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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
It is 1814 and she is the talk of the town . Sir Benedict Silverwood needs a new wife. Kate Moreton, an impoverished spinster and Italian teacher, is an outlandish suggestion, but one that grows on Benedict, alongside his attraction to Kate. Kate has been hopelessly in love with him for years so the idea of marriage when he doesn't reciprocate her feelings is appalling, but so very tempting at the same time. Sparks fly and passion flares after the wedding, but it becomes clear that incendiary secrets threaten Kate and Benedict's fragile new life together. The question is, will he be able to love and trust the second Lady Silverwood? Dear Reader, this wonderfully romantic story has passionate and steamy scenes, enjoy ... 'If you're girding your loins for Bridgerton, you may want to indulge in this Regency romp' - THE TIMES 'An exciting new talent' - KATIE FFORDE 'Hot stuff. I loved it!' - FERN BRITTON 'Absolutely glorious' - SOPHIE IRWIN 'A delicious Regency romp' - ALAN TITCHMARSH 'Sensual and exciting' - HEIDI SWAIN 'Heyer with spice!' - LIZ FENWICK 'Witty, heartfelt, deeply emotionally authentic and incredibly sexy' - KATY MORAN 'Sexy, seductive and swoon worthy' - SARAH BENNETT 'Witty, spicy, seductive' - HANNAH DOLBY 'Perfect for fans of Bridgerton' - DARCIE BOLEYN 'Fans of Heyer and Bridgerton rejoice!' - CHARLOTTE BUTTERFIELD 'A delicious slice of escapism' - LAURA WOOD 'Heart-thumping romance' - JENNI KEER
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Seitenzahl: 498
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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PRAISE FOR THE SECOND LADY SILVERWOOD
‘Hot stuff. I loved it!’
Fern Britton
‘An exciting and thoroughly enjoyable new talent has exploded onto the market. I absolutely loved it!’
Katie Fforde
‘A delicious Regency romp’
Alan Titchmarch
‘Heyer with spice! I adored it’
Liz Fenwick
‘D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S … An absolutely glorious Regency romance. I love love loved it’
Sophie Irwin
‘Sensual and exciting! I loved it!’
Heidi Swain
‘Witty, heartfelt, deeply emotionally authentic and incredibly sexy, this is Regency romance at its finest’
Katy Moran
‘Filled with wit and passion. Perfect for fans of Bridgerton and Georgette Heyer’
Darcie Boleyn
‘Witty, spicy, seductive … a historical romance full of raunch and wit’
Hannah Dolby
‘Sexy, seductive and swoon worthy’
Sarah Bennett
THE SECOND LADY SILVERWOOD
EMMA ORCHARD
To all the Heyer ladies, who kept me sane through lockdown
It must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her.
Northanger Abbey – Jane Austen
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1807
It all began so well.
Kate’s first grand ball. She had been to small parties with dancing before, both here in London and at home in York, but this evening was entirely different. The Season was well underway, and this was one of the most coveted invitations, which had sat in gilt-edged splendour for several weeks on the mantel-shelf in her grandmother’s rather dingy rented lodgings in Bloomsbury.
The Moretons had no particular pretensions to wealth or fashion, but they were clever, agreeable and amusing. Although it had been many years since she had last resided in London, Mrs Moreton maintained a wide and witty correspondence, and as a consequence had a quite surprising number of acquaintances at the highest levels of society, and was received everywhere. It was known that she was an intimate friend of Madame D’Arblay, and through her good offices had been introduced to the Queen, who had looked on her with favour. She was foreign, of course, which was unfortunate, but her birth was noble, and she spoke English perfectly, with the slightest hint of an Italian accent, which the haut ton was pleased to find charming. It would not do to be too exotic, naturally, but a touch of difference – just a touch, no more – lent spice. One might meet the vivacious widowed lady and her tall, statuesque granddaughter at the most exclusive entertainments, and tonight they would be among the hundreds of intimate friends helping Lord Ansell celebrate his lovely daughter Vanessa’s debut into society.
Kate was in truth only a little acquainted with Miss Ansell, and could not presume to say she knew her well; she was always pleasant and polite enough when they met, but Vanessa was the acknowledged hit of the Season, from an aristocratic and wealthy family, while Kate Moreton was in the end just a provincial nobody. Perhaps it was only natural that they should not share confidences. What could they have to say to each other? Yet she was fascinated by the ease with which Vanessa seemed to move through the world, and would love to know what lay behind that flawless, exquisite face. Something, surely, must occasionally disturb that creamy serenity. Did she not have fears and doubts like any girl, however lovely she was?
But tonight Kate had little thought to spare for anything but excited anticipation. She had saved her most becoming new gown for this momentous event, and as she climbed the steps and entered the imposing Mayfair mansion at her grandmother’s side, she was conscious that she looked her best. The pale pastel colours considered most suitable for young ladies making their come-out did not become her, and her grandmother was not so foolish as to insist that she wore them tonight; her gown was a deep rose pink, with an overdress of gauze in the same shade, and her abundant dark hair was studded with tiny silk rosebuds. Her fine, velvet-brown eyes were sparkling with pleasurable expectancy, and the rose of her gown found an echo in the slight flush of her cheeks. She was eighteen and, she thought, just possibly in love. And tonight, he would be here, and she would dance with him. Surely he would ask her.
