Barbara Metzger (4 page)

*

Graydon was right, the older couple did manage to settle their differences eventually, without his presence as a source of conflict. They shared his letters from the Peninsula, glowed with pride when his name was mentioned in the dispatches, and worried together over rumored battles. What they didn’t do was plan his homecoming.

Daphne never asked about him or showed any interest in his posted valor. Her mother was careful never to mention his name, in return for Daphne’s agreeing to reenter society. Since it was either that or see her mother mope around the house all day, Daphne attended a few local assemblies. The men she danced with were mostly old friends like Squire Pomeroy’s son Miles, too delighted Howell was out of her life and out of the country to ask awkward questions. The new young curate, a visiting scholar, someone’s nephew down from university, were all pleasant partners, undemanding and unexciting.

Lady Whilton got her to Brighton for the summer by pleading her cousins needed the holiday. Torrence had had the measles that spring at school and was still recuperating. Eldart was growing so fast that, at thirteen, he was almost as tall as Daphne. Lady Whilton insisted she couldn’t manage them on her own, when Daphne tried to stay behind in Hampshire, and the boys added their persuasive voices. No one was more fun at the beach than Daphne, no one could ride better than their favorite cousin. How could she refuse? They were turning into fine lads, with no remnants of that nervous timidity they’d shown at first. Any father would have been proud, except Uncle Albert, who ignored his sons’ existence altogether. Daphne believed this was a mixed blessing, for the rakehell’s influence could only have been for the worse, but his cold disregard had to hurt the boys’ feelings. Daphne had to supply what sense of security and family feeling she could, even if it meant going to Brighton.

There were some stares and titters at first, until Lady Minton ran off with her head groom. Daphne’s broken troth was old hat, after all, and the scandalmongers had other bones to gnaw. Besides, Daphne spent the majority of her time with her cousins, letting her mother accept Lord Hollister’s invitations with a clear conscience.

Daphne held out against London in the fall, but her mother was so disappointed and restless, she surrendered by the spring Season. She refused to stay at Howell House, though, no matter
what arguments were brought to bear. If the expense of renting a house was too dear, they needn’t go at all. If her mother was insecure without a male’s presence, let them take their trusted butler, Ohlman. Daphne would not stay at
his
house under any conditions, even if he was on another continent. It wouldn’t be proper, she said; it would lead to more gossip. It would hurt.

They took a small house in Half Moon Street, Mama, Cousin Harriet, Daphne, and Ohlman. It was nicely furnished, large enough for modest entertainments, and had its own stable mews, so Daphne could keep her own horses in Town and ride in the park mornings before the rest of society was out of bed. She found most of her pleasure there on horseback, or playing three-handed whist with Ohlman and Cousin Harriet when Mama was out with the earl, rather than at the grand balls and extravagant displays of wealth and social standing.

Miss Whilton was still popular at the parties she did attend, but not as outgoing as before. Now she had to look at each dance partner for ulterior motives. Was Lord This only interested in her fortune? Was Lord That only interested in seduction? Cousin Harriet’s warnings stuck in her mind, that men were deceivers ever. Or was that Shakespeare? No matter, trust betrayed is a trust not easily bestowed again. She danced, she flirted, and she kept her distance from all the eligible men who would have paid her court. Daphne’s gaiety became so forced, her mother reluctantly permitted her to return to the country she preferred over town life, to Lady Whilton’s bemusement. Ruralizing was all well and good, but hadn’t they had enough of that for all those years?

Lady Whilton had commitments that would keep her in Town, however, a dinner she was throwing for Lord Hollister’s party members, a reception for one of the foreign delegations she was helping him plan.

So Daphne went home, along with Cousin Harriet and Ohlman, and Mama gave up the little house and moved in with the earl and his widowed sister. Why pay rent for one person when she was at Howell House most days anyway, conferring with his chef and housekeeper?

Lady Whilton begged Daphne to accompany her—and the earl—to a round of house parties that July and August, but Daphne didn’t want to leave the boys with servants when they were home on vacation. Besides, it was time Dart learned about the land he would inherit someday—and in the not too distant future, either, if the rumors of Uncle Albert’s continued dissipation were true.

