Good God, itwastoo bad he had died.
They had met as young boys at Eton. Each had blackened an eye of the other when they came to fisticuffs the very first day. They had both had their backsides caned as a result, and they had been firm, almost inseparable friends thereafter. Len had even spent most of his school holidays at Candlebury, Northumberland being too far away for short visits. They had purchased their commissions at the same time and in the same regiment. Len had sold out six months before Flavian was wounded and sent home. Len had returned home on the death of his uncle and the acquisition of his title, as Flavian hadnotdone on the acquisition of his. In retrospect, their differing reactions to the new responsibilities their titles brought was perhaps the first small herald of the rift that came between them.
They would never see each other again now, never talk things through, never.... Well, there was no point in dwelling upon such thoughts. They were stranded on the opposite sides of death, at least for now, and that was all there was to it.
Flavian went to call upon the Fromes, well aware that perhaps his real purpose in going so soon and in going alone was to see Velma again, to try to sort something out in his mind, to try to put a tangled multitude of baggage behind him.
For a headache threatened whenever his mind touched upon that baggage. And that sense of panic he could never quite account for.
What there was to be sorted he did not quite know. She had broken off their engagement and married Len, and now, when she was free again,hehad married. He was safe from any renewed matchmaking schemes of their combined families. And they would have been renewed. Why else had Velma and her parents been awaiting his arrival at Arnott House a few days ago? Just as if the marriage of his betrothed and his best friend had been a minor irritant of a delay in their nuptials.
He was still not sure exactly how he had he felt when he walked into his own drawing room to find her coming toward him, a look of glad welcome on her face. It did notmatterhow he had felt. He was married to Agnes. But what if he really had married her, as his mother and sister had accused him of doing, to punish Velma? And himself. What sort of a blackguard would that make him in regard to Agnes?
He needed to work out some answers. And so he went calling—alone.
There were only ladies present when he was shown into the drawing room—Lady Frome and Velma, two sisters, Mrs. Kress and Miss Hawkins, and a young child clad in her frilly best to be shown off to the visitors. She was dainty and blond and pretty, with a strong resemblance to Velma at that age, and also a disturbing resemblance to Len.
The other two visitors took their leave almost immediately, and the little girl was instructed to make her curtsy to Lord Ponsonby before her nurse took her away. Then Frome himself wandered into the room and inclined his head frostily to Flavian.
There was a sudden sag in the conversation, which had centered about the child for a few minutes.
“I a-am sorry,” Flavian said, addressing himself to Velma, “about L-Len, I mean. I really o-ought to have written. It was b-bad of me not to.”
Had he already said this a few days ago?
She smiled at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Almost his last thoughts were of you, Flavian,” she said. “He never forgave himself, you know. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. We both thought it was something you would like us to do, and Mama and Papa and evenyourmother agreed. We did not believe... Well, your physician held out no hope for your recovery. But Leonard felt wretched from the first moment of our marriage until he drew his last breath. He believed he had betrayed you. Wewerea comfort to each other, but when we heard that you were recovering after all... Well, it was dreadful—for us. And wonderful for you. Leonard was so very happy for you. We both were. But... we had made a tragic mistake.”
Flavian had forgotten how soft and sweet her voice was. It wrapped about his senses, as it always had.
Len had never written to him. Perhaps he had found it as difficult to put pen to paper as Flavian had after Len’s death. He wondered how much his friend had been to blame for that marriage, and his mind blinked, as it had an annoying habit of doing from time to time, and then shut down again. There was the faint stabbing of pain above one eyebrow.
“You must not upset yourself, Velma,” Lady Frome said as her daughter raised a lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes and blotted away tears.
“It was Leonard’s dearest wish as he lay on his deathbed,” Velma said, lowering the handkerchief again, “that you would forgiveme,Flavian, and that you and I would...”
She bit her soft lower lip.
“There is n-nothing to f-forgive,” Flavian said.
“Ah,” she said with a sigh, “but obviously there is, or you would not have punished me so cruelly. Itiscruel, you know, and perhaps to more than just me. Poor Lady Ponsonby. She does notknow, I suppose? Whoisshe?”
“She is the daughter of a Mr. D-Debbins from Lancashire,” he said, “and the widow of a Mr. Keeping of the same county. And she is my wife.”
“Yes.” Velma smiled again and put her handkerchief away. “And I wish her well, Flavian. And you. I ought to bear a grudge, perhaps, but that would be unfair of me. I hurt you badly once, though that wasnevermy intention.”
Frome stood at the window, his back to the room, his hands clasped behind him, his stance rigid.
“And I expect you will have a happy future, Lord Ponsonby,” Lady Frome said, “now that you are well again and now that you are settling down.”
Flavian had always liked her. She was a comfortable, amiable lady whom Sir Winston had married, or so it was rumored, because her father’s fortune had rescued him from the considerable financial embarrassment his love of the card tables was forever bringing upon him.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
Sir Winston turned from the window and looked steadily at him but said nothing. He was less forgiving of the slight against his family and his daughter, his expression seemed to say.
Flavian took his leave, not sure whether his visit had cleared the air or made matters worse. But it had gone better than he had feared. Although Velma had all but admitted being disappointed, she had behaved with dignity and some generosity of spirit toward Agnes. Perhaps there would be peace after all between Candlebury and Farthings.
What he ought to do now, he thought, was go home in the hope that Agnes was back from her day of shopping, and tell her everything. Get it all off his chest and convince her once and for all that he had married her because he hadwishedto do so. She would probably not be back yet, though, not if he knew his mother and Marianne, and he could not bear the thought of being at home and pacing the floor, waiting for them to return.