She had met him first a few weeks previously, at a small, informal dance held by one of her grandmother’s friends – another elderly lady bringing out her orphaned granddaughter into the world. The duennas sat around the room, chatting, fanning themselves languidly in the stuffy atmosphere, and under their sharp-eyed supervision Kate danced with any number of young gentlemen. For the most part she enjoyed the dancing, but as individuals the youths made little impression on her, except for the one who was sadly clumsy and stepped on her foot, and then overwhelmed her with awkward apologies. But then her hostess presented her with another partner, and introduced them, smiling and saying that she thought they would be well suited.
Benedict Silverwood. Captain Silverwood. Kate was tall – a defect, she knew, albeit one she could scarcely hope to mend – but he was taller. He was a little older than some of the other young men she had met, and perhaps it was that, along with his service as an officer in the army, that gave him the air of quiet confidence that set him apart. He was very handsome, of course. That was undeniable. His eyes were an arresting light grey, his face composed of strong, masculine planes: square chin; high cheekbones; finely sculpted, resolute lips. He might have been considered classically beautiful, except that his nose had been broken at some point and had set a little crooked. Perhaps a captious critic might have said that this irregularity marred his features, but Kate was not a captious critic, and she found she liked the imperfection. She might otherwise have found him too intimidatingly perfect. But it was his smile that truly captured her attention. It lit up his whole face, and made his eyes sparkle. It was impossible not to respond to it, as it betrayed an infectious joy in life that found an immediate answer in Kate. She had no patience for affectation, or for those who professed to find life dull. Life was anything but dull.
They danced, that first time they met – he was graceful, and she felt herself to be graceful in his company – and conversed a little. She asked if he was on leave from the army, and he explained a little reluctantly that he had been wounded in the shoulder the previous year, in the disastrous British expedition to the Río de la Plata, and then had taken a fever, from which he was only now recovered with his mother’s tender nursing care. She liked the way he disclaimed any heroism, but made a joke of the misadventures of his military service, and she liked the warm affection he plainly held for his mother. Oh – she liked everything about him.
They met again, and danced again, at other parties, and liking, on her side at least, quickly, inexorably deepened into something more. He seemed to her an estimable young man, amiable, well-mannered, and full of ready humour, but never cruel or mocking. He treated everyone with an instinctive courtesy, and was as ready to partner the shyest, dowdiest debutante as the most beautiful: as Vanessa Ansell.
Now she would see him at Miss Ansell’s ball – she knew the families were acquainted – and perhaps he would ask her, Kate, to dance the supper dance with him, so that they could spend precious time together afterwards while they took refreshments. They would not be alone, of course – no young lady could ever be truly alone with a man, and the thought of it made her shiver a little, although whether in fear or in a scandalous desire for what she knew was forbidden, she could hardly have said – but even in company they could talk … She had not the least reason to think him particularly interested in her, but still she could not help hoping and dreaming a little.
And it was – at first – so much better even than she could have hoped. The ballroom seemed to her a glittering fairyland, with crystal chandeliers reflected in a myriad tall mirrors, so that it was hard to see what was real and what was reflection. The room was decorated with towering flower arrangements, stunning pillars composed of white roses and pale blue delphiniums, and the scent of the roses was heavy, almost intoxicating, in the early summer heat. There was an almost dreamlike, magical air to the proceedings, a feeling that this evening was somehow outside time, and anything at all might happen. And so when Captain Silverwood appeared at her side, as if she had summoned him up like a genie by wishing for him, and, bowing very correctly to her grandmother, asked if she would partner him for the first dance – the first dance! – she did not betray her excitement, but merely smiled and accepted, laying her gloved hand on his strong black-clad arm. If her heart beat hard and fast in her breast at even this slightest and most innocent of contacts between them, he did not know it, and if her face was flushed and her eyes shining, why, any young lady might be forgiven for betraying a little animation on such a thrilling occasion.
It was so wonderful, to be moving in perfect harmony with the rhythms of the dance and with each other, as they met, and parted, and met again, and turned. Kate had never been so happy in her life, and knew she would remember this moment for ever: the music, the lights, the ladies in elegant silks and sparkling jewels, the men in evening black, and the heady scent of roses. Benedict. He had smiled down at her, too, and it was perfect.
And then it wasn’t. It was the strangest sensation: as though there had been a thread tying them together, and then suddenly – it snapped. She felt it snap. She stumbled and lost her way in the dance a little, the instinctive harmony between them lost, and when she looked at him, she saw that she no longer held any of his attention. He was gazing over her shoulder, as if transfixed, at someone else, and she turned a little too, to seek the object of his regard.
Vanessa. Tiny, delicate and flawless, a shimmering fairy princess, an ice queen from a children’s story. Her gown was celestial silk, and over it she wore a gauze half-slip of white embroidered with dozens of tiny brilliants, which sparkled as if enchanted. Her silver-gilt curls were threaded with glittering stones too, but they were all dimmed by the brilliance of her lustrous blue eyes, as she smiled radiantly up at her partner and twirled gracefully in the dance. Her dance.
Kate saw, she saw Benedict’s heart go out to her, she saw the arrested expression in his eyes as he fell headlong in love with Vanessa Ansell. No one else perceived it, but she did, and she felt as though he had taken a blade, sharp and thin and deadly, and stabbed her in the breast.
The music, the lights, the movement and the glittering company, even the suddenly overwhelming scent of roses, all lost their savour and became dull and lifeless, as though some malicious sprite had waved a wand to banish the enchantment and reveal the true, base nature of the world. Kate realised her error now, because all of this splendour belonged exclusively to Vanessa. The exquisite ballroom had been designed with breath-taking extravagance entirely as a setting for her, the flowers had been chosen with enormous care to match her gown and her blue eyes, and Kate – tall, plump, ungainly Kate, a nobody from nowhere – was an interloper here, with her ridiculous, tawdry pink gown and her ridiculous, deluded hopes that Benedict Silverwood might love her. Of course he could not love her, when there was Vanessa.
