Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(53)

They both heard it at the same moment. It would have been hard not to despite the fact that the window was closed. The valley was normally so very quiet. Viola hurried to look out, expecting to see that it was just Alexander’s carriage being moved out of the way. But it was still outside the doors of the house, no orders having been given for its disposal. No, what they had heard was the arrival of another carriage. It came to a halt on the driveway, still partially on the slope. Marcel had stepped up beside her. He swore, as he had down in the valley.

The coachman descended from the box to open the door and set down the steps. A familiar figure stepped down and looked out over the valley. He was the young gentleman who had been with Marcel at that inn. His brother. But he was not alone. A much younger man, really no more than a boy, tall, slender, dark, with all the promise of heartbreaking good looks, got out after him and turned back to hand out an older lady and then a mere girl, whose face was hidden by the brim of her bonnet.

“Sometimes,” Marcel said, “the farce at the end of a play is overdone and loses any amusing quality it might otherwise have had. Have you observed that, Viola?”

My family has not put in an appearance here, breathing fire and brimstone, have they?

Apparently, they had.





Thirteen





What in thunder had got into André that he had come here—and brought Estelle and Bertrand of all people? And Jane. Had the world gone mad? Marcel turned from the window, strode downstairs, and stepped onto the terrace.

“I say,” he heard André say, “there is not another building in sight. This must be the loneliest place on earth. I could not see myself wanting to spend much time here.”

“Fortunately perhaps,” Marcel said, “you have not been invited to do so, André.”

“Oh, I say.” His brother swung about to face him. “You are here, Marc.”

The others had turned in his direction too. Jane was tight-lipped and ramrod straight, a look and posture she surely reserved for him. She made no pretense of either liking or approving of him and never had from the moment of his announcing his intention of marrying Adeline. Bertrand, slender and very tall after a sudden growth spurt a couple of years ago, took a few steps toward him. Estelle, smaller but just as slender, narrow faced, big eyed, not really pretty but with the potential for extraordinary beauty, came striding toward him in a manner that was surely forbidden in Jane’s rules for the proper conduct and deportment of young ladies.

“Father,” she cried, and he realized in some surprise that she was furiously angry. “You have ruined everything. You said you were coming home, and I believed you, fool that I was. I ought to know by now that you never do what you say you are going to do. I believed you because it was going to be your special birthday, and I thought you would want to spend it with us. I organized a party to surprise you—my first ever. I planned everything down to the finest detail. I made long lists so I would not forget anything. And you did not come. You sent Uncle André home in your carriage, which showed that you had no intention of coming at all. Which was fine, but you ought not to have said you were coming in the first place. I came to find you because I wanted you to know that I will never believe another word you say—ever. But that is all right because I do not care.”

Marcel was too taken aback even to reach for his quizzing glass. He had just heard possibly more words from his daughter than he had in all the almost eighteen years since she was born.

“My sister is upset, sir,” Bertrand told him. “She put her heart and soul into planning that party to surprise you.”

“Estelle, my love,” Jane was saying, “that is hardly the way a genteel young lady speaks to her f—”

“Silence,” Marcel said softly, and she stopped abruptly.

André was clearing his throat. “Good day, Miss Kingsley,” he said, and in a glance over his shoulder Marcel could see that she had indeed stepped outside, though she was keeping her distance.

“Who—” Estelle was looking even more stormy as her eyes went beyond him to Viola, but he had held up a hand and she too fell silent.

He turned and extended one arm toward Viola and watched her approach, all cool marble dignity. “My family too has found us,” he said to her, “just as we were about to set off to find them. Mrs. Morrow is my late wife’s sister and has had the chief care of my children since her passing. André is my brother. Estelle and Bertrand are my daughter and son.”

André nodded genially. The others stood like statues as Viola inclined her head and bade them all a good afternoon.

“I have known Miss Kingsley and admired her for many years,” he said, turning his attention to them. “When we met again by chance a few weeks ago, we no longer needed to hide our regard for each other and she agreed to marry me. We ought to have proceeded immediately to inform both her family and mine, of course. We ought to have made a public announcement of our betrothal and begun to plan our wedding. That is what we ought to have done. What we actually decided upon instead was a couple of weeks alone together.”

Jane’s nostrils had flared, though she remained silent.

He had taken Viola’s hand in his and raised it now to his lips. It was icy cold.

“It was thoughtless and self-indulgent of us,” she said. “One of my daughters arrived here a short while ago with my son-in-law and other members of my family, and you were not far behind them. We owe you all apologies.”