Someone to Wed

“The House is still in session,” she said.

“I do not mind missing—” he began, but she interrupted.

“No,” she said. “I have been thinking about that, Alexander. It is your duty to remain, and duty has always been important to you. It is one thing I have always liked and admired about you—that you have felt guilt even at missing a few days since you met me again. Marriage should not change anyone in fundamentals, only enhance what is already there.”

“I would rather take you home tomorrow,” he said. “I also have a duty to you.”

“I want to see more of Colin,” she said. “Much more. We have twenty years to make up for. I want to know everything about him. I want him to know everything about me. He is my brother.”

He sighed but said nothing.

“I scarcely know your aunt Lilian and uncle Richard,” she said, “or Sidney or Susan and Alvin. I liked them when I met them on our wedding day and would wish to see more of them. I want to spend some time with Cousin Eugenia, the dowager countess. I want to hear stories about her long life. I want to see more of Cousin Matilda, who annoys her mother by fussing over her and loving her to distraction. I scarcely know Cousins Mildred and Thomas. I want to know more about their boys, who are still at school and sound like a handful of mischief. I want to know Cousin Louise better and Avery. And Anna and the baby. I want to know how Jessica is faring now that she has seen Abby again. And I want to get to know your mother and Lizzie better. They are the only mother and sister I will ever know, and I intend to cherish them.”

He laughed softly. “All this,” he asked, “to persuade me to do my duty and attend the House of Lords until the end of the session?”

“Well, that too,” she said. “But I mean everything else as well. I have lived in a well-padded and comfortable cocoon for twenty years after living in a cell for ten. Now I have taken a few tentative steps out into the world, and I need to take a few more before retreating to the peace and quiet of Brambledean. If we go home now, Alexander, I may never leave again.”

“I thought that was what you wanted,” he said.

“It was,” she said. “It is. But I have learned something about myself recently. It is what Uncle Reggie always used to say about me. I am stubborn to a fault. I stubbornly refused to face the world while he lived. Now I stubbornly refuse not to.”

“Ah,” he said. “I have married a stubborn woman, have I? That sounds like a challenge. Next you will be telling me you wish to attend a grand ton ball.”

There was a silence. But silence can have a quality. Not all silences are equal. The carriage rocked to a halt outside Westcott House. One of the horses snorted and stamped. Two people were talking to each other out on the street. Somewhere a dog was barking. Inside the carriage there was silence.

“Yes,” she said.

The Westcott and Radley families and Lord Hodges had been invited to tea at Westcott House. The dining room table had been set with all the best china and loaded with a sumptuous variety of sandwiches and scones and cakes.

“This has all the appearance of a family meeting, Althea,” Cousin Matilda said after they were all settled and had taken the edge off their hunger. Lady Josephine Archer, whom a chorus of protesting voices had saved from being taken away by her nurse, was being passed from person to person to be bounced on knees, cuddled and rocked in arms, and dangled above heads.

“We cannot come together just to celebrate family?” Wren’s mother-in-law said. “We cannot have a welcome-to-the-family party for Lord Hodges? You are quite right, though, Matilda. We invited you all not just to celebrate. We need to plan a ball to introduce Wren to the ton.”

All eyes turned Wren’s way. Colin, seated beside her, raised his eyebrows and grinned at her.

“I have been saying so from the start,” Matilda said. “She is the Countess of Riverdale, a position of great prestige. But I was informed that she is a recluse and that Alexander has chosen to humor her whims.”

“To respect her decisions, Matilda,” her mother said sharply, “as any husband worthy of the name ought. Clearly Wren has changed her mind.”

“Mama and I are quite delighted,” Elizabeth said.

“And so am I,” Aunt Lilian said. “What is the point of having an earl and a countess in the family if there is no public occasion at which we can show them off to our friends and neighbors?” Her eyes twinkled at Wren and Alexander and there was general laughter.

“My feelings precisely,” Uncle Richard said.

“Do you dance, Wren?” Cousin Mildred asked. “If you do not, or if you need to brush up on your steps, I know a dancing master who would—”

“Not, one would hope,” Avery said, sounding pained, “the man who was employed to teach Anna to dance last year, Aunt?”

“Mr. Robertson, yes,” she said.

“If I had not intervened while he was teaching the waltz,” he said, “I daresay he would still be trying to teach Anna just how to position her left hand on his shoulder with each finger held just so and her head at just such an angle with just such an expression on her face.”

“And if Lizzie and Alex had not demonstrated how it ought to be done,” Anna added, laughing. “And if you had not then danced it with me, Avery, breaking every rule poor Mr. Robertson had just taught. I would have to agree—I am sorry, Aunt Mildred—that meticulous as Mr. Robertson’s instructions are, he can also be intimidating to someone who just wishes to be able to enjoy dancing without tripping and falling all over her partner’s feet. Practicing various dances in advance of your first ball is probably a good idea, though, Wren. Aunt Mildred is quite right about that. Lizzie and Alex will help you. Shall Avery and I come too? And perhaps Lord Hodges?”

“Oh, and us,” Susan Cole said. “May we, Alex? It would be great fun. And we will bring Sidney with us. Lady Jessica will perhaps be willing to make the numbers even.”

“Who is going to provide the music?” Cousin Louise asked. “And let no one look at me. Our music teacher always told Mama when I was a girl that I was all thumbs, though I thought they were particularly nimble thumbs. Mildred is better. Matilda is the best.”

“I am out of practice,” Cousin Matilda protested. “And I never did hold much with the waltz. I know no suitable tunes.”

“My brother is a skilled pianist,” Wren’s mother-in-law said. “Can we persuade you, Richard?”

“With a little arm twisting, Althea,” he said amiably. “If, that is, Wren feels the need of a few practice sessions. She has not voiced an opinion on the matter yet.”

“Well,” Wren said, “I was taught to dance by a governess who was very strict and probably as meticulous about the details as is the Mr. Robertson you speak of. But that was a long time ago and did not include the waltz. And I only ever danced with her or with my aunt or my uncle. There were never other people to make up sets.”

“Then we have work to do,” Cousin Matilda said. “And where, Althea, is the ball to be held?”

“Here, I thought,” Alexander answered. “With the doors folded back between the drawing room and the music room and most of the furniture and carpets removed, we can create quite a sizable—”

“I understood, Riverdale,” Avery said, “that it is a ton ball we have been summoned here to plan, not some sort of assembly for a limited few. The venue will, of course, be the ballroom at Archer House. We held a ball there for Anna last year, you will recall, and for Jessica this year. We are becoming quite experienced ball givers, though it pains me to admit it. And when I say we, I must confess that I mean mainly my stepmother and Anna and my poor, long-suffering secretary. My dear Wren, if you wish to display yourself to the beau monde, you must do it in a grand manner and invite everyone who is anyone and squeeze them into one of London’s largest ballrooms and its accompanying public salons and have the whole spectacle spoken of admiringly the next day as a sad squeeze. Anything less would be unworthy of your courage.”