Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(72)

The Berkeleys, all thirty-plus that had decided to stay at Berkeley Hall during the worst months of winter, were a nosy, comical, pretentious lot. One always knew what to expect of a Berkeley; they respected only those with wealth or political influence, they were fiercely protective of their own but were not above gossiping about them, loved off-color jokes but felt that it was bad taste to laugh at them. Although their veneer was genteel, the men of the family—with the exception of Rand—had earned reputations as philanderers and adulterers, while the women were “fast” and led very active social lives. The Berkeleys were an attractive lot, most of them tall, fair-skinned, and golden-haired. In reference to the proliferation of blonds around the household, Rand had informed Mira sardonically that it had been necessary to marry a brunette in order to distinguish his wife from the other women in the family.

The family gatherings were often accompanied by petty squabbles that involved everyone but Rosalie, who was the only Berkeley considered by the rest as being generally tolerable. Perhaps their affection for her was regulated by the fact that pleasing her was the only way to gain Rand’s approval… and Rand, after all, was the head of the family… or perhaps it was because Rosalie was the only one who was more willing to listen to other people’s troubles than to complain about her own. Whatever the reason, there was a large measure of goodwill for her, and luckily this good feeling had been extended in some part to Mira.

Very slowly and carefully Rosalie had introduced Mira to the members of the family. After several afternoons of tea, needlework, music, and gossip, after long discussions during which Mira would politely evade a slew of sly, digging questions, she was tenta-lively accepted into the flock. As Rosalie had instructed her, Mira never said anything about Lord Sackville, save that she had been a guest of his during the hunt. “How, exactly, are we explaining that away?” Mira had asked Rosalie in private, and Rosalie had momentarily worn an uncomfortable expression.

“Don’t bother with that, Mireille—I’ve taken care of it.”

“But how? And why do you look so guilty whenever I mention his name?”

“I look guilty?... I don’t know why I should—I haven’t done anything so very wrong… but a few sacrifices had to be made in order for your reputation to be saved.”

“Sacrifices?” Mira had repeated, so suspiciously that a light blush had swept across Rosalie’s cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. “Whatever story you made up—it hasn’t done anything to hurt Sackville’s reputation, has it?”

“Now, don’t be upset. I may have stretched the truth here and there about him, but only for your sake.”

Horrified, Mira had stared at her with round eyes. “It’s not like you to tell an untruth about anyone or anything.”

“But I will,” Rosalie had said quietly, “if it’s necessary to protect someone I care about.”

“But Sackville’s good name is so important to him! If it has been damaged in any way, I would feel responsible—”

“He took terrible advantage of you,” Rosalie had said flatly, all signs of apology disappearing from her face. “Rand told me that Sackville did some boasting about you to his close friends… I don’t want to upset you, but it was the kind of boasting that no gentleman would do, even about his… You understand what I’m saying. He used you to enhance hisown self-importance, and in my opinion there’s nothing wrong about my tearing it down to help you.”

“In what way did you tear down his reputation?” Mira asked, but Rosalie did not answer. No matter how Mira persisted, she would not say another word about Sackville. The “tearing down” Rosalie had done, however, had been clever and incredibly subtle, for it was impossible to find out what she had said about Sackville, and it had resulted in ostracism. No one ever mentioned Sackville’s name; he was seldom seen and seldom heard from. Mira felt guilty whenever she thought of him; indirectly or not, she had been the cause of his misfortune… and she felt even worse about Rosalie, who had, on Mira’s account, found it necessary to compromise her own integrity.

As a light winter snow fell gently on the thick white blanket that already surrounded Berkeley Hall, the fireplace roared with a bright, warm blaze. Mira held one of the morocco leather books in her lap and leafed through it. The room was full of Berkeleys and their languid conversation, the younger ones gossiping while the older ones reposed, made drowsy by the heat of the fire. Rosalie sat nearby, holding Christian on her lap and nuzzling his hair occasionally while he drew pictures on a frost-coated window with his finger.

“Perhaps we can find out who sent the books by looking at the titles and the authors,” Wilhelmina Berkeley said as she cast a blue-eyed glance at Mira. “Would it be some kind of code?”

“I don’t think so,” Mira replied, sighing inwardly as she realized that once more the conversation had turned toward the identity of her “admirer.” It was a subject that wearied and exasperated her, since she knew already who had sent the collection of novels. They were all works of Jane Austen, and she remembered once having talked with Alec about that particular author. But why would he have sent her the gift, andwhy would he have signed it “From an admirer”? He had never professed any sort of admiration for her before. Despite the questions and the uncertainties, she could not help but find pleasure in the books, for they were beautiful and smelled delightfully new.