Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(99)

Did he realize that darkness was emptying out of him? Slowly but very surely. Not that she was either expecting miracles or depending upon them. He was as he was, and she would live with him and love him until her dying day—or his—and be ever thankful for the idealist she was about to marry, the man who wanted to be perfect but was gradually learning the painful lesson that nobody was. That nothing was. Everyone and everything was in a state of becoming. That was the terror and the wonder of life.

“We are,” she said. A bewildering species, that was. “Are we not wonderful?”

He tipped his head to one side and frowned.

The other two men were descending upon them. The vicar, beaming, held out a hand for Gwyneth’s.

“I am delighted indeed at your news, Gwyneth,” he said. “It will be my great pleasure to officiate at the nuptial service of the Earl of Stratton and the daughter of Sir Ifor Rhys. Goodness me, how grand that sounds! My chest will be puffed out for at least a month afterward. I will be the envy of all my fellow clergymen in this county and beyond. But be assured that my lips are sealed until after the official announcement, which will be this evening at the assembly, I believe?”

He patted the hand she had placed in his and continued to beam at her while she smiled back. Devlin continued to frown.



* * *



—

Did I do the right thing?” Devlin asked his mother later that evening. “I intended to take a burden off your shoulders. But perhaps you feel you have been displaced. I ought to have consulted you first.”

“No,” she said. “You did the right thing. Planning something even as relatively simple as a village assembly is a large undertaking, and I am done with that part of my life. I could not be more delighted that you will be marrying soon. Before Christmas. Gwyneth will be a good countess. I will be happy to relinquish my duties to her.”

“She will never have to do them alone, Mama,” he said. “We will work together, she and I. And if any of the work becomes too onerous, then I will simply hire people to do it.”

“I know you will.” She inhaled audibly and let the breath out before continuing. “Devlin, he was not a bad man, your father.”

“No,” he agreed. “He was not.” Though he had wronged her terribly. Had she loved him? It was not really his business, though. If there were demons from her past—and there must be—then they were his mother’s to deal with.

Devlin and his mother were standing in the doorway of the ballroom, her arm drawn through his. As usual, they were somewhat early for the assembly itself, but curiosity had got the better of them even though they were not in any way responsible for seeing to it that everything was ready, that nothing had been forgotten.

They had not been near the ballroom all day, though Devlin had been aware of much coming and going in the vicinity of the west wing. Committees had apparently spawned other committees during the past week, and everything had been taken care of, rather to the consternation of Richards and Mrs. Padgett, the butler and housekeeper here. Everything had been cleaned and polished and shined without any of the Ravenswood staff being involved. Fresh candles had been set in the grand candelabra overhead and in the wall sconces. Autumn flowers and leaves and ribbons and bows in varying shades of orange and peach and brown had sprouted everywhere, including about three sides of the orchestra dais.

Long tables had been set up all along the far wall, making inaccessible all the French windows except the one in the middle. The tables had been covered with white linen cloths and an impressive display of smaller cloths that had been fashioned of fine lace—probably made and loaned by various women of the neighborhood. Mrs. Berry, the landlady from the inn, with the help of the food-serving committee, was covering them with heaping plates of dainties, both savory and sweet, and not forgetting piles of plates and linen napkins. They all looked happy, even excited. Jim Berry’s tavern—a banner had been erected with those exact words written on it in large letters—had been set up just inside the open doors into the dining room. Jim himself, puffed out with pride, it seemed to Devlin, was behind a long bar, organizing his bottles and taps and glasses, while the eager-looking liquor-serving committee prepared to help him pour drinks and pull mugs of ale and carry around trays of drinks to those who did not wish to crowd the bar. The musicians were tuning their instruments, watched by Colonel Wexford, who, as master of ceremonies, looked as though he considered himself personally responsible for the music.

The old assemblies, organized by his mother and staffed by the family’s servants, had always been perfection itself. But . . . there was a certain spirit here tonight that was difficult to define but was unmistakable. It was a community coming together to share their efforts and enjoy one another.

Guests were beginning to arrive, and two members of the ticket committee were taking their places behind a small table just inside the doors. One of them, a son of one of Devlin’s tenant farmers, grinned cheerily at him and held out a hand.

“Tickets, please, my lord,” he said.

Devlin produced two and handed them over while the young man laughed. He led his mother inside.

“I think,” she said, “that maybe this is going to be a happier place, Devlin.”

Happier than what?

She did not explain. She did not need to. She felt it too, then.