Yes, he was contented. Was hehappy, though? As his mother was happy? As Camille and Abby were? Three out of the four of them finding happiness with the perfect life partner was not bad, was it? Did not the common experience suggest, though, that it was too much to expect that the fourth would find a similar sort of happiness?
And there he went with the pessimism again.
Harry had still not recovered from his annoying restlessness when he read a letter from his mother at the breakfast table one morning a week or so after his return. She and Marcel had just arrived home too after spending a few weeks with Estelle and Bertrand, Marcel’s adult twins. They had spent Christmas with the aunt and uncle who had raised them after the accidental death of their mother when they were babies. Harry had the vague idea that their father had been largely absent during their growing years, driven by his grief to riotous living. Harry did not know the details or particularly want to. But whatever he had been in the past, Marcel was clearly a changed man now. He was, as far as Harry could see, an excellent husband and an attentive father. And a happy man, damn it.
Was the whole world happy except Harry Westcott?
But he wascontented.
His mother’s letter was full of cheerful news—until it arrived at what had surely been her principal purpose in writing. She wanted to know if Harry was planning to go to London for part of the Season, as she and Marcel were— and as Estelle and Bertrand were for the first time in a couple of years. It would be quite perfect if Harry were to come too.Wouldhe?
He would not. He cringed at the very idea.
He did go up to London now and then, if there was a good enough reason—a specific family event, for example, or the necessity to be fitted for a new coat or new boots. It did not happen often and he never stayed for more than a few days, a week at the longest. He could never leave soon enough, to be quite honest. Once upon a long time ago, immediately after his father’s death, when he had become the Earl of Riverdale and the instant darling of theton, especially the younger element of it, he had basked in the glory of his new social prominence and had set about sowing some pretty wild oats despite the fact that he was officially in mourning. Then the Great Disaster had struck as from nowhere and the whole big party had come to an abrupt end. It was a memory he didnotcare to dwell upon.
Now, ten years later, he had no desire to go back to London or to try to recapture some of that faded glory. He probably could do it if he wished. Despite his illegitimacy, he would still be received by most if not all of theton. He was just not going to do it.
But why did his life here suddenly seem so damnably dull? For four years it had been his haven. Almost his heaven.
Harry flung his napkin down beside his plate, got determinedly to his feet, and strode off to the library to reply to his mother’s letter without delay and make clear to her that he had no intention whatsoever of going to London this year. He wasnotgoing to have her and his Westcott relatives planning some grand surprise birthday party for him, which was probably why his mother wanted to know his intentions for the spring. Nor—ghastly thought!—was he going to have them playing matchmaker for him.
If and when he decided to marry, he would find his own bride, thank you very much.
He would get this letter written and sealed, and then he would go out and find something to keep him busy and use up some energy. There was never any lack of work to be done on his farm, and he was always willing, even eager, to participate in it. There was that card party to look forward to this evening at Tom and Hannah Corning’s house in the village. He would enjoy that.
But first …
He dipped his quill pen into the ink and attacked the letter to his mother.
Lydia Tavernor was seated in one corner of Hannah and Tom Corning’s parlor, listening to the conversation of the people around her but not, at the moment at least, participating in it. She was conscious of an inner welling of contentment as she looked about at the familiar faces of her fellow villagers and of a few people from somewhat farther afield. It was not exactly a party, and was not a particularly large gathering. Lydia was even more pleased, therefore, to have been included on the guest list for what Hannah had described as “an evening of cards and conversation with tea and cake.” The card games were over, and the guests were enjoying cake and pastries and tea while exchanging news and opinions and even a bit of good-natured gossip.
Sometimes Lydia felt a bit guilty about her contentment, even when it did not well up quite as abundantly as it did this evening, for she had been widowed only fifteen months ago and perhaps ought to be still prostrate with grief. It was what some of her neighbors might expect.
Her husband, the Reverend Isaiah Tavernor, had been the vicar here for only three years before his sudden death, but he had made a lasting impression upon the community both by his life and by the manner of his dying. He had been a young man—only thirty-three years old when he died—and handsome, vigorous, and charismatic. His eyes had burned with zeal in the service of his Lord and in his duty to the sheep of his flock. Apparently he had been a great contrast to the quiet elderly vicar who had preceded him, though Lydia had never known the Reverend Jenkins. Many people had considered Isaiah a welcome change. Some, it had seemed to Lydia, had even come close to worshiping him, almost as though they had put him in place of the very God he preached about. He had worked indefatigably for his church and his people. He had died by drowning while rescuing young Jeremy Piper from a river swollen and flowing fast and furious after several days of torrential rain.
