Читать книгу Reunited with the Major - Anne Herries, Anne Herries - Страница 12

Chapter Five

‘Have you everything you need, my dear?’ Samantha paused to look about the pretty bedchamber before leaving her guest to retire for the evening. ‘If there should be anything you need, Rosemarie, please ring and my housekeeper will come—or my maid. I do not employ many servants here, just enough to manage the house. My cook, housekeeper, a butler and one footman, my maid and the downstairs maids. I am comfortable enough, but not rich, so I do not live in the style you have perhaps been accustomed to.’

‘This is a lovely room and you have been so kind to me,’ Rosemarie said, and gave her a grateful smile. ‘Lending me your things... This nightgown is exquisite...’

‘You will have your own things soon,’ Samantha promised her. ‘My maid is altering a gown for you to wear tomorrow, but we shall visit my seamstress and order you a wardrobe of your own. It is my intention to introduce you to my friends and for that you must have clothes—and I shall love advising you, Rosemarie. You are so pretty and you have a lovely figure. My nightgown is far too long for you, but it will do for one night.’

‘It is very generous of you to take me in like this, Samantha.’

‘Oh, I shall enjoy it. Brock asked it of me and I would never refuse him anything within my power—but you are such a charming girl that it will be a pleasure for me to take you about, my dear. You are like the younger sister I never had.’

‘I was an only child, too,’ Rosemarie said, a wistful look in her eyes. ‘I miss Papa so much—and I wish he had not died.’

‘Yes, of course you do. I was alone and almost penniless after my father died, but his colonel married me and gave me a wonderful life following the drum. He left me this house and the money to live here, and I manage very well. It is unfortunate for you that those who should love and care for you choose to take advantage and try to take what does not belong to them.’

‘My aunt wears Mama’s jewels and does not wish to give them up, and my uncle covets the Manor—but it belongs to me, as do the mills, and I do not see why I should let them take my inheritance and force me to marry a man I dislike.’

‘I do so agree with you. I married a man I cared for, even though he was much older.’ Samantha sighed. ‘We were happy, I believe, but your papa was right. Love is the only true reason to marry. Even then it may not guarantee happiness, but then, life is never perfect, I think.’

‘I am so sorry you lost your husband,’ Rosemarie said. ‘Yet you are so young, you could surely marry again?’

‘Perhaps—if the right man were to ask,’ Samantha said and laughed softly. ‘I do not imagine he will for he loves another, so I must make the most of what I have—and that is a great deal. I am comfortable and want for nothing, and I have many friends, and that is surely enough for anyone.’

‘I want to marry the man I love,’ Rosemarie said, her face shining with earnest feeling. ‘I may be young, but I do know what I want of life and I shall never give him up whatever anyone says. Robert loves me and I love him, why should we part?’

‘Why should you?’ Samantha asked. ‘If you love this man enough and he loves you, then time is on your side. Once you are twenty-one you may do as you please, for your father’s fortune then becomes yours and you will no longer suffer at a guardian’s hands.’

‘But two years is such a long time.’

‘If you will but be patient and enjoy your life, I dare say it will go by in a trice, as it did for me. My years on the Peninsula went too swiftly for my liking.’

‘You had such an exciting life, even if it did end unhappily.’ Rosemarie pulled a face. ‘You do not know how unkind they were to me, ma’am. When I declared that I would marry only a man I loved and refused the Marquis, I was locked in my room and given no supper.’

‘That was unkind of your aunt and uncle.’

‘I do not think it was my aunt’s doing,’ Rosemarie admitted. ‘I am sure that it was my uncle who insisted that I be punished. He was determined that I should do as he ordered. I love Robert and I would hate to marry anyone other than the man I love. Can you understand me?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Samantha said. ‘Now, go to bed, my dear, and sleep well. I find that things often work out so much better than one fears.’

Closing the door on her pretty young guest, Samantha went to her own room and found her maid patiently waiting.

‘You may unhook my gown and then go to bed, Allie,’ she said, smiling at her. ‘I shall not retire immediately, but sit and read in my dressing robe.’

‘Very well, ma’am,’ Allie said and unfastened the tiny buttons at the back of her gown, assisting her to step out of it. She picked it up and walked towards the dressing room. ‘Goodnight, madam.’

‘Goodnight. Now do not spend ages in there brushing my gown, go to bed.’

Samantha sighed as the door of the dressing room closed behind her maid. Allie tended to chat as she prepared one for bed, talking about the clothes for the next day and whatever entertainment her mistress was planning. This evening, Samantha wanted to be quiet, to sit and think peacefully about what had happened that day.

