her up. She walked into his aunt's drawing-room with her mother and brother, as casually as she had entered his life that night at the assembly in London. Walter's heart began to beat wildly, and he stood up hastily. Miss Leigh looked up at him curiously.
"Would you like some tea, Miss Leigh?" he asked her in an attempt to recover his equilibrium. She smiled her assent, and he went to the tea-pot and took cups for both of them; by the time he returned to the pianoforte, she was gone. Edward Wentworth had led her away to a dance set that was forming in a relatively empty corner of the large, elegant room, and Lady Wentworth had seated herself at the pianoforte, prepared to play for the dancers.
Walter set the cups down on a table and looked around; Charles had claimed Anne's hand, to his surprise, and apparently to Henry Clay's disgust, and James Leigh, of course, chose Elizabeth for his partner. Before Walter could reach his cousin Sophie, Mr. Clay had spoken to her and was leading the smiling young girl to the set. Walter noticed Edward's lip curl, and Anne's restraining hand on her brother's arm; apparently Miss Sophie's ready acquiescence to Mr. Clay's request had not pleased her siblings.
And that left only Gwendolyn. Walter had a moment of utter panic; I cannot do it. But it would be so unusual for him not to participate in a family dance that such an action would be noticed and remarked upon, particularly by Mrs. Musgrove, who would worry her son until she had an explanation she considered satisfactory. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then turned to Gwendolyn. She watched him, smiling enigmatically. Walter approached her, bowed stiffly, and said, "Would you do me the honour of being my partner for this dance, Miss Clay?"
"So it is 'Miss Clay' now," she said. "You had very different names for me not so long ago, lover."
"Do not call me that," he said between clenched teeth. "I am most certainly not your lover. I would be your dance partner, for my aunt's sake. It is all the same to me if you stand there like a fool."
"That is a difficult invitation to decline, Mr. Musgrove," she said in the same amused tone. "I accept."
Walter took her gloved hand and led her to the set; all eyes were upon him, their expressions ranging from the mocking grin of Mr. Clay to the repressed contempt of Charles. The music began, and Walter went through the steps in rigid silence. Occasionally he happened to catch Miss Clay's eye, and she continued to wear the same expression of mild amusement. How can she smile in that manner? he thought in astonished rage. Hannah had to tell her what I saw. She has to know. And yet she can smile at me like the d---ed Mona Lisa.
At last it was over. Walter bowed stiffly, then looked around, anywhere but at Gwendolyn. He saw Charles lift Anne's hand to his mouth, then exchange a look with her that spoke volumes. Walter smiled involuntarily; the romantic, though grievously wounded, was not completely vanquished. At last, brother. Godspeed to you.
"A smile," said Miss Clay. Her gaze followed Walter's. "But I do not think it is for my benefit."
"No," he said quietly. "It is not. Good evening, Miss Clay." He would have turned away but for her restraining hand on his arm.
"May I beg an interview, sir?" she asked.
"I cannot imagine anything you could say to me that I would wish to hear."
Gwendolyn paused. "There was a time when we meant a great deal to one another. I would presume on that connection this once. Please, Walter."
Her request, delivered in tones of the utmost humility, struck him to the quick. "Very well," he said, and allowed her to lead the way to the deserted passage.
"How do you come to be here, Gwen?" he asked as soon as they were alone.
She turned to face him, her back against the wall. "As my mother said, we wished to call upon our cousins--"
Walter interrupted her. "How do you come to be in Somerset? You told me that you never went to Kellynch."
"No," she corrected him, "I told you that I rarely went to Kellynch. The anniversary of my mother's birth is next week, and apparently she is feeling a touch of mortality and wanted her family about her. I was tempted to point out to her that it is a great deal too late for such family camaraderie, but I managed to quell the urge." She reached up and caressed his face in a gesture he remembered all too well. "Have you not missed me, lover? I have missed you a great deal."
"Please do not call me that name." Walter's voice had little conviction; he was falling once again under her spell. The nearness of her, her scent, her touch, her warmth, had brought back feelings that he thought he had successfully repressed. He reached out and took a one of the long, golden curls that cascaded to her shoulders, running his fingers down the silken length; mesmerized, he wrapped the lock around his finger, again and again, and almost before he knew what he was doing, his lips were on the soft golden skin of her throat.
"Walter!" he heard a voice boom behind him. He jumped and looked around guiltily to see his brother standing at the far end of the passage, his face a mask of astonishment. "We are leaving," Charles said, then turned on his heel and went outside.
