Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(54)
Estelle’s dark eyes had widened as she looked from one to the other of them, and for one moment Marcel thought she was more infuriated than ever. But then, in a total reversal of mood, she smiled—radiantly.
“Papa?” she said. “You are going to be married? Then you will be coming home to live. All the time.” At first Marcel thought she was going to launch herself at him, but she merely swayed where she stood and clasped her ungloved hands to her bosom. They were white knuckled.
He could not remember a time when either of his children had touched him voluntarily. He could not remember a time when he had hugged them or kissed them—except during that first enchanted year before Adeline died. He could not remember either of them calling him Papa.
Bertrand was bowing stiffly. “Congratulations, sir,” he said. “Congratulations, ma’am.”
“Oh, I say,” André said.
Jane still said nothing.
“It is a chilly day,” Viola said. “Do come inside. We are all about to have tea in the parlor. There is a fire in there. Mrs. Morrow, let me show you the way.”
“Miss Kingsley?” Jane said without moving. “You have a daughter?”
“Two of them and a son,” Viola said. “And three grandchildren. There is a story behind it all that I will gladly share with you after I have set a cup of hot tea in your hands. Do come. Marcel, bring your children and Mr. Lamarr.”
“Miss Kingsley was once a Westcott, Jane,” André explained, “and the Countess of Riverdale.”
Jane allowed herself to be taken into the house. Estelle followed with Bertrand, her hand drawn through his arm. André lingered and grinned at his brother.
“I say, Marc,” he said, “has the arrival of two avenging families caught you in parson’s mousetrap at last?”
“I trust,” Marcel said softly, “you have a good reason for bringing my children here, André.” But how the devil had he known where to come?
“You were devilish difficult to find,” his brother told him. “It might have taken us another day or two to get here if Miss Kingsley’s family had not left a blazing trail for us to follow. Which of them have come in addition to one of her daughters and her son-in-law?”
Marcel ignored the question. “Why did you bring them?” he asked. “They are seventeen, André, and have had the strictest and narrowest of upbringings.”
“Whose fault is that?” André said. “I did not bring anyone, Marc. They brought me. I think your little Estelle is growing up. I have never seen her upset before or anything but a placid, quiet mouse of a girl. After a week or so of fretting and watching for your arrival every hour of every day, she would have come in search of you alone if she could not have persuaded anyone else to accompany her. Bertrand would have come with her, of course, and Jane had no choice short of locking the girl in her room and feeding her bread and water. They dragged me along because I could lead them to where you had last been seen, though that village was dashed difficult to find. They all look alike. How was I to know that you did not merely enjoy Miss Kingsley for a night or two before wandering off somewhere else alone in search of further diversion? You are not known for liaisons that last more than a few days, after all.”
“We had better go inside,” Marcel said curtly. He would rather do anything else on earth. For two pins he would saddle one of the horses in the stables and ride off in the direction of the farthest horizon. But Estelle was here. And Bertrand.
“You have acquired a leg shackle.” André grinned again. “This will be the joke of the ton, Marc.”
“If I should hear of Miss Kingsley being the subject of any off-color humor,” Marcel said as they followed the others into the cottage, “someone is going to be answerable to me, André.”
But his brother only chuckled.
* * *
? ? ?
The truly bizarre thing about the following hour, Viola thought later as she looked back upon it, was that it quickly became a perfectly civil social occasion, a group of persons representing two families seated together in the parlor of a country house partaking of tea and cakes together and conversing about the Devonshire countryside, the state of the roads, the secluded beauty of the valley, the sturdy coziness of the cottage, and the upcoming wedding. She wondered if anyone had noticed that she and Marcel did not participate a great deal in that particular strand of the conversation—or in any other, for that matter.
She at least was able to busy herself with the pouring of tea and the distribution of cakes, having assured Mrs. Prewitt that her presence was not needed. Marcel merely stood, first before the fire and then at the window, though he did not give in to any temptation he might have felt to turn his back and look outward.
He was looking austere, anything he might be feeling well hidden inside himself. But the same was true of her. She fell back upon a demeanor that had been second nature to her during the more than twenty years of her marriage. She played the part of the gracious hostess.
They would marry in London—at St. George’s on Hanover Square, of course, where all society weddings were solemnized during the months of the Season. Alexander had suggested it. It was where he and Wren had married earlier this year despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that Wren had lived almost the whole of her life as a recluse, her face hidden behind a heavy veil to mask the birthmark that covered virtually the whole of one side of her face. Perhaps Alexander thought the only way to silence any scandal that might erupt in response to this sudden marriage announcement was to brazen it out and take the wedding there.