The general opinion in the days of bitter shock and grief that had followed the tragedy was that Jeremy was a bad, useless boy who had defied strict orders to stay away from the water and would surely come to no good for the rest of his miserable life. Meanwhile, he had caused the death of a man who was goodness through and through but had now been cut off from doing the work the Lord had appointed him to do. No one had thought to suggest that perhaps the Lord had appointed him to save the child’s life, even at the sacrifice of his own.
Lydia’s shock and grief had been absolute. She had not collapsed or taken to her bed, but she had turned totally … blank for days afterward, moving about as though in a dream. Or nightmare, rather. For her whole life had revolved about Isaiah’s. He had always called her his helpmeet— almost never his wife—and that was exactly what she had been. His work had been her work. His beliefs and opinions had been hers. She had not known for days on end how she could continue without him.
Yet here she was now, continuing on. She was invited almost everywhere now that her official year of mourning was at an end. Most of the time, she supposed, she was invited for Isaiah’s sake rather than her own, for she could not be described as the life and soul of any gathering and never had been. She far preferred to listen rather than to talk. Though every conversation needed listeners, did it not? And in her experience far too many people preferred to talk, pausing only long enough during a conversation to be polite while someone else spoke before launching back into speech.
Not that Lydia was overcritical of talkers, especially those who just needed a sympathetic ear into which to pour their concerns, their aches and pains, or their loneliness. She was particularly kind toward and patient with those people whom others habitually avoided if they could do so without being too obvious about it—the long-winded bores and those, usually the elderly, who liked to tell the same stories they had been telling to the same audience for many years past. Lydia could always be relied upon to listen attentively and to respond as though she were hearing the stories for the first time.
No one was talking specifically to her at present. She was at leisure to listen to everyone and to look about and conclude that contentment was actually more desirable than active happiness. For where there was happiness, there was almost invariably unhappiness awaiting its turn. Extremes tended to be like that. They had a way of attracting their opposites, as though some cosmic balance needed to be restored. It was better and safer to settle for some position in the middle. Not that one could always choose, of course. Life was never that neat, nor its ups and downs that much within one’s control. But … Well, tonight she felt as though her life had turned out well for her.
She had chosen to remain in this place after her husband’s death because she liked the village of Fairfield and had grown fond of the people who lived here. She could have gone back home to her father’s house. He and her brothers had certainly assumed that she would. When Papa and James, her eldest brother, had come for Isaiah’s funeral and then accompanied her to his brother’s home for his burial in the family plot, they had expected to take her directly home with them afterward. It was their very assertiveness, perhaps, that had pulled her out of her dreadful lethargy. It would have been so easy to allow them to take charge—of her situation, of her life, ofher.They had been astonished—not to mention alarmed—when she had announced her intention of returning to the village and staying.
“Alone?” Papa had said. “Lydie! It is out of the question. You are not thinking straight—as how could you be? I cannot think of anything worse that could have happened to my dearest girl. Go get the bag you brought with you and come immediately, while you have James and me to give you our company and support and to protect you on the journey. The rest of your things can be sent for. James will see to everything. You must not addle your mind over it. You know this is what Isaiah would want.”
Oh yes, she had known that. And perhaps for the first time it had really struck her that Isaiah was no longer with her and never would be again. She had dug in her heels and insisted upon going home. Home beinghere.
She could have stayed where she was with Isaiah’s brother, Bruce Tavernor, Earl of Tilden, and his wife. They had been civil enough after the burial to offer her a home with them, even to urge her to stay, since she was their last surviving link with Isaiah. She had not been ungrateful.
“Though you will no doubt be going home with your father, Lydia,” her brother-in-law had said. “If, however, you would prefer to remain here to live with Ellen and me, even if just for a while, you would be very welcome. For Isaiah’s sake. It is what he would expect of us, and not without reason. We must all be proud of him, you know, even though it is difficult to feel anything but raw grief at present. He died a hero.”
His own grief had been profound, and Lydia had hugged him tightly and clung while Ellen wept into her handkerchief.
Both Lydia’s father and Bruce lived in mansions set in large private parks and run by a host of servants, both indoor and out. Both had offered her a life of ease and security, a balm to the great bruise that was her life. She had chosen instead to come back to Fairfield, though she had moved out of the vicarage a week after her return, of course, to make room for the Reverend Bailey, the new vicar, and his wife, who had both been unfailingly kind to her ever since. She had been fortunate enough to have been left enough money to purchase a small cottage on the edge of the village and have enough remaining with which to live modestly for the rest of her life.