Gwendolyn's hands snaked around his neck. "Come to me tonight, Walter," she whispered. "Come to Kellynch. Jeanne will let you in." She pressed her body to his, her hands in his hair, her mouth on his.
Walter was almost lost again, but finally broke away. "No," he said. "No." He turned away from her, took his hat from an impassive footman standing by the door, and ran after his brother.
Charles stood by the curricle; his astonishment had turned completely to anger. "To conduct yourself that way in our uncle's home! I am disgusted with your behaviour. A gentleman should not take such liberties with young ladies."
Walter had no desire to discuss Gwendolyn with his brother, so he attempted to laugh it off, although there was an element of bitter truth in his careless words: "You know as well as I do that she is no lady. Do not take such a high tone with me, brother." Charles tried to take the reins, but Walter knew that his brother's usual careful horsemanship would be abandoned in his present distress. "You'll lather up the horses, the state you're in. Do not worry, I have not had so much wine that I will drive us off the road."
They drove on for a bit in silence, then Charles ventured, "What of Miss Leigh? She is a much more proper object for your affections."
Walter smiled to himself; Charles could never stay angry for long. Why have I never confided in Charles? No one on earth knows me better. He cautiously opened his bruised heart to allow his brother a glimpse. "What of Miss Leigh? She took one look at Edward's blue coat and I was immediately forgotten. You know how all ladies love a man in uniform. Besides, what can I offer a girl like that, Charles?" he asked pensively. "Edward will inherit Oakmont Park, and Sir William has left Kellynch to him as well. I may have a parsonage someday and a curate's salary to pay, but a wealthy young woman like Catherine will not wish to mortify herself by marrying a country vicar." He sighed heavily. "Unfortunately I like Edward too well to begrudge him her favour. Perhaps he will give me the Kellynch living out of gratitude." Walter surprised himself with his last sentence; he had not consciously thought of taking orders, or of undertaking any profession, since he had found Gwendolyn in the arms of another man. Yes, it is time to get on with my life. I must leave Gwendolyn Clay, and her betrayal, behind me. The only question is: Where does my future lie? Lucky Charles, and Edward, to have their lives mapped out for them, without suffering all this indecision.
"I knew I should have joined the Navy," he muttered, and was startled by his brother's shout of laughter, which rang through the cold night air.
Chapter III
Several birds rose squawking into the blue September sky, startled out of the underbrush by the beaters and the dogs. Walter raised the gun to his shoulder with the ease of long practice, sighted, and pulled the trigger. He dimly heard the echo of his father's shot, almost simultaneous with his own. The birds flew on undisturbed, the barking dogs running after them.
"Bad luck, son," said Mr. Musgrove, handing his gun to Thomas to be reloaded.
Walter handed his own gun to Thomas and accepted a loaded firearm in exchange. The beaters went shouting into the brush once more, disturbing yet more birds, who flew indignantly away. Walter lifted the rifle once again, then lowered it, distracted by a rustling sound in some shrubbery by the small dirt road that wound through his father's land. "Thomas, what is that?" he asked the servant in annoyance.
Thomas went to investigate, and called back, "It's a horse, Mr. Walter. A mare."
"A mare?" Walter walked over to inspect the creature. "Is she one of my father's?"
"No, sir," said Thomas. "She's one of Sir Frederick's. I saw him riding her when he hunted with Mr. Musgrove last."
Walter finally reached Thomas, who stood by the mare. The creature ignored them and continued to graze. A sidesaddle, thought Walter. Anne went riding with Charles--oh, dear Lord, I hope--
"She must have wandered away from Miss Wentworth," Walter said to Thomas, concealing his own more gruesome thoughts. The grave expression on the servant's face indicated that the concealment was not necessary; Thomas had leapt to the same conclusions. "I will go and look for them," Walter added, taking up the mare's reins. He handed the shotgun to Thomas, climbed up on a nearby fence rail, and managed to pull himself onto the mare's back without impaling himself on any of the protruding appendages of the sidesaddle. The single stirrup was much too short, adjusted to fit the petite Anne, and Walter did not bother with it.
"Tell my father that I will see him back at the Great House," said Walter. Thomas nodded and would have walked away, but Walter called him back. "Give me the gun." Thomas handed him the firearm wordlessly and watched him ride away, a crease between his brows; the Uppercross servants were as fond of Miss Anne Wentworth as were the Uppercross sons.