The music, mercifully, came to an end, and Kate murmured some broken words of thanks; it did not matter what she said, because he was not attending. He stood like a statue, gazing at Vanessa, and when Kate left him, she thought that he did not even notice her departure.
CHAPTER ONE
Seven years later – 1814
‘Race you to the river!’ Lucy did not wait for Kate’s answer, but set off running down the broad lawn as fast as her short legs could carry her. Kate laughed, and followed her, though her longer skirts and constricting stays impeded her progress. A lady was not supposed to run, of course, but Kate cared little for such things, and ran as well as she could, delighting in the movement and in the beauty of the summer day. When she caught up at the river’s edge, the child had clambered, agile as a monkey, onto her favourite perch on a tree branch, and sat there, swinging her bare, muddy legs and grinning triumphantly at her pursuer.
‘I won! And you did not finish your story!’ she said now. ‘I want to know if the cat rescues the girl, and if he tells her about the magic well!’
‘I have no breath for it!’ she panted, exaggerating her distress to tease Lucy. ‘You have killed me, Lucy Silverwood, and now you will never know how the story ends. And besides, it must surely be time for you to go back to the house and change. Your father is returning this afternoon!’
Lucy’s face lit up. The little girl was wildly excited at the prospect of seeing Sir Benedict, and could talk of little else. Although she was lively by nature, and venturesome, she was above all a deeply affectionate child, and she adored her father. Kate did not know if he would be annoyed if his daughter were not ready to greet him in her best muslin, but she would not like to be the cause of the child’s getting into trouble, and it would be no easy matter for her nursemaid, Amy, to set her to rights, remove all the mud that plastered her from head to foot, untangle her wild silver-gilt curls and coax them into some sort of order.
Kate Moreton, like Lucy, was an only child, and her heart ached in sympathy for the lonely little girl, surrounded by elderly people, most of whom fussed excessively over her. Kate was a newcomer here, but she understood that Sir Benedict was in general to be found in residence at the Hall, now that he had left the army, and that when present he spent a great deal of time with his daughter, and rode with her, and engaged with her in more active pursuits than his frail mother and her elderly governess-companion were able to pursue.
But he had not been here for more than a day or so since Kate had arrived to stay at the Vicarage, and she had not once encountered him. He had gone to London, for the Season, and she had heard it whispered that he was on the look-out for a bride once more. And why should he not be? He was handsome, charming, eligible and rich; he must want an heir, since his older brother’s tragic death and that soon after of his own young wife, Vanessa.
‘Lucy!’ a deep voice called. They looked up, and suddenly there he was, a tall, broad figure silhouetted against the sun on the riverbank, dazzling her.
Kate had supposed when she arrived in Berkshire that she would meet him eventually, now that she lived in the village where his estate was situated, and all the more because she had somehow found herself – she could hardly say how – on friendly terms with his mother, and teaching his daughter Italian, of all ridiculous circumstances. But weeks and weeks had passed, and she had persuaded herself that, since she had not seen him, she would be able to avoid seeing him for ever. Even though she had known he was to return today, she had relaxed her guard completely. She was shocked to see him so unexpectedly now, and quite overset.
She knew that vanity in her case was preposterous, but she would certainly have wished to make a better show on her first meeting with him, if meeting there must be, instead of being at her very worst: hatless, her hair all anyhow, her face pink and perspiring, and mud liberally splashed about her person. And that was the least of it, for she was in charge of his daughter, and Lucy looked as though she had been rolling in river mud, probably because she had. She stammered out some words of apology, she knew not what.
He came closer, and she could see him better. Their previous acquaintance, if it could be called that, had been conducted in ballrooms, at dances, and of course now he was dressed in riding clothes. She knew it was a truism that gentlemen looked their best in evening wear – and regimentals, of course: thank heaven she had never seen him in regimentals – but she could not in all honesty say that he looked any the less appealing in buckskin breeches and top boots than he had so long ago in evening black. She thought there might be a few more lines carved by time and suffering upon his face, around his striking grey eyes and beautiful, firm mouth, but they suited him; they gave him gravitas. His hair was still a soft honey-brown, his shoulders were still broad, his frame well-built, straight and tall, he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen, and her heart still leapt – stupidly, pointlessly, cruelly – at the sight of him. If she had ever deceived herself that she had overcome her infatuation with him, she knew better now. She might as well still be a girl of eighteen, not a spinster of five and twenty.
He knew her name, because Lucy had said it, and he addressed her kindly, concerned, clearly, to put her at her ease. She could not flatter herself that he recollected her in the least, and she would not be bitter; there was no reason why he should, nor could she expect him to recognise her in these very altered circumstances. When last she had seen him, at the end of the Season of 1807, she had been one debutante among many, not a penniless spinster, and he had been in love – gloriously, wholeheartedly, publicly, and above all requitedly – with Vanessa Ansell. While he had danced, and smiled, and been pleasant and kind to other young ladies, including Kate, for his manners were generally acknowledged to be all that was pleasing, he had had eyes only for Vanessa. It still hurt to think of it.
Kate could not have said how she extricated herself from the encounter, but she did so, and she was sure he noticed nothing amiss. He barely looked at her, after all. She bade him farewell, and Lucy, in an outwardly composed manner, and walked up the lawn, but when she reached the trees at the edge of the park, she ran wildly among them, careless if branches caught at her gown, until she could not be seen, and sank into a damp, miserable huddle on the ground, and sobbed her heart out, just as she had on that night at the ball seven years ago.
