“Because I could not possibly allow you to turn thirty without being here to hold your hand, Harry,” Camille remarked as she kissed his cheek.
Andrew, the deaf one of her children, plucked at Harry’s sleeve and then held up all ten fingers, closed his fists, held up all ten again, and did it once more.Thirty.
Harry ruffled his nephew’s hair. “Your uncle Harry is getting to be an old man, alas,” he said, making sure the boy could read his lips, though he was not an expert at it.
Joel was carrying a sleeping twin on each arm and was thus unable to shake his brother-in-law’s hand. He winked at him instead.
They had brought with them Mrs. Kingsley, Harry’s maternal grandmother. His aunt and uncle, his mother’s brother, had come from Dorsetshire, though somehow they arrived with everyone else.
Abigail and Gil were the last to arrive, with their three children.
“We have a bit of a soft spot for Hinsford, Harry,” Gil said, wringing his friend’s hand almost hard enough to break bones after Abigail had hugged him. “It was here that we met and married.”
“The only reason you came, I suppose,” Harry said, rescuing his hand.
“There should be another reason?” Gil grinned at him.
It said a great deal for Mrs. Sullivan’s competence, Harry thought during those hours as he fought bewilderment over the invasion of his quiet, peaceful home and park, that she had a bed for everyone without exception in the house, though it was surely almost bursting at the seams. And presumably she had enough food and space for everyone in the dining room. Harry decided that he simply would not worry about any of it. The women’s committee and Mrs. Sullivan between them would have thought of everything, down to the finest detail and beyond. He would only cause confusion if he tried issuing orders. But he felt a bit as he had when he was brought home from Paris— totally helpless, that was, and rather as if his presence in his own home was redundant despite the fact that he was the reason for everyone’s being here, as he had been then.
Oh, and upon the theme of the house bursting at the seams—there were a few other guests, all strangers to Harry. They included Miss Leeson, who a month or so ago had become betrothed to Boris Wayne, Harry’s cousin, eldest son of Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas. Miss Leeson’s mother had come too, with another daughter, Miss Fanny Leeson. Great-aunt Edith had brought her great-nephew and great-niece, Gordon and Miranda Monteith, who had come to London from the north of England with their parents for a month or two and had been persuaded to spend a week or so of that time here. And there was Miss Sally Underwood, a cousin of Adrian Sawyer’s on his mother’s side.
It did not take Harry long to detect a theme.
If they could not matchmake for him in London at the great marriage mart, his fond female relatives would do the best they could here. Each of the three unattached young ladies was pretty in her own way and refined in manner and doubtless of impeccable lineage and accomplished in all the arts in which young ladies were expected to be accomplished.
If someone would just be kind enough to shoot him now, Harry thought when he was finally alone and dressing for the evening with more than usual care, that someone would be doing him a great favor. He grinned rather grimly at his image in the glass.
“A rather elaborate creation, Mark, do you not think?” he asked his valet as he saw what had been done with his neckcloth.
“Any London valet would weep at the simplicity of it,” Mark said.
The insubordination of valets! Harry viewed it with a jaundiced eye and turned away from the mirror.
Amid all the bewildering bustle of the past few hours, he had not for one moment forgotten about Lydia and what had happened to her today. There just had not been a single moment in which to do anything about it, however.
“We decided to surprise you for your birthday, Harry,” Grandmama Westcott informed him unnecessarily when he weaved his way across his crowded drawing room to make his bow to her. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying predinner drinks without his having to do anything about offering them. “I hope you are happy.” Her manner warned him that she expected an affirmative answer.
“Ecstatic. And certainly surprised, Grandmama,” he said. “You could have knocked me down with one of the feathers from your bonnet.”
He smiled at her when she looked at him suspiciously.
He had not asked yet what was planned for the actual day of his birthday, and no one had volunteered the information. Perhaps that was to be a surprise too. On the whole, he thought it best that it remain that way. It was going to be unavoidable anyway, whatever it was. Just as with a looming battle, all he could do was carry on with his life and face the ordeal with as much courage and fortitude as he could muster when the time came.
What the devil had happened to Tom Corning this afternoon? He had probably made his escape even before the first carriage rocked to a halt outside the doors of the house, and slunk home to his quiet tea with Hannah. Lucky devil.
And what was happening with Lydia? Perhaps nothing. Maybe by now the whole stupid storm had blown over for lack of fuel. Was there a mixing of metaphors there? Perhaps the procession of so many grand carriages through the village earlier had provided enough food for chatter and speculation to crowd out all else.
And just perhaps he was being very naïve.
Mrs. Piper had decided to whip up trouble—with some success, if Hannah had thought it necessary to send Tom here after school to warn him. Jeremy Piper was a notorious mischief maker, and it sounded very much as if he had been spying upon Lydia, no doubt in the hope of digging up some dirt to feed his mother’s love of a good salacious story to carry to her neighbors. Most of the Reverend Tavernor’s fervent women followers had been half in love with him, Harry had always thought. They were probably jealous of Lydia since she now had all the glory of being his widow.
Most people must realize what nonsense it all was, of course. What was so very scandalous, after all, about a single man kissing a single woman on her doorstep when he escorted her home in the rain—with his coachman as a witness? Or about his chopping wood for her? Or accepting refreshments from her afterward? But … Going to call upon her during an evening and staying a good long while when it was common knowledge that she lived alone? Dash it all, he had known there might be a problem if that ever became known. So had she. It was why she had ended the affair almost—though not quite—before it began.
Even if only a few people chose to be shocked and outraged by Mrs. Piper’s story, though—and actually there might be more than just a few who would bedisapproving, even if not fully outraged—Lydia’s life would be less than comfortable for a while. That realization gnawed at Harry all evening while he was besieged with news and chatter from his uninvited guests.
“Mama,” he said quite late in the evening, when a number of the guests, especially those who were not family, had retired after a long day, “may I have a word with you?”
“Of course, Harry.” She looked up at him with an expectant smile and raised eyebrows. Wren and Alexander and Bertrand Lamarr, with whom she was conversing, looked at him with interest.