Despite the lack of stirrups, Walter managed to get the mare to a trot; she was a spirited creature and pulled at the reins, and he was hampered by the shotgun he held across the saddle, but he kept her under control. He followed the dirt path toward the Great House, and shortly before he reached the drive he saw two horses; as they drew closer, he realized that one rider was Charles, mounted on that great beast Wilfred, and the other was a grey carrying Henry Clay and Anne.
"Here you are!" Walter cried in relief. "I saw my uncle's horse grazing by the side of the road, and you can imagine how concerned I became when there was no rider." He noticed that Clay was holding Anne rather tightly and that she did not look at all happy about it. He also noticed his brother's rigid jaw and glowing eyes. "What's going on here?" he asked. "Anne, are you all right?"
"The mare was spooked by a fox and ran away," said Anne. "Mr. Clay kindly helped me." Clay grinned at Walter triumphantly. Charles looked as if he were about to explode, and Anne was obviously miserable, struggling in the most ladylike way possible to release herself from Clay's grip. Walter had seen how Clay treated women during his sojourn with Gwendolyn, although he had been too distracted by his own concerns to properly digest it at the time, and he was sickened to imagine Anne in such degrading circumstances.
"You have had quite a shock, cousin," he declared, attempting to clear the suddenly thick air with a touch of humour. "We must get you back to Uppercross. Perhaps Mamma will move over on the sofa and make room for you. My brother and I can take her there, Clay, you need not trouble yourself."
"It is no trouble," responded Mr. Clay, not loosening his grip on Anne. "We are very nearly there." They were at the foot of the drive.
"You may as well dismount here," said Walter. "I will take the horses to the stable. I espy my uncle Benwick's equipage in the drive, and I've no stomach for Byron and Scott today," he added, pointing toward his uncle's barouche, which had seen better days.
Anne stumbled as she slid from the back of Clay's horse. Clay caught her and held her tightly although she struggled to free herself. Charles was clearly enraged, but to his brother's dismay said nothing.
"Go on into the house," Walter said to Anne and Mr. Clay. "I require a few words with my brother." Mr. Clay offered his arm to Anne, who took it uncertainly, and they went into the house.
Walter grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him aside. "What are you about, Charles, letting Clay manhandle Anne like that?" he whispered. "Upon my word, you are a most unnatural lover. I would have driven him off with my crop."
Charles looked at him in surprise. "You know? You know how I feel about Anne?" he cried. "How could you? I only just realized it myself this day."
"It was obvious to me, brother, but remember I know you better than anyone," said Walter. "I saw how it was last night when you were dancing. I supposed you may need a push, but I'd no idea you would stand back and let another man walk away with her. Especially the likes of Clay."
Charles turned away, his head hanging, and Walter's pique faded at his brother's unhappiness. "What can I do, Walter, call him out?" asked Charles resignedly. "If she likes another man better than me, I would never stand in her way."
Call him out? Depend on Charles to respond so severely! "It would be one thing if she actually did like him better," said Walter soothingly. "I certainly did not stand in Catherine Leigh's way when she showed her preference for Edward. But I'll wager that Anne finds Clay as revolting as we do." Are you blind, brother? She is mad for you!
"You didn't find his sister revolting last night," Charles reminded him.
Walter laughed shortly. "Gwendolyn is a very...obliging girl," he said with a grin. He did not realize that the bitterness beneath his humour was not visible to his more literal-minded brother. "But you can't possibly imagine that I have any serious intentions toward her." Not after what has passed between us.
"Then I wish you would not behave in such an unbecoming manner."
"Don't lecture me, Charles," said Walter. "And don't change the subject. Go in there and claim your lady's hand." He took the horses' reins and started walking toward the stables.
At the stables, he delivered the horses to one of the grooms and turned back with every intention of returning to the house. However, as he walked away from the stables, his eye was caught by the spire of Uppercross Church, standing out amidst the treetops. Walter stood staring at the spire for several long moments, then found himself walking toward it, propelled by some unknown force.
The church door was open, as always; nobody in Uppercross would ever disturb the church. He entered the tiny sanctuary, lit only by the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows installed by his ancestors in commemoration of great events and deceased family members. The names and images of Musgroves past stared down at Walter as he made his way slowly up the aisle to the squire's pew; he could not shake the feeling that they stood in judgment upon him. Are you worthy to lead this parish? they cried. Are you deserving of the heritage we have passed to you? He had to admit to himself that, thus far, he had not been. But he also knew instinctively that it was not too late for him to change his ways. The question was whether he had the fortitude to do so.