CHAPTER TWO
Benedict stopped dead, hearing cheerful female voices close by. He realised that he was still unobserved, and stepped back under the hanging branches of the huge old weeping willow that stood on the riverbank.
The child – a girl of six or so – was balancing on a branch at the water’s edge, dangling her legs and bare, dirty feet over the river. Benedict’s heart caught in his mouth for a second, but the danger was illusory; the branch leant out over a shallow pool, divided from the main current, the drop was tiny, and surely the worst she could suffer if she did slip was a partial dunking; the state of her gown suggested that it would not be the first of the day. She was not alone, in any case. Her companion, a tall, buxom young woman in her twenties who was unknown to him, was almost equally dishevelled; her dark brown curls were coming down and she had a smear of mud across her brow. If either of the pair had sported bonnets at the start of the afternoon, they had long been discarded.
Their faces were flushed with laughter, and with the heat of the summer day. It seemed that the young woman had been telling the child a most thrilling story – something to do with a girl, and a talking cat, he gathered. She was begging for more, but her companion refused her. ‘Your papa is arriving this afternoon, and I am sure that you would wish to wash and put on your best gown to greet him. Your grandmama would be vexed if you presented yourself to him in such a condition.’
Lucy’s face lit up, and Benedict’s heart squeezed a little. ‘Papa! Of course, you are right, although I am sure Grandmama would not care so very much, for she is not stuffy like Amy. But I do not want to be late – let us go!’ She jumped lightly down from the branch to the edge of the pool, and scrambled up towards her companion; reaching her, she seized her hands and cried, ‘I am so excited to see Papa! It has been weeks and weeks. I wonder if he will think that I have grown, for I am sure I have!’
It was not correct to remain thus concealed, nor to overhear any more of this conversation. Benedict stepped forward, out of the shadow of the great willow, and called out, ‘Lucy!’
She swung round, and her face shone with pure delight as she cried out, ‘Papa! Papa, you are here!’ and ran to fling her muddy arms around him, and they hugged each other fiercely.
The young lady – he held some vague recollection that his mother had mentioned her in one of her indecipherable letters – previously so animated, froze, and a shutter seemed to descend across her face. She stood, irresolute. It was plain that she would much have preferred to efface herself, and not intrude upon his notice at all, but that she felt herself obliged to do so in common courtesy. He was, after all, in some sense her employer, he supposed, although they had not met.
‘Lucy, I will leave you now; you will wish to be alone with your papa. Sir Benedict …’ She dropped a very correct curtsey, which inevitably looked somewhat ridiculous in the informal circumstances, and the awareness of it showed on her expressive face. ‘I am sorry you find Lucy in such a dreadful state, but the fault is mine, so pray do not blame her for it.’
‘Oh, Kate – Miss Moreton, I mean – will you not come with us?’ said Lucy, tugging on his arm. ‘I am sure Papa would like to hear your story, and he does not regard a little mud, do you, Papa?’
Benedict bowed. ‘Miss Moreton, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Pray do not reproach yourself. No, the fault is mine for arriving before the hour I had intended, and preventing Lucy from performing her toilette. I am sure that, if you apply to her, my mother would be very quick to tell you how I drove her quite to distraction in my childhood by appearing in the same state, or worse, on an almost daily basis.’
‘Thank you, sir, you are very kind. Lucy, I will see you later in the week for your next lesson. If there should be any alteration in the timetable, I am sure your grandmother will send to let me know.’ She curtsied again, and was gone, and vanished from Benedict’s mind just as quickly, lost in his pleasure at seeing his daughter again after their separation.
Some hours later, he sat with his mother on the broad stone terrace at the back of the great house, watching the sun dip low over a bend in the broad Thames. It was good to be home. The Dowager Lady Silverwood wore a modish cap tied under her chin, covering her grey curls, and was well wrapped in colourful shawls; she declared that she was not in the least cold, as it was summer and her bones did not trouble her so very much at present. They were alone, as Miss Dorothea Sutton, who served both as governess to Lucy and companion to his mother, was away visiting her brother and his family in Bristol.
Lucy had finally been borne, protesting, off to bed, only persuaded to retire by her father’s promise to take her out on her pony on the morrow. ‘She is not generally so ill behaved; it is merely that she is excited to see you. She missed you,’ Lady Silverwood said with a smile.
‘I missed her.’
‘And?’
He sighed. ‘I have attended more balls, routs, breakfasts, concerts, masquerades and I know not what else than should be expected of any man of sense. I do not know how people endure it; I am sure they cannot like it. I have danced, I believe, with every debutante who has made her curtsey to the Queen in the last five years and remains as yet unwed. If I have missed one by some chance, it certainly cannot be said to be Maria’s fault.’
‘And yet she writes me that none of them pleases you. Are you so very particular?’
‘Ma’am, it seems I am. I recall I said to you that I was prepared to marry almost any young lady who fulfilled my very reasonable conditions, and yet when it comes to it …’
His mother said quietly, ‘Is Vanessa’s loss still so very raw?’
‘I do not say that it is. Days will go by when I do not think of her. But when I dance with a young lady of eighteen or so, full of life and hope, and she reminds me in that moment of Vanessa as she was when I met her, I do not feel that I can ask for her hand. I certainly cannot in good conscience ask for her heart, for I do not have a heart free and whole to give any young lady, which she surely deserves. And then there is Lucy to be thought of – is it wise or even rational to expect a green girl, a debutante, to be the mother that she needs?’
