Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(71)

They walked past the beech tree where she had quarreled with Marcel last evening, and on toward the woods and then among them. The path was wide, though at present it was almost obliterated by fallen leaves, which crunched underfoot. There was a lovely feeling of seclusion.

Bertrand was going up to Oxford next year and was looking forward to it immensely even though he had never been away to school and would doubtless be quite nervous at first. And it would mean leaving Estelle behind.

“You are very close to your sister?” Viola asked.

“We have been constant companions all our lives,” he explained. “There have always been our cousins, of course, but they are older than we are. Not by many years, it is true, but I have been told an age gap seems far wider to children than it does to adults. Estelle and I are the same age. We are twins.”

“Which of you is the elder?” she asked.

“Estelle, by thirty-five minutes,” he said. “I have never been allowed to forget that fact and never will be, I daresay.” He flashed her a grin, and for a moment he looked the handsome boy he was. And very, very much like his father. Was she seeing Marcel as he had been at the age of seventeen? But no father was quite replicated in his son, and she doubted Marcel had ever had the gravity of mind and manner that his son had. He had gone to Oxford University, but he seemed to have used his time there just to get into trouble, or rather to avoid the trouble his wild exploits ought to have brought him. She doubted he had ever taken his studies seriously. Though he was a reader, she remembered.

They came upon the lake suddenly and unexpectedly. It was surrounded by woodland, a large kidney-shaped body of water, very calm today, its still surface reflecting the myriad colors of the leaves on the trees. There was a sloping stretch of sandy soil ahead of them, which was probably used as a beach during the summer, and a boathouse off to their right. The woodland did not completely surround the lake, however. On the far side some of it had been cleared for a house with large windows and a garden that sloped down to the water. It was not at all like the cottage in Devonshire, but something about it was similar. Its size, perhaps. Its secluded location, perhaps. There was no other building in sight apart from the boathouse.

“The dower house,” Bertrand said. “I love it. It always makes me feel a bit homesick.”

“For Elm Court?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Aunt Jane believes Great-Aunt Olwen ought to move here and drops frequent hints to that effect. That is what it was built for, you see—as a dower house for older members of the family after a new marquess moves into Redcliffe.”

“But she does not want to live here?” Viola asked.

“No,” he said. “But I think perhaps it is more that Cousin Isabelle does not want to move here. Perhaps she will feel differently after Margaret marries and moves away with her husband. I am not sure her feelings are going to matter, however. They really must move here after Father’s wedding.”

They stood looking at the lake and the house beyond it while Estelle and Abigail made their way toward it. And Viola broached the topic she had been avoiding with her own daughter.

“How do you feel about that, Bertrand?” she asked. “About your father’s marriage to me, I mean. And please be honest.”

“Oh,” he said, “how can I be?”

Viola winced inwardly, but it was honesty she needed. She wanted to be armed with ammunition the next time she tackled Marcel. “By simply doing it,” she said.

“I am furious with him,” he said after a short silence, his voice quietly intense. “Everything has always been just about him. He was supposedly too grief-stricken over our mother’s death to spend any time with us when we were children. He was still too grief-stricken when we were older. But we heard things. Children do, you know, no matter how well shielded they are—and we were very well shielded. We heard things that did not make him sound very grief-stricken. Estelle had her heart set on giving him a fortieth birthday party this year. I tried to warn her. So did Aunt Jane. But she would not listen. And then she chose to be delighted when we found him and he announced his betrothal. She is still delighted. I have never seen her this . . . ebullient. She has always been quiet and docile except sometimes when we are alone together. She thinks all will be well now even though our childhood is over. She will probably be married herself within the next year or so and I will be gone. But she still believes in happily-ever-after. She still believes in him. He had no intention of marrying you, did he?”

Well. When one asked for honesty, one had better be prepared for just that. Viola tried to frame a suitable answer but could not think of anything to say.

“Please be honest,” he said, echoing what she had said to him.

“No,” she said. “What we did was very selfish, Bertrand. I will not try to explain to you why I felt the overwhelming need to escape for a short while and why I took the opportunity when it presented itself. There is no reason why you would care. I did not know that you were waiting so eagerly for your father’s return home—I believe you were waiting just as eagerly as your sister was. It seemed harmless, that escape, of no concern to anyone but the two of us. I ought to have known better. I have thought recently about something John Donne wrote in one of his essays.”

“No man is an island?” he asked, surprising her.

“Yes,” she said. “I ended up hurting my family, and your father ended up hurting his. He is not entirely selfish, Bertrand. As soon as he saw Abigail outside that cottage, he believed he must make reparation. And as soon as he saw you and your sister, his resolve was hardened. It was not for himself he made that announcement and not for me. I thought at first it was for me, to protect my reputation. But I do not believe he would have said it if Abigail had not come with my son-in-law and the others. He did it for your sake and your sister’s and Abigail’s. I am sorry. No, that is too easy to say. Apologies usually are.”