First Brock’s surprising visit that afternoon, just as she’d been thinking of going for a walk in the park, and then his return with the young girl he’d rescued. She wondered if Brock knew just what he’d taken on. Rosemarie was rebellious and had a mind of her own. If she decided that she was going to run off with her soldier, nothing would prevent her—and if Brock tried to stop her, she would lead him a merry dance.

At first Samantha had thought he must have fallen for the girl, but his manner towards her, which was almost avuncular, had convinced her that it was nothing of the kind. Brock had always been chivalrous and generous to a fault. Samantha herself had been on the receiving end of many kindnesses from him when they were campaigning in Spain. He’d rescued that poor girl when she was lying close to exhaustion and now considered that he must do all in his power to help her. She could only hope that he would not lay up a lot of trouble for himself. Yet something told her that Rosemarie had a will of her own. Her uncle was wrong to try and force her into a marriage she could not tolerate, yet he had probably believed it was a good one. Samantha was not at all sure that Rosemarie had told them the whole truth—or perhaps she had merely exaggerated her wrongs a little?

Samantha wondered what Brock’s fiancée would think of the business. Would she accept it as just something that her very generous husband-to-be would do for a girl he considered vulnerable—or would she think Rosemarie a threat to her own happiness as Brock’s wife?

Brock’s wife... Samantha quelled the slight spurt of jealous indignation that flared inside her as she remembered the last time she’d seen that lady. From the way that Miss Langton had shamelessly flirted with and encouraged Lord Armstrong’s attentions that particular evening, she did not deserve her good fortune. How could she behave so if she intended to marry Brock? Samantha had wished that she might warn him of the way his intended had looked up into the eyes of her charming escort, but to say things that would come as a shock and might cause him pain would be unforgivable, and so she had held her tongue. It was not, after all, Samantha’s business to report on another lady’s behaviour, which might merely be high spirits at a ball.

Miss Langton might just have been flirting a little and meant nothing by her smiles and teasing. Having seen her only the once in Lord Armstrong’s company, Samantha knew it would be unfair to judge. It must be for Brock to discover his fiancée’s thoughts and nothing she could say or do would lessen the pain if he loved her and discovered she had played him false.

Samantha thought her a vain cold girl, but perhaps that was because she hardly knew her. She was probably very pleasant once you got past formal terms. Yet if she cared for Brock how could she come to London and he know nothing of it?

Was he in love with Cynthia Langton? They seemed to have been engaged a long time and yet no notice of the wedding had appeared in the papers. Surely, a man in love would not wait so many months. Yet perhaps that was only wishful thinking on Samantha’s part?

Did Cynthia care for him or merely the fact that he was wealthy and heir to an even larger estate? What did she know of the real man who lay beneath the surface? Did she even know of the dangers he’d faced during the war—did she care what made him the man he was?

Samantha knew a little about the secret in Brock’s past. Phipps had hinted at something and Percy had told her that Brock blamed himself for a young lady of his acquaintance being brutally attacked.

‘He was at home on leave, you see, and had his mind on other matters when the girl called on him. He told me that he welcomed her, because she was like a sister to him, gave her refreshments and talked to her about his life in the army—and then she left him to walk home through their woods. Brock never gave a thought to it, because she had walked and played in those same woods all her life in perfect safety—but this time she came to grievous harm and he never forgave himself.’

‘Oh, poor girl,’ Samantha had exclaimed. ‘Yet it was hardly Brock’s fault. How could he have known that she would be attacked?’

‘He couldn’t, but he believes that he ought to have seen her safely home—as perhaps he ought, Sam. I do not think I should have allowed a young, very pretty and innocent girl to walk more than a mile to her home alone.’

‘No, perhaps—but how could he have known it would happen?’

‘No one could have known and she ought to have been safe, but these things do happen at times and Brock feels that he is to blame.’

‘Yes, I do see.’ Samantha had known then that the young and idealistic officer would castigate himself terribly for what had happened to his friend. And now she thought she understood why he’d taken on Rosemarie’s troubles, though he did not know the girl and could not be certain that she’d been quite honest with him. It was his sense of honour, his need to exonerate himself for what had happened that day so long ago.

Samantha liked Rosemarie very much. She was a charming, friendly girl with an eagerness for life that was appealing. Rosemarie was also very determined and Samantha had no doubt that she would lie brazenly if it served her purpose to get what she wanted. Her aunt and uncle were certainly not blameless, for they surely had no right to try and force her into a marriage she did not want—but were they truly as black as Rosemarie painted them? Samantha was not sure, and she thought Brock was in much the same mind.

And if his fiancée was playing him false, or even trying to arouse his jealousy by flirting with Lord Armstrong, he would be hard put to placate her and keep his promise to Rosemarie.

