Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(92)

“I am going to remain here,” he told her.

“Oh, for how many weeks?” She laughed. “Or days? I am going to start counting.”

André left a few days after everyone else.

“I do not see why you will not come with me, Marc,” he said. “If I had to stay here one more day, I would be climbing trees to alleviate my boredom.”

“But no one is forcing you to stay one more day,” Marcel replied. “Or even half a day.”

“Oh, I say,” his brother said. “You are serious about staying. I will give you another week, Marc, and then expect to see you in London. Have you heard about the new brothel on—”

“No,” Marcel said. “I have not.”

“Well.” André grinned. “You never did have any need for brothels.”

No, he never had. And never would. He doubted that he would ever need another woman, but that was a rather rash thought, brought on, no doubt, by the damnably flat, heavy feeling with which his latest affair had left him. Damn Viola Kingsley—which was grossly unfair of him, but in the privacy of his own mind he damned her anyway.

He spent the two months sorting out the unsorted threads of his life. He gave his aunt and his cousin and her daughter free rein to plan the upcoming wedding—upon one condition. Under no circumstances whatsoever was he to be bothered by any of the details. In addition, he told them, after the wedding, by the beginning of January at the latest, they were to remove to the dower house. Again they might have a free hand about preparing it and the carriage house and stables for their comfort, but the move must be made.

None of them argued.

He had a word with Jane and Charles and suggested that they might wish to resume their own lives at last now that the twins were more or less grown-up and he was living at home with them. Jane looked skeptical.

“But how long will it be, Marcel,” she asked, “before you take yourself off again?”

“I have no such plans,” he told her. “But if and when I do, then Estelle and Bertrand will go with me.”

The tenants who had leased their own home for the past fifteen years had recently moved out. The truth was, Jane confessed, they had been longing to return home and had only remained because they had felt their first duty was to Adeline’s children.

The whole situation resolved itself easily and amicably within a couple of weeks. Ellen went with them. Marcel suspected that she would choose to remain at home as the prop and stay of her parents in their old age, though that was some way in the future yet. Oliver did not go. Marcel gave notice to his steward, who was to be allowed to remain in his cottage on the edge of the estate with a generous pension. And, before he sent to his man of business in London to find a replacement, Marcel offered the job to his nephew. Oliver, who was eminently suited to the job and who, Marcel had observed during the birthday party, appeared to be sweet on the daughter of a neighboring gentleman, accepted. Bertrand was happy about it. He obviously looked up to his older cousin as some sort of role model.

Marcel tried to take up the role of father. It was not easy. He had had very little to do with the upbringing of his children and did not want to be too intrusive now. On the other hand, he did not want to appear to be aloof or indifferent. He did not know if they loved him or even liked him, and was well aware that he had not earned either. But thanks to Jane and Charles, they were neither openly hostile nor rebellious. They had been brought up to be a lady and a gentleman, and that was exactly what they were. They were invariably courteous and deferential to the man who was their parent, even if he had no real claim to the name of father.

It would take time. And he would give it time. Sometimes it puzzled him that he was willing to remain and try. How could his whole outlook upon life have changed so radically and so completely in such a short while? It had happened seventeen years ago, of course, but there had been a definite, catastrophic reason then. But this time? Just because he had fallen in love and had not been given the chance to fall out again before she tired of him? Such a notion was ridiculous.

But his heart ached a little bit. Well, a whole lot if he was going to be honest with himself.

On the whole it was easier not to be honest.



* * *



? ? ?

    Despite all the turmoil of the past few months, Viola quickly settled down to her old life and became her old self again. The need to run, to escape at all costs had left her—and she was a bit depressed. For what had changed? Had all the upheaval accomplished anything at all? She had perhaps proved to herself that she could be bold and defiant and adventurous and passionate. And happy. But now she had been caught in the return swing of the pendulum, as had been inevitable. She remembered Marcel saying that what went up had to come down.

She tried not to think about Marcel.

She mingled with neighbors and friends. She worked with the vicar and a few other ladies to arrange a Christmas party for the children. She stitched and embroidered and tatted and wrote letters and read and walked, within the park about the house and along country lanes. She started playing the pianoforte again after neglecting it for a couple of years. She organized tea parties for Abigail and her young friends and several times played for them in the music room while they danced.

She slept poorly. She could discipline her mind during the daytime and scarcely think of him more than once or twice an hour—and then only fleetingly until she realized where her thoughts were wandering. At night, when her mind relaxed, it was harder to keep the memories from flooding in. And it was not just her mind the memories attacked then, but her body too and her emotions. She ached and yearned for what she had found during those weeks. But not just for what she had found. She yearned for whom she had found.