He stood by the Musgrove pew, naturally the foremost and most handsome. This had been his vantage point of the building for his entire life. He remembered coming to Sunday service as a boy and sitting in this pew with his grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles. During school holidays, his father's mob of younger brothers and sisters overflowed into the pew directly behind, but as the young squire's son, Walter always had a place in the front. For so many years now, it had only been Walter, Charles, Elizabeth, and their parents; they barely used half the pew, yet the only other worshipers ever invited to share it had been their own house guests. And now Eliza will be gone. But perhaps Charles will bring his wife, and his children. He smiled at the thought of little Musgroves with Anne's delicate features, climbing about the pew and getting into mischief as their father and uncle had before them. And my wife and children? They would be entitled to a place here as well, especially if their father is at the lectern...
His gaze went to the chancel, separated from the pews by a simple wooden rail and gate. Walter walked toward the chancel, took a deep breath, and opened the gate and stepped through it.
From the lectern, the church appeared strange; perhaps it was the absence of light, usually supplied by the candles in the chandeliers. Perhaps it was the empty pews, which Walter usually only saw filled with his neighbors and the villagers. Or perhaps it was simply that his perspective had changed, in many ways. He had never realized that the rector stood physically higher than the worshipers, having to ascend several steps to reach the lectern. Walter looked down on the pews and imagined them filled, faces turned up to him, accepting the wisdom he offered like baby birds taking bits of food from their mother. He had learned doctrine at Cambridge, had studied Scripture and the lessons that the members of the Church of England were told to reflect upon daily, but had never realized the crushing obligation that the rector carried. It was he who would direct those souls in the pews, he who would give them the guidance they needed to follow the laws of God and the Church. Am I worthy of that duty? he silently asked the shades of Uppercross, reflected in the coloured windows along the walls. Can I do this? Or more to the point, should I do this?
He stood at the lectern for some time, his hands tracing over the leather binding of the old Bible placed there, gathering strength from his ancestors, collected here over the course of so many generations. When he finally left the church, Walter knew that no one could prevent him from fulfilling his destiny, not even Gwendolyn Clay; no one, that is, but himself.
Walter walked up to the house, deep in thought, and was nearly to the door when he looked up to see Anne Wentworth climbing into Sir William Elliot's carriage with Gwendolyn just behind her. What game are you playing now, Gwen? he thought angrily. Charles stood nearby, his brow contracted and his eyes glowing greenish-gold. He stared malevolently at Henry Clay, whose gelding pranced impatiently next to the carriage.
Gwendolyn turned her head and saw Walter. She held out her hand and called, "It is good to see you, Mr. Musgrove."
Startled into gallantry, Walter took her gloved hand and helped her into the carriage. He felt something sharp-edged in her fingers, and realized that it was a piece of paper, folded into a tiny square. Gwendolyn took her hand away, leaving the paper behind. Walter immediately closed the paper into his fist--it would not do to enter into an argument with Gwen, not out here in front of his mother--and pulled the fist behind his back, clasped in his other hand.
Charles stood beside the drive, watching the carriage drive away; Anne did not return his gaze. Walter wondered what in the world had happened at the house while he had been woolgathering in the church. His brother finally turned away and moved to enter the house; Walter stood in his path, gazing at him earnestly. Charles pushed past him and went into the house.
You have a nerve, Musgrove, Walter thought bitterly. You want to be the rector of Uppercross, want to guide and assist your parishioners, and you cannot even assist your own brother in his distress. A fine clergyman you'll make.
He went into the house and to his bedchamber, flung himself into a chair, and then remembered the note from Gwendolyn, still clenched in his fist. He opened the tiny paper and read the note, written in Gwendolyn's round and sprawling hand:
Walter love,Do come to Kellynch tonight. I have a piece of news for you. My mother retires to her chamber at ten, and Sir William retires at eleven; Jeanne will let you in at a quarter past the hour.
Your Gwen
My Gwen indeed, Walter thought angrily. He would certainly go to Kellynch that night. He needed to bring that part of his life to a close, once and for all, before he could begin anew. The decision gave him some relief, and he dressed for dinner in a tolerably improved mood.
