“It made him happy, Mama,” Lady Overfield said.
“Yes, I believe it did,” her mother agreed. “But he is thirty years old, Miss Heyden, and last year he began to dream of marriage and love and happiness. And then everything changed—for the whole of the Westcott family. Now Brambledean hangs about my son’s neck like a millstone and neglect is out of the question because Alex is who he is, and loans and mortgages are pointless because they have to be repaid. Everything in me revolts against the idea of his marrying for money, but that is what he feels he must do. Yes, I was horrified, Miss Heyden. Not because of that … facial blemish of yours, though that is probably what you believe. And not because you were so uncomfortable when you met us that you appeared stiff and cold and unapproachable. It was because you are rich and he is poor—at least poor as far as his new responsibilities are concerned—and I very much feared there could never be any proper respect or affection between you, not to mention love and happiness. I could not bear the thought that my son would be seen as mercenary.”
“Mama.” Lady Overfield set a hand on her arm.
“No, Lizzie,” her mother said. “Let me finish. I was delighted after you had left, Miss Heyden, and then dismayed when Lizzie decided that she would go to visit you. But then we came here and Alex has been besieged by wealthy, ambitious people who have daughters to be settled. There is not one of those girls who does not fill me with terrible misgivings. Not for themselves—I daresay they are sweet enough girls, who have dreams of their own. But for Alex, who deserves so much more and so much better.”
“I am sorry.” Wren could think of nothing else to say.
“I think, Miss Heyden,” she continued, “that perhaps you have more substance than all those little girls combined. And you have no ambitious parents.”
“No,” Wren said, and it was her turn to sit farther back in her chair.
“Were your aunt and uncle ambitious for you?” Mrs. Westcott asked.
“Not in the way you mean,” Wren said. “They wanted me to be happy. My aunt desperately wanted it, but they always respected my wishes.”
“You still feel their loss,” Mrs. Westcott said.
“Yes.” And something dreadful happened. Wren felt her chin tremble. She spread one hand over the lower half of her face, but it was not enough. She covered it with both hands. Her bonnet was gone, and so was her veil. “Oh, I am so sorry.” But her voice came out all high and squeaky. She sniffed.
And then Mrs. Westcott was sitting on the arm of her chair, and one of her arms came about Wren’s shoulders, and the other hand held Wren’s head to her shoulder. Wren sobbed until her chest was sore and wept until there surely could be no tears left. A handkerchief and then a linen napkin were pressed into her hand, and she realized that Lady Overfield was kneeling on the floor in front of her chair.
“I am so s-sorry,” she said again.
“Have you wept before?” Mrs. Westcott asked.
“N-no.” She had been very stoical about the whole thing. There was no point in tears, and sometimes her grief had felt too deep for such easy relief.
“There was no one with whom to share your grief,” Lady Overfield said. It was not a question. “But you are among friends. You must not apologize.”
Maybe not. But her words brought on yet more tears.
“No,” Mrs. Westcott said, hugging her shoulders more tightly for a moment, “I am not a friend, Miss Heyden. I am a mother, and I am going to behave like one. It is quite outrageous for you to be staying alone at a horror of a hotel, or at any hotel for that matter. Your aunt would not have liked it. Your uncle would not have allowed it, I daresay, for all that he took you into his business and treated you as an equal. We will have your things brought here immediately, and I do not want to hear any arguments. Now, Lizzie and I will show you up to your room—it has already been prepared—and we will have water fetched so that you can wash your face and look presentable again. You look a fright at the moment.”
Wren laughed—and then wept a few more tears.
“I warn you that it is pointless to try arguing with Mama when she decides to play mother,” Lady Overfield said.
Wren felt horribly embarrassed as she got to her feet. “But the Earl of Riverdale—” she began.
“Alex is at the House of Lords this morning,” Mrs. Westcott told her. “But everything is arranged. He will go to stay with his cousin—my brother’s son—and will enjoy the excuse to be a carefree young bachelor about town again in company with another. He spoke with Sidney last night and is expected. They have always been close friends. Oh, the mischief they used to get up to while they thought my sister-in-law and I were quite ignorant of it.”
“I daresay you did not know the half of it even so, Mama,” Lady Overfield said, laughing.
And while they spoke lightly and cheerfully, they were taking Wren upstairs and along a wide corridor to a guest room. “It will be lovely having you here, Miss Heyden. We can go with you, if you wish, to see what you hope to see in London. We can introduce you to some people and take you with us to some entertainments—or not. We will put no pressure whatsoever upon you just because you are staying here.”
It seemed that everything had been decided for her, Wren thought, without her having to make the decision for herself. Here she was in a pretty room at the back of the house, overlooking what appeared to be a colorful, well-tended garden, and it was too late to say no. And she was feeling too weary to argue anyway. She was here, and Lady Overfield was her friend and Mrs. Westcott was her … mother? And the Earl of Riverdale had already made other living arrangements for himself. Perhaps she would not even have to see him again. It would be very much more comfortable if that were so.
Liar. The inner voice spoke up despite her weariness.
“Thank you,” she said. “You are both extraordinarily kind.”
Aunt Megan, then, was not the only kind lady the world had ever produced. Had she really believed she was?
Nine
Ever since Miss Heyden said goodbye to him on Easter Sunday, Alexander had been telling himself what a fortunate escape he had had from what would surely have been a gloomy, troubled marriage. Perhaps the fact that he had thought it every single day since ought to have alerted him to the fact that perhaps he was not as happy about it as he thought he was.
Today he had gone to the House of Lords since there was an important debate in which he wanted to participate, but all morning he wondered if she had called upon his mother and Elizabeth and wondered what he would do if she had not. At the first opportunity, around noon, he sent off a brief note and waited impatiently for a reply. When it finally arrived, he learned she had indeed called and been persuaded to stay.
He took himself off to Sidney’s rooms later, wondering what it was all going to mean. Must their courtship be considered to have resumed? Had it ever been a courtship? Did he want it to be? Was it too late now to ask himself such a question? He wondered if he ought to go immediately to pay his respects to her or if he ought to leave it until later. Perhaps they were not even at home.
It troubled him that she had come. She had left him with ruffled emotions, the chief of which had been relief that he no longer had to contend with them and try to sort them out. He wanted to be able to choose a bride with his head. The heart was too unpredictable and too capable of feeling pain and doubt and a host of other things. It was his heart that had sent him in pursuit of her in the park when it might have been wiser to let her go.