She had opted for the conversation between strangers, it seemed.
“Candlebury Abbey in Sussex,” he said. “The old part r-really was an abbey once, though you will not be expected to move from room to room along d-draughty cloisters or sleep in a b-bare stone cell. I do not spend much time in the country—or any at all, in fact. There is also Arnott House in L-London.”
“Why?” The inevitable question. “Why do you never go to Candlebury Abbey?”
He shrugged and opened his mouth to tell her it was too large a place for one man to rattle around in alone. But she was his wife. She probably ought to know a few simple facts about the man she had married.
“I still think of it as David’s,” he said. “My elder brother’s. He loved every inch of it, and he knew the history of it. He had r-read and reread everything about it he could get his hands on. He knew every b-brushstroke on every p-painting. He knew every stone and flagstone in the old abbey. He knew the p-peace of it all, the h-holiness. He always wished he could conjure spirits or ghosts, but the only spirit there is h-his. Or so I imagine. He died there at the age of twenty-five. There were four years between us. He was the viscount before I was, though it was becoming increasingly clear even before our father died when David was eighteen that he was not going to live a full lifespan. He had always been of delicate health—I was more than half a f-foot taller than he by the time I was thirteen, and a good deal heavier even though I was a g-gangly youth and all elbows and knees. We all understood he had c-consumption, though it was never spoken aloud in my hearing. Iwas, though, being f-firmly prepared to take over the position of v-viscount myself by the two of our six hundred uncles who had been named our guardians. No b-bones were made about it either. No attempt was made to be t-tactful or subtle. David was aware of it—how could he not have been? But he allowed it to h-happen without comment. I was his heir, after all. Even if he had been robust and healthy, I would have been his heir until he m-married and fathered a son. Finally I could s-stand no more of it. I r-refused to go to university when I was eighteen, as they had planned for me. I insisted on a m-military career instead, and David purchased my commission. He was of age by that time and my official guardian.”
There. That was a few simple facts, slightly distorted. He had not given the real reason he had wanted that commission and David’s real reason for obliging him.
But she had asked him why he never went to Candlebury. He had not really answered her.
“He lingered longer than anyone expected,” he continued. “But three years after I left, he was clearly dying, and I came home on leave from the Peninsula. Everyone assumed I was home to stay. I even assumed it myself. I was facing new responsibilities. But meanwhile he was d-dying, and nothing else mattered. He was my b-brother.”
He paused to swallow. She made no attempt to say anything.
“And then I left him,” he said. “I was d-due to return to the Peninsula, and I decided to go even though he was close to death. Indeed, I left home four days before I needed to and went to London to enjoy myself at a g-grand ball. He died the day after I sailed. I got the news two weeks later, but I did not go back home. What would have b-been the point? He was gone, and I had not been with him when it m-mattered, and I did not w-want the title that had been his or everything else that was now mine. I d-did not w-want Candlebury. So I stayed until a bullet through the head and a fall from my horse did what his death had not accomplished. I came home, or, rather, I was b-brought home—to London, though, not Candlebury, thank God.”
He waited for the recriminations. Why had he left his brother? Just to go to aball? Why had he returned to the Peninsula? Why had he not sold out and come home after the news reached him? He would be able to reply, though the answers made little sense to him. Even allowing his mind to touch upon the questions brought the threat of a crashing headache and of blind panic. It brought the danger of clenched fists and a lashing-out at inanimate objects, as if reducing them to firewood would clear all the fog from his mind and make sense of his past and excuse every dastardly deed he had ever committed.
But she did not ask any of the questions. She did not even ask her usual why. Instead she was holding both his hands in hers.
“Iamsorry,” she said. “Oh, poor Flavian. How wretched for you. I can only imagine having to face such a thing with Dora. No, I do notwantto imagine. But I think I too might have run away and tried to forget it all by enjoying myself at a crowded and glittering party. I do not suppose it helped, but I can understand why you did it. And why you could not stay. But you have not been able to let him go, have you, because you were not there. And you have not forgiven yourself either.”
She drew her hands free of his and got to her feet.
“Let me pour you some tea or coffee while they are probably still hot. Or would you prefer something from the sideboard?”
“Tea,” he said. “Please.”
He watched her as she engaged in the quiet domestic task of pouring his tea and placing a couple of biscuits on the saucer. This was destined to become a familiar scene to him, he thought, just such a simple activity as this—taking tea with his wife. Perhaps there was peace to be had after all.
And absolution. She did not have the power to give it, but she had comforted him anyway. He had left out whole chunks of information, though. It was all much worse even than he had made it sound.
“Tell me about the rest of your family,” she said as she seated herself beside him, her own cup and saucer in hand. She smiled. “Sixhundreduncles?”
“There is my mother,” he said, “and one sister, Marianne, Lady Shields. Oswald, Lord Shields, her husband. Two nephews and a niece. Sixthousandaunts, uncles, and c-cousins at the last count—did I say six hundred? We will go to L-London first when we leave here, and you can meet some of them. There are other things to be done there too. Maybe we will go to C-Candlebury for Easter. My mother is there and my s-sister and her family. I will write to my mother and w-warn her to expect us.”
He ought to take Agnes straight to Candlebury, he supposed. She needed to do a mountain of shopping, but it could possibly be delayed until after Easter, when they moved to London for the Season with the rest of the fashionable world. And sheoughtto be there for the Season, perish the thought. As his viscountess she would need to be introduced to theton, perhaps even presented at court. Sometimes one could wish that reality in the form of the proprieties did not have to intrude quite so soon or so often upon one’s life.
He had ignored reality when he had dashed off for the license and dashed back again to marry her.
She lifted her teacup to her lips. There was a very slight tremor in her hand, he thought.
“Your mother and sister will be upset with you,” she said. “And with me. I am not a very eligible bride for Viscount Ponsonby.”
They would be more upset than she realized. They would be predisposed to dislike her no matter who she was, simply because she was not Velma. He ought to have been more forthcoming with her, but it was too late now—too late for her to change her mind about marrying him, anyway. He must explain a few things before they went to Candlebury, though. It would not be fair to allow her to walk blind into that potentially explosive situation.
But he would do that later. Enough about him.
“Nonsense,” he said. “And what about your father? Will he be upset that I did not apply to him for your hand but rushed you into m-marriage even before he knew about me? I must write to him too.”
“He would appreciate it, I am sure,” she said. “Though I did write to him this morning, and to my brother. I am sure they will both be pleased as well as surprised. They will see that I have done very well for myself.”
“Even without s-setting eyes upon me?”
“When theydo, they may change their minds.” Her eyes twinkled at her own joke.
