Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(80)

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After luncheon, Marcel decided that it was time he initiated an interview of his own. He found Bertrand in the billiard room with Oliver Morrow, the Duke of Netherby, André, and William Cornish. They found Estelle in the housekeeper’s room, going over one of her endless lists for tonight’s party and doubtless delaying that lady from getting on with business. She threw the two men an almost openly grateful look when they took Estelle away.

They went to the ballroom, the three of them, to see how preparations were proceeding there. It was clean from top to bottom. The wooden floor gleamed from a new coating of polish, though parts of it were overlaid with sheets upon which the two grand crystal chandeliers rested. The crystal shone, and the silver was its rightful color again rather than the black it had been the last time Marcel had looked. Each candle holder had been fitted with a new candle.

“They will be raised later,” Estelle explained, “and flowers will be brought in and arranged. They are to be left as long as possible so that they will look fresh tonight.”

Tables in the adjoining anteroom had been spread with crisply starched white cloths, upon which refreshments and punch bowls and other beverages would be placed later.

“I expected that we would make do with the pianoforte,” Estelle said, looking toward the orchestra dais at the other end of the room, “but Bert told me about a trio that plays for the assemblies in the village and we have hired them.”

“There will be a violin and a cello and flute to add to the pianoforte,” Bertrand said. “At first I suggested this room rather than the drawing room merely because there will be so many of us. But then it occurred to us that there could be dancing.”

“And Aunt Jane thought it would be acceptable even though Bert and I are not yet quite eighteen,” Estelle said. “I have never danced at an assembly.”

“Then you will dance with me tonight,” Marcel said. “You have done well, both of you.” He clasped his hands at his back and abruptly changed the subject. “Tell me. Does your apparent approval of my marriage plans stem mainly from your desire to have me live permanently here at Redcliffe with you?” He wheeled about to look at them. They were standing side by side, very much alike apart from height and gender, and very, very youthful. “Or perhaps I ought to ask first if you do approve. And if you do want me living here?”

They reacted differently, though neither spoke immediately. Bertrand’s posture stiffened and something behind his face closed. Estelle flushed and her lips parted and her eyes grew luminous. Bertrand spoke first.

“Miss Kingsley is a gracious lady, sir,” he said. “I like her, and if you believe you will be happy with her, then I am happy for you. As for your living here, I will be going up to Oxford within the year, and the question of where you make your home is immaterial to me.”

“Bert,” Estelle said reproachfully, but Marcel held up a hand.

“It is all right,” he said. “I did ask. And you, Estelle?”

He saw her swallow and then frown. “Why did you leave?” she asked. “Why did you never come back except on brief visits?”

Ah. He had hoped to avoid this, at least for now. It was not to be, it seemed. “I left you in the care of your uncle and aunt,” he said. “They were prepared to remain with you and raise you, and I thought they would do a good job of it. I still think it. They have done a very good job. You are fine young people. Have you not been happy with them?”

“Why did you leave?” she asked again. “Aunt Jane has always said it was because you were grieving. She said it when we were five and when we were ten and when we were fifteen and every time in between that we asked. Does everyone grieve for so long when they lose someone? Did you not think that we would grieve too? For our mother? For you? We cannot remember missing you, of course, because we were not even a year old when it all happened. We do not even remember our mother. But I think we must have missed you both. We used to play a game when we were children. We set up the empty attic room at Elm Court as a lookout point with blankets and biscuits and an old telescope that did not really work. We took turns keeping watch. We watched for your return and told stories of all the adventures you were having and all the dangers you had to overcome before you could come back to us. Remember, Bert? You had been told the story of the Odyssey and how it took Odysseus many years to return to Ithaca and his wife and son. We used to hope and hope and hope it would not take you so long.”

“It did not take us that long to understand that you were not coming back at all,” Bertrand said, “except for brief visits, which always turned out to be even shorter than you promised. You always had an excuse for leaving—except when you did not. Sometimes you just left.”

“Why, Father?” Estelle asked.

Marcel was asking himself a different question. How had he managed to dodge his own life for seventeen years? He had always thought he was living every man’s dream—free to go where he wanted and do what he wanted, unencumbered by strong attachments or a troublesome conscience, uncaring of what anyone thought or said of him. Rich and powerful, the one inconvenient little package of love and conscience neatly balled up and taken care of by the Morrows.

Then he had met Viola.

And again fourteen years later.

If he could go back . . . right back. But that was the one impossibility in any life. One could not go back to relive it.