He slowed the horse as he approached Kellynch, fearing that the ringing of the horse's shoes on the stones would awaken the household. He approached the door, wondering what to do; he could hardly ring the bell. As he drew closer, however, his problem was solved; the door opened, and a headful of riotous black curls emerged.
"Monsieur Musgrove, sir?" came a hoarse whisper.
"Yes, Jeanne, it is I," he whispered, and she smiled and beckoned him in. Walter tied the horse to the post and followed her inside.
Jeanne led the way upstairs, the light of the candle she carried glancing off the walls. She paused by a door, opened it slightly, and peeked in. "Mademoiselle?" she whispered. Walter could not hear any answer, but apparently she received one that satisfied her, for she pushed the door open and stood back to allow him to pass the threshold, then closed the door behind him.
Walter entered the room, decorated in heavy wallpaper and fabrics that reflected Lady Elliot's vulgarly elaborate taste. He looked around as his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, and did not see Gwendolyn anywhere. He cautiously took a seat in a brocaded and fringed chair not far from the doorway.
After a few minutes, Gwendolyn emerged from a connecting room, her silken nightclothes trailing about her. Walter was amazed, as he had been in the past, how so much fabric could cover her body so ill; however, the sight excited not the desire it had in the past, but only a detached sort of fascination.
"Walter, my darling," she whispered, laying a hand on each of his shoulders and bending to press her lips to his.
Walter moved his head so that the kiss landed on his cheek, then gently pushed her back and stood. "Gwen, I am not here to make love to you," he said quietly. "I am here to tell you that I am aware of your activities to upset my brother's happiness, and that I will not stand for it."
Gwendolyn stared up at him for a moment, then burst into low laughter. "You must be joking, lover. I know not from whence you receive your ideas, but I assure you that the happiness of the Musgrove family is most important to me." She reached up and caressed his face. "One member of the Musgrove family in particular."
Walter turned his face aside and stepped away from her. "I no longer desire your favours, madam. I came here in the hope of appealing to your sense of propriety, although I see now that I was mistaken."
"Walter," Gwendolyn said, no longer laughing. "I have never known you to be cruel."
"You have not importuned on my family in the past. Whatever game you are playing with my brother and Anne Wentworth, you will stop immediately."
She raised her eyebrows. "I am afraid that it is not within my power to end that particular game, sir," she said coldly. "My brother has set his heart on marrying Anne Wentworth, and he has constrained me to assist him."
"Constrained you?" cried Walter. "How can he do so?"
"You forget," said Gwendolyn quietly. "I have a home only by my brother's sufferance."
Walter had never considered that part of Gwendolyn's life. Reflecting on his visits to the townhouse, he realized that Henry and Gwendolyn did not display the affection that Walter shared with Elizabeth. The Clays could be in the same room and barely acknowledge the other's presence. And Gwendolyn was correct; her home depended upon her brother's charity. Walter did not like to think of the requirements that Henry exacted upon his sister in exchange for his benevolence. "But Sir William gives you an allowance, does he not? Could you not hire your own establishment, perhaps engage a companion to live with you?"
"Sir William has informed Henry and me that he will no longer give us an allowance," she said quietly. "You see how that changes my position in my brother's household. He inherited the townhouse from our father when he reached his majority, and owns it outright, but I received nothing. Believe me, Walter, I have no desire to interfere in your brother's happiness with Miss Wentworth."
"But why has Sir William denied you now, after assisting you for so many years?"
"I suspect," she said with a wry smile, "that it had something to do with the fact that he has found my bed-chamber door locked during this visit."
Walter stared at her, a horrifying realization dawning upon him. "Gwen, you don't mean that he--" he stopped, unable to complete the thought.
Gwendolyn looked at him in surprise. "My dear, whom did you think first seduced me? Sir William was my first lover, when I was fifteen years old. I assumed that you were aware of our past--" she paused, searching for a word, "--connection."
"The villain!" exclaimed Walter. "To take advantage of you in such a way! You were under his protection, under his roof, his own wife's daughter!" Walter paced the room restlessly. "And where was your famous brother? He should have taken a whip to Elliot in the street. I have a mind to, myself."
"But you have no right," she responded gently. "And do not think that I was an unwilling victim. I took great pleasure in being able to give Sir William something that my mother no longer could."
"You were fifteen years old," said Walter softly, his heart aching for her. "You did not know what you were about, love."