Lady Silverwood was silent. It seemed to him that he had distressed her, and he said swiftly, ‘My dear mama, you have been so much more than a grandmother to her. Please do not think that in—’
His mother cut him off. ‘I have done my best, Ben, but it is not enough. I am well, now that it is summer, but in the winter my wretched bones prevent me from attending to her as I should, and it will only be worse as I get older. As she grows, she will need more of a woman’s love and care, not less. There should be no foolish talk of replacing me, for that is not at all the issue; the child needs a mother. And let us not forget that you need an heir.’
‘That is the real problem, is it not – how to combine the two? I could marry any one of these eligible young ladies in a month, I dare say, assuming she would have me …’ His mother snorted in a most unladylike fashion. ‘Assuming she would have me, and in a year she might bear me a son, and I would have my heir, but what of Lucy? How can I ever be sure that this hypothetical young lady would care for her as I would wish? At best she might disregard her, and give all her love to her own children, as would perhaps only be natural; at worst …’
‘At worst she could be cruel to her,’ the Dowager sighed.
‘I would rather stay unmarried for ever and let the title and estate go hang – or go to Cousin Felix, which is much the same thing – than that. But then what is to become of Lucy, should I die? I know I am only two and thirty, Mama, but after all the losses we have suffered in the last few years, we both know that that is no guarantee of anything.’ He reached out and took his mother’s gnarled hand in a strong but careful clasp, and squeezed it gently, and she returned the pressure, and could not contradict him.
It was true enough. Not long since, they had been a larger family, and a happier one. Lady Silverwood had been widowed somewhat prematurely, it was true, and her eldest son in particular had felt the loss of his father deeply, but in 1807 all had looked fair. Captain Benedict Silverwood was newly wed to Miss Vanessa Ansell, one of the most brilliant debutantes of her Season, after a whirlwind romance while the captain convalesced from wounds and a fever contracted in South America. Benedict’s older brother, Sir Caspar, had been a sadly wild youth, but had reformed upon falling in love with a woman of character; he was not long married too, and his wife, Alice, was in the family way. Certainly, the captain’s service in the army, to which he was obliged to return not long after his wedding, his health being fully restored, gave his fond relations cause for worry, but as for the rest, surely the title was secure, and the succession.
But now, seven years later, Caspar was dead in a curricle accident, and Vanessa dead, and Caspar’s new-born son too, along with his mother, Alice, and all that was left was the Dowager, crippled by arthritis, little Lucy and Benedict, and the weight of all of it on his shoulders.
He had stayed in the army after his wife’s death to do his duty to his King and country, hardly caring in his shocked state if he survived or not. He had made major – there had been no shortage of dead men’s shoes to fill, as they had fought their agonising way up the peninsula into France. It sometimes seemed to him that there could not be an inch of the soil of Portugal, Spain or France that was not soaked in blood, and he had had every opportunity to observe that men – and women and children too, for that matter – bled the same, whatever their nationality or professed loyalty.
By the time of the Battle of Orthez he had had enough, the thought of the responsibilities waiting for him at home weighing heavier on him each day, and he had resigned his commission promptly after Napoleon’s defeat, citing pressing family reasons. He had retreated to his estate and his daughter; the daughter he had hardly seen in the weary years that had passed as he chased Bonaparte half across Europe, and barely knew. He had come through it all relatively unscathed, he supposed, and 1814 was a summer of victory celebrations – the Corsican despot was exiled to Elba, and at last there was to be peace. Benedict could see that peace was something to be celebrated; he supposed that after being at war so long he could hardly be surprised if for him it still seemed so elusive.
But one thing he could be sure of: it was time and past time now to be thinking of marriage, of the responsibilities of the estate, and Lucy’s future, and his own. He had put himself in his older sister Maria’s hands, and said ‘Find me a wife’, and she had done her energetic best, but something was wrong; he could only imagine it to be him. It would not surprise him in the least. He had long feared that there was something broken inside him.
The Dowager looked with loving, anxious eyes at her son. Of course any lady in possession of her senses would be happy to have him, not just for the title and the estate, and Benedict’s substantial private fortune, inherited from her own father, but for his handsome face and person, and, if they came to know him well enough, for the sweetness of his disposition and the goodness of his character. Once she would have added, for his wicked sense of fun, and the mischievous light that danced in his grey eyes, but she had not seen that side of him in a long while, and sometimes feared that it was gone for ever, driven away by all that he must have seen and done in the army, and most of all by the dreadful losses he had suffered and the cares he had been forced to assume while still in his twenties.
She said slowly now, ‘Ben, of course I agree that it is necessary you marry, and that beyond the concerns of the estate you must consider Lucy most particularly. I am sure that not all young ladies would be unkind to her, and many would come to love her as their own, dear child as she is, but I quite see that it is impossible to be assured that you had made the right choice until it was too late. I know how severely you would reproach yourself if you chose wrongly.’
She hesitated for a second, and then said, ‘It seems to me that the answer has been staring me in the face, and I have not seen it. You should marry someone who is already acquainted with Lucy, and loves her.’
‘And where shall I find this paragon, Mama?’
‘Why, I believe you met her this afternoon!’
CHAPTER THREE
The Dowager had not needed her son’s confirmation to know that his plan to seek a bride in London had not come to fruition. She had been in constant correspondence with her daughter, Mrs Singleton, and her latest letter, delivered only a few days ago, had been a most uncharacteristic admission of utter failure.
