“He expected to inherit, then,” she said. “Is he still living in your home?”
“Yes.” There was a slight hesitation before he continued. “He is an excellent steward.”
She turned her head to look at his profile. “And do you spend most of your time there too,” she asked, “now that you have recovered?”
“No.”
He did not elaborate. He did not need to. Obviously his brother had usurped his home and his estates and had made it difficult for Sir Benedict to oust him by doing an excellent job of running them. At least, that was what she guessed must have happened.
“Do you suppose,” she asked after a brief silence, “there is anyone on this earth for whom life is easy?”
He turned his face toward her and regarded her curiously. “One does tend to assume that life must be far easier for others than it ever is for oneself,” he said. “I suspect it rarely is. I daresay life was not meant to be easy.”
“How very unkind on the part of whoever invented life.”
They exchanged smiles, and she realized that she was enjoying this slightly improper visit more than she could have expected. He was really quite a pleasant companion.
“Life has been difficult for you for a long time,” he said. “It will get better, I daresay, once the pain of your husband’s passing has receded more. What do you plan to do when your mourning period is over?”
“I will make an effort to become better acquainted with my neighbors,” she told him. “I will try to make real friends among them and to find useful ways to spend my time.”
It sounded dull enough. In reality, it would be infinitely more delightful than anything had yet been in her adult life—if she disregarded the dizzy euphoria of the early months of her marriage.
“Will Lady Matilda remain with you?” he asked.
“Heaven forbid!” she exclaimed before she could stop herself. She set the fingertips of one hand over her mouth and gazed ruefully at him. “No, I believe she will feel obliged to return home to care for her mother. The Countess of Heathmoor suffers with palpitations and her nerves. We have an uneasy alliance, I am afraid, Matilda and I, and it becomes more uneasy by the day now that the early numbness of my bereavement has worn off. Matilda is so very correct in all she says and does, and I am sometimes a trial to her.”
“And she to you?” He was smiling again. “You will not go with her to your father-in-law’s home, then?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I lived there for a year after Matthew’s regiment was sent to the Peninsula.” She only just stopped herself from saying more.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I would not wish to return,” she said. “And I have no doubt my father-in-law shares my sentiments.”
“I do not have an acquaintance with the Earl of Heathmoor,” Sir Benedict said.
It was not surprising. When he went to London, that den of all iniquity, the earl divided his time between the House of Lords and his clubs. He rarely attended any of the entertainments of the Season, and his womenfolk were not permitted to attend any. As soon as the spring session ended, he withdrew to Leyland and stayed there until duty called him forth again. He attended the Church of England, but one would never guess it from his attitudes and behavior. He was the quintessential Puritan. Anything that smacked of pleasure must by its very nature be sinful. Anything that ran counter to his sober principles and rules must be of the devil, and anyone who disobeyed him was the devil’s spawn. He ruled his family with an iron fist, though to be fair, physical violence was rarely if ever necessary.
“I do not believe you would enjoy such an acquaintance,” she said.
“You may rely upon my discretion not to tell anyone you just said that, ma’am,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. But he continued to look at her, and the smile faded from all but his eyes. “When I spent those years at Penderris Hall with my fellow Survivors, I had six confidants. They understood my thoughts and feelings because they were experiencing similar ones. They knew when to advise, when to laugh at me or cajole, when merely to listen. They knew when to draw close and when to keep their distance. I believe it was only after I had left there that I fully understood how blessed I had been—and still am. I can say anything in the world to those friends, and they can say anything in the world to me without fearing censure and with the sure knowledge that what is said will remain confidential. We all need people to whom we can speak freely. I have my sister too. We have always been close even though she is five years my senior. The older we get, however, the less wide that gap appears.”
Was he telling her that he knew and understood all the things she had not put into words? That he understood her loneliness and sense of isolation? She only partly understood them herself. She had always been lonely and had always denied it, even to herself. To admit it would be to allow self-pity a toehold in her consciousness. And there was something almost shameful about loneliness, as if one must be unlovable as well as unloved.
“I envy you,” she said. “It must be lovely to have close friends.”
Too late she realized what she had admitted. For surely Matthew ought to have been such a friend.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that I must already have committed that dreadful social faux pas of outstaying my welcome. We must have been sitting here for close to an hour. Matilda will be having forty fits. Perhaps forty-four if she ever discovers that Lady Gramley was not here.”
She got to her feet and waited for him to rise too.
“Do you ride?” he asked as they began the slow walk up to the terrace.
“I learned as a girl,” she told him, “though I did not have the chance to ride often. My father owned only the ancient beloved mare that pulled our gig at a speed roughly equivalent to a brisk stroll. Matthew insisted I ride more often after we were married, and I became quite proficient in the saddle, though it was not something that was encouraged when I was at Leyland. I have not ridden since I came to Bramble Hall.”
“There are several horses in the stables here,” he said. “Bea was commenting just yesterday that they are not exercised as often as they ought to be. She was indisposed over much of the winter and has only now been cleared for regular activity. Will you ride with me one day? Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”