"I knew," she said, just as softly. "Oh, I knew. And if I had it to do over, I am not sure I would do differently." Walter had no answer for this; his new feelings of sympathy for her had flown with her last statement, replaced with resignation and a tinge of sadness. She is debauched, utterly and completely. I can do nothing for her.
Taking his silence for approbation, Gwendolyn changed the subject. "I really invited you here tonight to tell you something very important," she said, smiling at him. "I am thinking of getting married."
Walter actually laughed at this. "Married? What victim have you entangled in your web, Gwen?"
"No victim," she said, still smiling. "I have a very willing partner in mind." She walked up to him and laid her hands on his chest. "I thought a great deal upon what qualities I required in a husband, and I realized that you, Walter Musgrove, encompass every one of those qualities."
"I find that difficult to believe," he responded, removing her hands and walking away from her once again. "I would think that a large fortune would be your first requirement."
"It is desirable," she agreed. "But the most important quality is compatibility. Surely you remember how well we got on together."
I could hardly forget it, Walter thought wryly.
Gwendolyn continued, "You understand me, Walter, as no one else could."
A few months ago, Gwen--nay, only a few moments ago--I would have agreed with you, but no more. The sight of Gwendolyn in Dalton's arms, burned into his memory, was before Walter as he spoke. "Compatibility between spouses is indeed important, but I would rank trustworthiness more highly. And that is why I could never marry you, Gwen." He had turned away from her and did not notice the colour rush from her face at this statement. "How could I marry a woman who would give herself to the first man who dangled a diamond trinket before her?"
Gwendolyn's paleness was replaced with an angry flush. "You dangled no such trinkets before me, and yet I gave myself to you. What does that tell you, sir?"
"It tells me, madam," he said deliberately, turning back to face her, "that you sell your favours mighty cheaply indeed."
"How dare you," she whispered. "I have never asked you for a shilling. And I have never sought anything from you but your affection." She pointed a shaking finger at the door. "You may leave, sir."
"Gladly." He walked toward the door. He paused there a moment, looking back at her, a last bit of regret still preying upon him. "What will you do, Gwen?" he asked her.
She would not face him. "I have made plans," she said quietly. "The Honourable Mr. Westfield has long been enamoured of me. I shall write to him in the morning."
"That moon-faced puppy?" Walter asked indignantly. "You cannot be serious!"
"Why do you think so?" she asked, her voice quiet and steady. "I must do whatever I deem necessary to maintain my situation. You have no right to speak to me thus."
"No," he agreed. "Good night, Miss Clay." He left, shutting the door softly behind him.
Gwendolyn moved to the window, which faced the front of the house, and watched Walter mount his horse and ride away. She had long ago trained herself to not weep in the presence of others, from the first time that Sir William had entered her bed-chamber all those years ago. But by the time that Walter reached the roadway, the tears she had been holding back began to course down her face, and she sobbed as sorrowfully as she had at the age of ten, wrapped in the arms of a boy who grew into the man that she loved.
Walter let the horse drink from the trough, then put him in a stall, carefully returning the tack to its proper place. He put out some hay for the horse, thinking, This is what I have learned from you, Gwen. I have learned how to disguise the evidence of my wrongdoing. God help me.
He unlocked the front door of the Great House and slipped inside. He shut the door quietly behind him and turned to see Charles, standing in his dressing-gown, gazing back at him steadily.
"You were at Kellynch?" Charles asked finally.
"I was. How did you know?"
"I saw Miss Clay hand you a note. I concluded that an assignation was being planned." The disappointment in his brother's eyes cut Walter to the quick.
"It wasn't what you think," said Walter. "I was breaking it off." He could hardly tell Charles of everything that had happened. Perhaps, some day, he would be able to do so, but not tonight.
Charles, of course, could not understand his brother's words. "Breaking it off?" he cried. "What sort of connection did you have with Miss Clay that needed to be broken off?"
Walter sighed. "Let us go into the library," he said. "A brandy would be most welcome." Despite Charles' disapproval, Walter knew that he would be a sympathetic listener, and his brother's sober consideration was exactly what Walter needed to order his confused thoughts.
In the library, Charles poured drinks for both of them. Walter took a gulp and threw himself into a chair by the dying fire. Charles seated himself nearby.
Walter stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace and tried to sort out what he should tell his brother. "It started earlier this year, when I was in London," he said. "We met by chance. Gwendolyn travels in a very fast circle, which I found exciting at first. She was very attentive, and I allowed myself to be flattered and petted into a more intimate relationship." He took another sip of his brandy. "Tonight she told me that Sir William is cutting off her allowance and her brother's. Apparently the baronet has tired of paying for their intemperate lifestyle."