Mama, she had written in her bold, decisive hand, I throw up my hands and admit defeat. I had great hopes of Miss Fanshawe, as I think I told you – Ben danced with her twice at Almack’s last week, she was in high beauty, all in blue, so becoming with her fair colouring, and even Lady Jersey very justly remarked that they made a most handsome couple. A substantial marriage portion, Mama, and of course a highly eligible connection, with the dear Duke her uncle. Such an accomplished young lady, too, and so charming, and very pretty – I have even thought sometimes that she resembles Vanessa a little, so you cannot say that Ben might not like her looks, or any nonsense of that nature.
Upon reading this, Lady Silverwood looked up from her letter, frowning unconsciously, so that her companion, Miss Sutton, asked her what the matter was, but she merely sighed and made no answer, returning to her reading, and so Dorothea shook her head and continued her packing.
I made up a party to attend the victory festivities in Hyde Park, inviting her and her mother Lady George Fanshawe along to view the celebrations – I did it all for Ben, you know, as I felt sure that, on such an informal occasion, he would find no difficulty in taking the young lady aside a little and becoming better acquainted. I am not suggesting anything improper, of course … The word ‘improper’ was underlined three times and the Dowager smiled a little wryly as she read it. Only that it is so very difficult to converse when one only meets at balls and so on. I thought perhaps he just needed a little push from me, in order to make an effort to attach her affections! But when I told him of my plans, he said – Mama, I was so angry I could have boxed his ears! – he said, ‘Miss Fanshawe? WHICH ONE IS SHE?’
At this point Mrs Singleton’s missive became somewhat incoherent with natural frustration, and her pen had blotted sadly. The Dowager put the note down entirely, with an expression on her face that caused Miss Sutton to leave off her chores and say gruffly, ‘Trouble in Town? Nobody ill, I hope, Charlotte?’
‘No, dear, it’s merely Maria, complaining that Ben seems to care nothing for the latest debutante she is dangling under his nose. She says – and really I wonder sometimes at her lack of sense – that this one reminds her a little of Vanessa, and seems to think that that should be a point in her favour as far as her brother is concerned.’
‘Vanessa was a diamond of the first water,’ said Dorothea dispassionately. ‘Obviously he liked her style well enough. Little fragile thing, and he wanted to protect her, I dare say. Fell in love with her when he barely knew her. I expect Maria thinks he may do the same again. Hard to fault her reasoning.’
‘I do fault it! He needs someone quite different from Vanessa.’
Miss Sutton frowned. ‘Say what you like about Maria, she’s always been thorough. Remarked on it often when I was her governess. Most diligent child, painstaking. I don’t suppose she put all her eggs in one basket, did she?’
The Dowager sighed again. ‘No, indeed. She’s written to me of several young ladies in succession, all of whom she had great hopes of, until Ben found fault with them or – worse – failed to recollect them from one day to the next. And yet it is vital he marries. You know it as well as I do. What is to be done?’
‘No idea,’ said Dorothea. ‘You put your mind to it. I have faith in you, Charlotte. Sure you’ll come about. Ben deserves it, after all – not just a bride, I mean. Happiness.’
‘He does. Of course he does, Dotty. But where is he to find it?’
CHAPTER FOUR
Benedict set down his glass now. ‘The young woman who accompanied Lucy today? Really, Mama? I did not pay her any particular attention, but I know that Lucy has mentioned her with great enthusiasm in her letters to me. You said something of her yourself, I think – some sort of paid companion?’
‘Men!’ said the Dowager in exasperated affection. ‘I wrote to you at length of her, Ben! She is Mr Waltham’s granddaughter, and I engaged her to teach Lucy some rudiments of Italian, but that was a mere ruse.’
‘Of course it was,’ he said, smiling fondly at her. ‘Pretend you have not written me of her at all, or that your handwriting is not nigh on illegible, and Lucy’s near as bad, and explain it all to me, Mama.’
‘She is, as I say, Mr Waltham’s granddaughter, his daughter’s only child, and she came to live with him some months ago. She is very well educated, and speaks perfect Italian, and so I was able to suggest the notion that she give Lucy lessons, for you know that Dorothea is entirely unacquainted with the language, and cannot be expected to learn it at her age. And thus Lucy has some young, lively company, and runs about the park with her, rather than staying cooped up with two old women from one week to the next, and Miss Moreton besides has a little money for herself, which she sorely needs. She is very proud, and by no means wished to be paid, but between us her grandfather and I insisted.’
‘Is she really teaching Lucy Italian?’ he said, in a desperate and probably futile attempt to divert his mother from her purpose. ‘When I saw them, they appeared to have been jumping in puddles, rather than declining verbs.’
‘It is possible to do both at once, dear, you know. Yes, in fact, the child seems to be doing well enough at it, and what is more to the point they have grown excessively attached to each other, as you must have observed. I did write and tell you of my scheme, dear, for of course I would not dream of introducing anybody into Lucy’s life without consulting you.’
Benedict opened his mouth as if to speak, but his mother was not done.
‘I do not think she had yet arrived when you left for London, so you had no occasion to meet her then. Poor girl, she is all alone in the world, her parents long dead, and Theodore Waltham not likely to last more than six months, if as long. The Vicarage will go to the next incumbent, of course, and she will be homeless, living on less than a hundred pounds a year, I should think. I do not know what is to become of her. But if you marry her, all will be well.’ She beamed at him, her eyes shining, and he was conscious of a sinking feeling that was all too familiar. No one could describe his mother as a managing female; she was gentle, and reasonable, and wanted only the best for everyone, but it was remarkable how often she did seem to get her own way. Yet this was a wild start, even for her.