In the fall there was the harvest and repairs to some of the tenant farms. Daphne had to stay in Hampshire to make sure Uncle Albert didn’t come and divert the monies. And there was the Sunday school class she volunteered to teach. The roads were in disrepair from the fall rains, and the boys would be home soon for the holidays, anyway. Daphne stayed in the country; Mama stayed in London, or wherever Lord Hollister went. At least someone’s courtship proceeded apace, to the point that Lord Hollister stayed with them over Christmas, and came to ask Daphne’s permission to wed her mother in the spring.

“I know it’s not the regular thing to do, asking a young chit
like you, but your mother
couldn’t be happy if we were to cause you any discomfort.

“There’ll be family gatherings, you know, and the wedding itself, where you’ll have to see my son. He is selling out after that last injury, finally. I begged him to, the succession, don’t you know, and I can’t lie to you and say I’m sorry he’s coming home, because he’s my son, for all his faults, and I’ve missed him.’’

“Of course you have, and I’d never want you to—”

“But he has his own rooms, so you won’t have to see him night and day when you come stay with us in Grosvenor Square. I mean to say, you’ll always have a home with us where you can be comfortable, even if I have to banish the nodcock to the Jamaican properties.’’

“No, no, that won’t be necessary, my lord. We’re adults. I’m sure we can rub along well enough.” Daphne tried to swallow her panic, lest she let her own fears stand in the way of her mother’s happiness. He did keep separate rooms, and he did have a different circle of acquaintances. And she hardly went to London anymore. She’d go less, after the wedding. “We were always friends,” she said with more enthusiasm than she felt. “We should find no difficulty as relatives by marriage. It’s been nearly two years, after all.” She could have said how many days, hours, and minutes, but didn’t.

Lord Hollister was smiling, relieved. “I knew you were a reasonable chit. Told your mother you were too sweet to hold a grudge so long.”

Nineteen months, eight days, and seventeen hours since she’d seen the dastard. Nineteen awful months
of hating
him and missing him and worrying to death over his horrifying heroics. Daphne vowed to stay in the country until she put down roots like a turnip, rather than batten on the newlyweds—or have to worry about confronting Gray at every social gathering. She supposed it would get easier in time, except for the occasions when she had to look across the theatre at him every night, wondering if the woman in his box was a new bird of paradise or a prospective bride. No, Daphne rather thought she’d prefer to set up housekeeping somewhere with Cousin Harriet and raise pug dogs and roses. She hated pug dogs. And roses made her sneeze.

Chapter Four

Just when you think things cannot get any worse, they usually do. Lady Whilton decided to hold the wedding in the country. Not only would Daphne have to come face-to-face with Graydon at the ceremony, she’d have to entertain him at her own home! Howell Hall next door was still under lease to Mr. Foggarty of the India trade, so the earl and his family would stay at Woodhill.

“Don’t you think they should put up at the inn?” Daphne tried. “It is bad luck for a bridegroom to see the bride before the wedding, and all that.”

“Rubbish,” Lady Whilton replied. “That’s just for the day of the wedding, and I’ll be so busy dressing and such, I won’t get a chance to visit with John, anyway. Besides, can you really imagine the Earl of Hollister putting up at the Golden Crown?”

No, but she could well visualize his son there, drinking with the local farmers and flirting with the barmaids. And good riddance to him, too.

“But a tiny chapel wedding, Mama? Wouldn’t you rather have a lavish gala in London, with all of Lord Hollister’s grand connections? Perhaps the prince might even come.”

“He’d most definitely come, which is why John and I decided we’d rather have a quiet, private ceremony instead of some absurd public spectacle. That’s for the young people. We’re too old for all that folderol, and we’ve each been through it once, anyway. Now we want a simple country wedding, with only those closest to us.”

Too close. Daphne was getting desperate. “Then why not one of those lovely little churches in Richmond? Or you could even hold the ceremony at the earl’s house in Grosvenor Square.”

“What, and have everyone thinking there was some hugger-mugger we were trying to hide? Never. There will be talk enough as is. Let it come after the fact, I say, after a perfectly respectable wedding in the church where I’ve worshiped for half my life. You have to admit our own St. Ethelred’s is quaint and dear, especially when it’s filled with flowers. Besides, your father lies in the graveyard there. I’d like to think of him at the wedding. He never wanted me to stay a widow, you know. I think he’d be pleased I’m marrying his friend John.”