"I can't say that I blame him," said Charles. "Henry Clay is perfectly capable of earning his own living, and had Miss Clay guarded her reputation more carefully, she might have married quite comfortably."
"She still thinks that she can," said Walter. He chuckled ruefully. "The silly bit of muslin thought I would marry her."
"Does that surprise you? After you acted the libertine?"
'Twas not I who seduced her first! "I and half the rakes in London! You have heard the talk about her, Charles, don't deny it."
"I have," Charles admitted. "She made an advance at me this afternoon."
Walter looked around at him in astonishment, entertained in spite of himself. "At you? Really? The look on your face must have been priceless! What I would have given to see it!" Although Gwen would have been more surprised had he taken her up on her offer!
Charles was not amused. "Anne may have seen us together," he said. "I can only imagine what she must be thinking about me."
Walter sighed, annoyed once again with Gwendolyn Clay and all her ilk. "I'm sorry. I had not considered that. Don't think too badly of Gwen, brother," he added, surprising himself somewhat. "She hid it well, but she is near desperation. She had some wild plan about a viscount's son who is enamored of her. I recall seeing him hanging about the townhouse, a round-faced puppy with shirt collars so high they looked like blinders. He will suit her admirably," he added bitterly. The brothers sat quietly for a time, watching the fading embers in the fireplace and sipping their drinks.
"I wonder if Henry Clay is in similar hopeless straits," said Charles thoughtfully. "It would explain his sudden attention to Anne."
"Anne's fortune is not large," Walter agreed. "But it would give him a stake and the means to settle any pressing debts." He was pained by his brother's troubled face. "I would not worry, though. Anne is a clever girl. I don't think she will be taken in by a fortune-hunting rogue." No, Anne loved Charles, of that Walter was convinced.
He set his glass down with a sudden resolve to fully unburden his heart. "Charles," he said, turning toward his brother earnestly, "Do you think Father would give me the Uppercross living if I took orders?"
His brother stared at him in astonishment. "Of course he would. Dr. Smythe has been eager these five years to retire and join his daughter in Brighton. He has only been waiting for you to take orders. What has convinced you to do so, after all this time?"
"Do you remember yesterday when I asked you if all this marrying business had persuaded you to follow suit? Well, I must confess that it has affected me." Walter stood and went to the brandy-bottle to refresh his drink. He took a sip and returned to his chair. "I cannot deny that I have spent the years since I finished at Cambridge in idleness and self-indulgence. My parents have never forced me to seek an occupation, and it was certainly not my preference to do so. There were many pleasures to be had and I was loath to give them up. However, I have long felt that something was missing in my life. Last night at my uncle's house, when I saw Catherine Leigh, I knew what was missing."
"You are in love with Miss Leigh?" asked Charles quietly.
"How can I tell?" asked Walter pensively. "I cannot even attempt to court her. I have no fortune, no title, no promised inheritance. I have nothing to offer a woman but myself. Until now, that has not been important to me. But I have come to regret my conduct of late. I am ready to make myself worthy of the regard of a girl like Catherine." He turned to his brother, who was smiling broadly. "Don't make fun of me, Charles, I can't stand it from you. You pattern-card, I know I should have been imitating your exemplary behavior all these years, but you should rejoice that your reprobate brother has seen the error of his ways."
"But I am delighted!" cried Charles, leaning over to slap his brother's back. "This is a turn of events that I confess I had not expected, but my pleasure is no less for the surprise. By all means speak to Father, but you should probably wait until all the excitement is past."
"I will," promised Walter. "As soon as Eliza and James are off for their wedding tour, I will speak to Father and Dr. Smythe. Hopefully that good man can be prevailed upon to convince the bishop that I am a proper candidate for the church, despite my chequered past." He drained his glass and set it on a table. "I am off to bed, brother, with a much lighter heart, now that I have unburdened it," he said. He looked at his brother, his heart overflowing with affection. "Thank you, Charles. I meant it when I said that I wish I had patterned my behavior on yours."
Charles was silent for a long moment. "I have never set myself up to be a pattern-card," he said finally. "But I am glad that you consider me such, if it has aided your decision."
Walter grinned at his brother and exited the library, his mind already awhirl with plans and hopes.