A smile of sympathy touched Samantha’s lips. Poor dear Brock! It looked as if he was in for a rough ride whichever way you looked at it. At least Samantha had been able to help him by taking Rosemarie to live with her, and that was no hardship for she would enjoy having the girl in her home and introducing her to society. Rosemarie was a well brought-up young lady and would not cause her any trouble that way...but she was wilful and if she formed a plan for her marriage to her beloved Robert she might risk anything to carry it out. Samantha would just have to keep a careful eye on her to make sure that she did not cause Brock more trouble than necessary.

Yet did she have the right to interfere? The answer was that she did not. She was nothing more than an acquaintance to Brock and he was merely a man she liked and admired. He would never be anything more, because he was committed to another...and because their shared memories would place a barrier between them. A barrier that was formed of loyalty and grief and could not be lightly put aside.

* * *

Brock sat before the fire in his study staring into the brandy glass in his hand. It was sometimes chilly of an evening and he liked a fire in here every evening, except in the heat of summer, when he was seldom in London. As most of his friends did, he left town in July and went down to the country, either to stay with friends or at his family home. It was still March and he would be in London for a few months now—unless he married and took his bride abroad for some weeks. Paris, perhaps, or Italy? The lakes were beautiful in the summer and cooler than the heat of a city.

His thoughts turned to Cynthia. It was annoying that she’d been out when he’d called for he would have liked to settle things between them. It would be better when the announcement of their wedding had been made and then perhaps this restless feeling would leave him. He ought not even to consider the alternatives, for his promise had been given to Cynthia too many months ago to think of breaking it. He could never do such a thing. He’d asked her to save her reputation and because she’d looked so unhappy...so vulnerable. If he went back on his promise now, what kind of a cad would he be? The only honourable thing to do was to marry the girl, even if he’d never loved her—could never love her as he might have loved another.

Cynthia had not answered immediately when he’d asked and he’d sensed that she’d agreed with some reluctance, possibly because she feared her mama’s anger if she’d been returned to her home with her reputation in tatters. At first she’d been grateful, willing to fall in with his suggestions, though not ready to announce the date of the wedding.

It was only after she’d returned to her home and he’d taken up his own life again, spending most of his time in London with fleeting visits to his own estate and that of his father that he’d found her less pleased to see him, inclined to long silences, often seeming to force herself to greet him with a smile, and perhaps that was his own fault. Brock admitted that he’d not been to visit her as often as he ought, but his life in London suited him and he was always engaged to friends or with his business affairs.

Brock was still working for his old commander, the Duke of Wellington. There were many functions to be arranged for the benefit of soldiers and officers wounded in the duke’s service, and Brock was happy to give his time to such a worthy cause. He also attended diplomatic conferences and travelled to France either with the duke or on behalf of the duke. Every so often he was invited to join the duke at his country home and sometimes to join the Prince Regent’s house party at Brighton. He was well thought of in high circles and Wellington had urged him to go into the diplomatic service, saying that he had skills that were much needed and would do tribute to the post of ambassador in one of the more sensitive areas in which the British had a strong influence.

Brock had consulted his father, who had given him his blessing, but still he’d waited—because somehow he did not think that Cynthia would be happy as the wife of a diplomat who might be sent off to the other side of the world at the drop of a hat. Only a certain sort of woman was happy to follow her husband wherever he went...and that was a line of thought best capped and tucked away where it could do no harm.

Sipping his brandy slowly to savour its warming effect, Brock considered his future if he did not enter the diplomatic service. He might stand for a safe Tory seat at the next election, he supposed, but there was little else open to a man who would one day inherit his father’s title and lands.

As yet Lord Brockley was a hale and hearty man who needed little help to run the family estate and would have resented any changes that Brock might have wished to implement. They got on well as father and son, but not as partners in running the family affairs, and Brock had been dedicated to his army career. However, he’d retired from active service after a severe wound to his right leg at the last show in France. Most of the time his limp was barely noticeable, but the wound had at one time become infected and might have ended his life—and his father had only one son. He might not wish him to help with the estate now, but in a few years he would be expected to take over.

It was time, his father had told him, to marry and set up his nursery. If he did not wish to waste his time lounging at the clubs all day or attending the races, Brock needed a career. A man with an active mind and fit body, he had been brooding on his options for a while. He could set up a racing stable, go into a business trading in wine as one or two of his friends had, enter politics or take a post in the diplomatic service.

Not much choice if the truth be told. In time he would settle to the land and the care of a great estate, but he was young enough to want something more challenging. The diplomatic service was his first choice. Wellington had been pressing for an answer and Brock was almost ready to say yes, but he must first speak to Cynthia.