Perhaps misinterpreting the expression on his face, she said, ‘It is not as though I am suggesting you marry someone of low birth, Ben. I know she has no fortune, but her family is perfectly respectable. Mr Waltham’s mother was a daughter of Lord Fitton, and the Walthams themselves are a cadet branch of the old Essex family. She made her come-out, you know, under the aegis of her grandmother, Mrs Moreton, and was presented to the Queen. Why, you danced with her more than once during her Season; she told me so herself.’
‘I have not the slightest recollection of it,’ he said repressively.
‘I do not wonder at it in the least. I believe she made her debut in ’07, when you met Vanessa, so I expect you had no eyes for any but her, and that explains it. But she remembered you.’
He felt himself to be at a disadvantage. It all seemed so eminently sensible: a young woman, but not too young, and so not likely to be foolishly romantic, who cared for Lucy – he had seen for himself even in their one brief encounter that she did – and whom Lucy plainly liked and trusted. Of sufficiently good birth to satisfy the opinion of the world, if that mattered. Of no fortune – that was of no importance. If there were rational objections, he could not in this moment call them to mind, and yet he felt sure that he should, all the while aware that it would be as well to try to argue with an avalanche in the Pyrenees.
‘Mama!’
‘Yes, dear?’ She was smiling at him, as though it were quite a settled thing.
‘Mama, please! I have scarcely set eyes on this young lady. She made no impression on me. I cannot hold that against her, as my attention was all on Lucy, and I scarce looked at her. And I know I have said that my requirements are not unreasonable. I do not think they are. I am not looking for a great beauty, and I do not hold out any hope that I shall love the woman I marry as I once loved Vanessa. All that is behind me now. But you must accept that I need to be able to … to …’
Her heart ached for him, though she showed not the least sign of it on her face. She merely said sedately, ‘I have always considered her a most attractive girl, and I am sure that there is nothing in her face, person or manner that could give you the least disgust of her.’
‘I am very glad to hear you say it. But surely I may be allowed to judge for myself?’
‘I suppose that is sensible enough,’ she said with the air of one making a great concession. ‘I shall invite her to take tea with me tomorrow, and you may see her when she has not been playing with your daughter half the day, and her hair – you might observe tomorrow that it is very pretty hair – all down her back, and her petticoats six inches deep in mud, I dare say. You may come in, quite naturally, and she shall have no idea that anything is afoot, so that you will not be in the least embarrassed, and nor shall she, if you find you cannot like her. So, it is settled: good.’
Benedict was not quite sure how he had come to agree to this, nor, indeed, exactly what it was that he had agreed to, but tea seemed innocuous enough. So it was that a message was written, to be taken early on the morrow by the younger footman, Philip, and Miss Moreton, if she accepted – and there could be little doubt she would – was to come and take tea at the Hall, in quite a natural fashion, all unconscious of the grand scheme that the Dowager was brewing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kate sat with her grandfather that evening, and read to him as he dozed. When she was sure of his being deeply asleep, she set down the book, folded her hands in her lap, and allowed her troubled thoughts to overwhelm her. The events of the day – the sudden meeting with Sir Benedict – had quite overset her, and besides that it had revived an internal debate that she had thought she was done with.
She could not have avoided coming to live here in Berkshire for such a foolish and selfish reason as an old infatuation – her grandfather needed her, and there was no one else. She had visited Mr Waltham quite frequently, in fact, over the past years, but Benedict Silverwood had been away in the army for most of that time, so she had had no apprehension of meeting him then. They moved in very different social circles, after all. And she had a perfect right – a clear duty – to be here now, and could not reproach herself for that. If it should prove to be awkward, the awkwardness was hers alone, unknown to another soul here, and she would deal with it alone, as she dealt with everything.
But she had asked herself a thousand times in the past few months if her motives in involving herself as deeply with the Silverwood family as she had were innocent, and the sad truth was, she did not know.
She cared deeply for Lucy. She had struggled with her conscience, but she acquitted herself of any ulterior motive. The twin truths that years ago she had envied the little girl’s mother and pined after her father like a mooncalf were irrelevant, she truly believed – the child’s friendlessness and her innocent, open-hearted pleasure in her company could not but speak to her. They neither of them had a sister or a brother, nor a mother, and they understood each other on some deep level where lonely people meet and recognise their like.
But she could not deny that there was a strange, hurtful pleasure in being friendly with the Dowager, and hearing her speak fondly of her son, and seeing the youthful Lawrence picture of him standing with his brother and sister that hung in her sitting room. Kate was not a liar; she had told his mother that she had met him, and danced with him, all those years ago. The Dowager had sharp eyes, despite her comfortable, grandmotherly exterior, and it was just possible that she had divined Kate’s secret. If she had, she had never spoken of it.
Kate Moreton had no hopes of any kind. She must and would acquit herself of any accusation by the nagging voice of her conscience that she had inveigled herself into the Silverwood family with any dishonourable purpose in mind, other than perhaps to hear his name spoken occasionally. Was that dishonourable? Surely not, though it was certainly foolish. She had not – she hoped – even expected or wanted to meet him. It was not as though her stay here would be very long.
She knew her grandfather would die soon, and it would be heartless to wish it otherwise, for he was so very tired, and had so little pleasure in his life. And she supposed that, when that sad day came, and the funeral was done, she would bid farewell to Lucy with regret on both sides, and go to Italy to re-join her grandmother, and the great-grandmother she had never met, and the great-uncles, and cousins, and all the many wives and children. She loved her vivacious, outspoken grandmother, and missed her, and she was sure that there would be laughter, and sunshine, and pleasure in daily existence – more than there was here, in a quiet house with a dying, frightened man – but she had no illusions about her noble but impoverished Italian family and their life there, scrabbling for a living at the edge of the court of Parma, where Napoleon’s second wife was soon to arrive to preside over her tiny domain.
