Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(58)

“It is going to be a great pleasure to meet and get to know them all,” the girl said. “I have wished—oh, for years and years—that Papa would marry again and come home to stay.”

Viola went to bed feeling more wretched than she had felt in two years. And her bed looked so very vast and empty. She expected Abigail to come for a private talk, but it did not happen. And that made her feel even more wretched. Abby was too hurt, it seemed, even for confrontation.

And that poor child, his daughter, whom he had neglected so shamelessly all her life. Whom he had neglected just recently after sending word that he was on his way home. She was going to be hurt even more when she discovered that there was to be no wedding after all and that her father was not going to go home to stay. And the boy too. He looked achingly like a very young Marcel—and he called him sir.

I am glad you said it first, Viola. I never like to hurt my women.

It was what he had said down on the beach when she had told him she needed to go home.

My women.

Reducing her to nothing more than a temporary mistress, just like all the others who had preceded her.

As, of course, she was. As she had known from the start. But putting it into words that way had been a deliberate insult. And, fool that she was, she had allowed it to hurt.

Only an hour later he had announced their betrothal.

Well. He would not have things all his way. There was no betrothal and there would be no wedding. She would be very clear on that and quite immovable. She would put a dent in his pride, perhaps, even though he would also feel an enormous relief.

He did not want the marriage any more than she did.

It was the last thing she wanted.





Fourteen





At least, Marcel thought during the long journey home, he had his own carriage in which to travel, though André insisted upon bearing him company.

“It is dashed trying to be confined to close quarters with Jane Morrow,” he explained. “A more Friday-faced female it would be hard to find, Marc. Every time she so much as glances at me it is with a look that says I am no better than a toad about to wriggle out from under a stone and that if she had her wish I would stay under it for the next eternity or so. How Estelle and Bertrand stand it I do not know.”

“They have been given no choice,” Marcel said curtly.

“You are in a blue mood,” his brother observed cheerfully. “Feeling lovelorn already, are you, Marc, after being parted from your lady for all of an hour?” He grinned. “Or are you merely feeling the noose tighten about your neck?”

“Let me make one thing clear,” Marcel said. “You may talk about the weather if you must talk at all or about your own health or that of any or all your acquaintances. You may talk about politics or the war or art or religion or all the books you have never read or the man in the moon. You may even talk about my betrothal and the state of my heart—if, that is, you enjoy talking to yourself as you trudge along beside an empty road or dash along it to try to catch up to the other carriage. What you may not do is talk upon either topic inside this carriage or anywhere else within my hearing. And I have excellent hearing.”

André continued to grin, but he held his peace.

Another fortunate thing about the journey was that Jane was as bent upon completing it as Marcel was and was therefore just as eager to press onward each day until the light was too poor to make for continued safe travel. She insisted that Estelle travel with her, and Marcel did not argue. Bertrand chose to remain with his sister. Perhaps he would have chosen the other carriage anyway.

The birthday-turned-betrothal party was to be held in three weeks’ time, well after Marcel’s actual birthday. He was not sure if Estelle had noticed that no one else felt an enthusiasm for the occasion anywhere near matching her own. She had pressed on with her plans even after Viola had informed her that she would come and bring her younger daughter with her if Abigail wished, but that no one else from her family could be expected to attend.

“They have all recently spent a few weeks in Bath for my grandson’s christening,” she had explained gently enough. “Christmas will be upon us before we know it and they will all wish to go to Brambledean. It would be too much to expect them to travel to Redcliffe Court too.”

Estelle had been disappointed, though she had brightened when Abigail assured her that she would indeed accompany her mother. “I will have you all to myself for a short while, then,” his daughter had said, “and will have a chance to get to know you better before we become sisters.”

Marcel knew very well what Viola was up to, of course. Amid all the bustle of departure after the men had returned to the cottage soon after breakfast, she had insisted that they talk in private. They had walked a little way down the hill among the ferns before he stopped and crossed his arms.

“This is a waking nightmare,” she had said coldly. “While I appreciated your gallantry yesterday, it was unnecessary and it very much complicates the situation. It was an embarrassment to be found here together, especially by our children, but no one was going to make a fuss. Oh, there were rumblings from Alexander and Joel about a duel, but I would have put an end to that silliness in a matter of moments. Good heavens, the very idea! None of these people were going to spread the story, and if any of them did, so what? I have no great reputation to lose, and you have a reputation that would only be enhanced.”