“Yes, Mama, I’m sure he’d rest easy knowing you were so well and happily circumstanced. But…but what about Graydon?”

Mama willfully misinterpreted. “Oh, he’s pleased as punch, too. He wrote back immediately after his father sent the news. The dear boy wants to know if he should call me Mother when he gets back. What do you think?”

Daphne thought the dear boy should drown on his way home from Portugal.

Her mother was going on. “And that’s another reason not to plan a complicated affair: We’re not entirely sure when dear Graydon will arrive, or how well his leg will have healed. His father does want him to stand up as best man. You’ll be my attendant, of course.”

Of course, so she’d only have to stand next to him for the wedding, the rehearsal, the receiving line, the breakfast after. Good grief! If her mother weren’t so much in alt, Daphne’d accuse her and the earl of planning this whole thing just to throw the two of them together. No one got married just to see their children made miserable, though, not even Lady Whilton. “How delightful, Mama. I’d be thrilled.” She’d rather be boiled in oil.

*

Lady Whilton might want a small, simple wedding, but she had to have her bride clothes made by her favorite London modiste and the refreshments ordered from Gunter’s.

Daphne refused to accompany her again, this time citing the need to ready Woodhill Manor for the occasion. Under Uncle Albert’s decree, no funds had been spent on the house for ages, other than standard upkeep. Now Lady Whilton would use her own substantial income to refurbish the parlor and a few of the guest rooms. Someone had to remain behind to oversee the workers, Daphne claimed, and it could not be Cousin Harriet, who’d have them all tossing down their paintbrushes and hammers in a day and a half. Besides, someone should turn out the closets, inspect the linen, and inventory the china if they were having company. And someone should not have to face her former sweetheart’s homecoming.

Daphne decided it would be better to meet here, perhaps with just the family as witnesses, rather than under the eager eyes of the upper ten thousand. She could be mature about this, she told herself, nod graciously, welcome him home, inquire for his health. And Gray could be trusted to be dutifully polite back, she supposed. After almost two years, he couldn’t still be angry over her public humiliation of him. Just because she blamed herself for sending him into army-exile, endangering his very life, was no reason to believe he outright hated her. He never cared that much anyway, so why would he feel awkward now?

She practiced upstairs to match his supposed
savoir faire,
to get it right without trembling. Welcome home, Lord Howell? Major? Graydon? Rats, she couldn’t even think what to call him, other than a word Torry had his mouth washed out with soap for using. Perhaps she should try calling him brother, Daphne thought, half-humorously, half-hysterically. Lud, those were going to be a difficult few days.

*

She mightn’t go to London to welcome the prodigal son, but Daphne heard all about him. Mama’s letters were full of how handsome he looked in his uniform, how well received he was in his hero’s homecoming. No party was a success without his presence, Mama reported, and his company was sought for six events a day. Women were throwing themselves at him, Lady Whilton added in her crossed lines.
He caught a few, too, Daphne read in the society columns she swore never to look at. The gossip pages enumerated every woman the newest Nonpareil sat out with—his leg being not entirely healed—and who shared his box at the opera. A dashing young widow seemed to be in the forefront of the pack for the Hollister heir stakes.

Daphne recalled Lady Bowles well from her time in London, although Seline was a woman with no time for lady friends. She spent her days striking attitudes as the lunar goddess her name denoted, wearing silvery gray gowns that looked spectacular next to her pale skin and ebony hair. At night she donned spangled gauze as the other moon deity, Diana the Huntress. She’d once commented in Daphne’s hearing that a rich old husband was the best kind.

Daphne supposed even the Moon Goddess, as Seline was termed in the clubs and scandal sheets—where her name was mentioned with shocking frequency—could make an exception for a rich young man if he was the most eligible bachelor in town. Perhaps his injury was bad enough that Seline could envision herself becoming an even wealthier young widow. Or maybe Gray’s practiced charm could melt the harpy’s mercenary heart, and her dampened muslins could rouse his ardor. Maybe they’d fall madly, passionately in love and fly off to Gretna Green to sanctify their vows. Before Mama’s wedding. And maybe pigs would fly.