And if she decided not to go to Italy, but somehow eked out an existence here in England, taking in pupils, living in a tiny cottage or a rented room? She feared that her relationship with Lucy could then only cause her pain – Benedict would surely marry soon enough, and she would be faced at best with a choice: to watch him with his new wife, and Lucy’s new mother, from the position of a dependant, on the fringes of their lives, or voluntarily to break the connection, which would, she thought, hurt the child, and certainly would hurt her. She had done this to herself, ensured this unnecessary distress for herself, and now he had come back and she would surely be obliged to see more of him, which anyone but an idiot could have predicted. She might tell herself – had told herself a thousand times – that the ridiculous infatuation she had permitted to overwhelm her as a girl was done with long since. She might indeed say that it was so, must be so, but after her instinctive reaction to him this afternoon, and the storm of tears that had overtaken her and left her drained, she was by no means sure that she could trust herself where he was concerned. It was mortifying to reflect that seven long years had come and gone and left her no wiser than she had been at eighteen.
She sighed, and rose silently, tidying away her things and making sure that her grandfather had all he needed if he should wake. She left the door slightly ajar, and retired to her own chamber; the Vicarage was small, and if he should call out in the night she was sure to hear him.
In the morning, the footman Philip came with a note for her from the Hall, as he sometimes did; she had thought it would be notice that her next lesson was to be postponed, but when she opened it she saw that Lady Silverwood bade her to come to tea with her that afternoon. She had by ill luck been sitting with her grandfather when she opened the missive, and she had not the presence of mind to lie to him, nor did she care to do so. She told him of its contents, and he was very glad, and insisted that she go. He had had a tolerably good night, he told her, though she did not believe him, and was feeling better than he had in days. The news that she should leave his bedside and have some congenial company was just exactly what he liked to hear, so that it was entirely impossible to do anything to destroy his pleasure, when there were so few things that made him happy now and all his concern was for her.
She fortified her spirits by telling herself sternly that there was no reason – no reason at all – to suppose that Sir Benedict would be present. He had been away for weeks, and that with harvest time almost upon them; he would surely have a thousand matters urgently requiring his attention on the estate, and would not be wasting a sunny afternoon sitting indoors taking tea with his mother and his daughter’s dowdy Italian teacher. At the same time, she need not wear the limp grey gown better fitted for domestic chores that she had put on this morning; she could at least arrange her hair becomingly, and shake out her best yellow muslin. It had been purchased last year, from one of the modistes in York, for she had had little leisure for shopping since she had arrived in Berkshire, and it was probably sadly outmoded, but what did that matter? At least she could be respectable in her outward appearance, if she were not sure that she could trust her innermost feelings to be so readily tamed.
Kate set out along the sunny village street, slowly, so as not to arrive unbecomingly overheated, and tried to silence the small voice in her head that kept repeating, Perhaps he will be there, perhaps he will be there!
CHAPTER SIX
Kate was admitted into Silverwood Hall by the stately butler, Thompson, and followed him up the sweeping marble staircase to the Dowager’s private apartments. Her hostess, who was sitting alone in her charming pink and gold sitting room, greeted her with her usual warmth, and asked after her grandfather. Kate could give no very good account of him – indeed, she said, she had not liked to leave him, but when he had heard that the Dowager had asked her to tea he had been so insistent that she went that she could not refuse him without causing him distress, which would in itself have been injurious to him. Charlotte Silverwood was all too aware that the vicar very much disliked the fact that Kate was obliged to nurse him, and was always very eager to see her engaged in other occupations, such as visiting their neighbours, as today, or spending time with Lucy. His concern for his granddaughter’s future was a torment to him, and he was stubborn in maintaining a fiction that he was not so very unwell at all, since to confront the fact that he was dying would be also to confront the fact that he left her very ill provided for. She would inherit every penny he possessed, but that was little enough. He had not by any means been extravagant, but his living was a poor one, and it was by malign chance not in the Silverwoods’ gift, or they would have made sure to do better by him. He had been unlucky in life; his wife had been an invalid for many years before her death, he had been unable to save, and since his illness he had been obliged besides to pay a curate, an earnest young man named Newman, from his modest stipend, to carry out his duties.
Lady Silverwood was very sorry to hear that her old friend was so unwell, but she knew that to dwell on it could only give her young guest pain. It seemed to her that Miss Moreton was rather quiet this afternoon, not just her usual self, no doubt because of her worry for her grandfather and the strain of caring for him when there could only be one outcome, so she turned the subject skilfully to matters more agreeable, and spoke of Lucy, and of how pleased she was with her progress. Kate smiled and said, ‘I fear you flatter me, ma’am! I have not taught her so very much Italian, after all, but she has picked up something of it, with great quickness, and seems to like it, and we have fun while she is learning, which I know was a great object with you.’
At that moment the door opened, and Lucy burst into the room, crying, ‘Miss Moreton! I did not know you were here!’
She was followed in more sedate fashion by her father, and he was able to observe that his first impression had not been wrong; the young lady was decidedly attached to Lucy, and the feeling was reciprocated. The child hugged and kissed her, despite having seen her the day before, and Miss Moreton returned the embrace with affection, and greeted her with a pleasure that appeared to him to be entirely genuine. That aspect of the matter must be regarded as settled; he could, of course, have no notion as to how she might treat Lucy if she were to find herself her stepmother and then subsequently mother to a child of her own, but that was not something that could ever be known, he supposed, of any woman, in such a delicate situation.
