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Authors: Mary Balogh
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to … to
dance
.” She tipped her head back. He suspected that her eyes were tightly closed. Then she laughed softly. “I want to dance. Only four months after my husband’s death. Could I possibly be more frivolous? Less sensitive? More lost to all decent conduct?”
He looked at her in some surprise. “Has anyone accused you of those things?” he asked her.
She lifted her head and turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Would not everyone?” she asked in her turn. “You are not married, Sir Benedict?”
“No.”
“If you had been and you had died,” she said, “would you have been shocked if your widow had wanted to dance three months later?”
“I suppose,” he said, lifting one finger to rub along the side of his nose, “at that point it would not have mattered much to me, ma’am, what she did. Or at all, in fact.”
She smiled at him unexpectedly and was suddenly transformed into a woman of vivid prettiness. And she must be, he thought, even younger than he had supposed when he walked into the room earlier—and decades younger than he had thought her when they first met.
“But even before my death,” he added, “I would have wanted to know that she would live again after I was gone, smile and laugh again, dance again if she so desired. I suppose that, being human, I would have liked to think that she would grieve for a while too, but not indefinitely. But could she not have remembered me fondly while she smiled and laughed and danced?”
“Will you come again?” she asked him abruptly. “With your sister?”
“You will surely be happy to see the back of me,” he said. For his part, he could hardly wait to make his escape.
“No one comes,” she said. “No one is
allowed
to come. We are in deep mourning.”
Her vivid smile was long gone. He wondered if he had imagined it.
“Perhaps,” he suggested unwillingly, “you would like to call upon my sister at Robland Park? It would be an outing for you and perfectly respectable. Or does deep mourning not allow that?”
“It does not,” she said. “But perhaps I will come anyway.”
It occurred to him suddenly that for the past few minutes she had been standing while he had been sitting—and that he had stayed far longer than etiquette allowed.
“Beatrice will be happy to hear it,” he said, reaching for his canes and slipping his arms through the straps. “Her own activities have been curtailed by the persistent chill she contracted before Christmas. I thank you for the tea and for listening to me.”
He could not thank her for her forgiveness. She had not given it.
He hoisted himself upright, aware of her steady gaze. He wished he did not now have to shuffle out of the room in his ungainly manner while she watched.
“We have something in common, you know,” he told her, stopping abruptly before he reached the door. “I want to dance too. Sometimes it is what I want to do more than anything else in life.”
She accompanied him in silence to the front door and the waiting carriage. Beatrice was already standing beside it with Lady Matilda. They all said their farewells,and the carriage was soon on its way down the driveway.
“Well,” Beatrice said on an audible exhalation, “
that
was a gloomy afternoon if ever I have spent one. I do not wonder if that woman has ever laughed, Ben—I am confident she has not. What I do wonder is if she has ever smiled. I seriously doubt it. She spoke of her father with the deepest reverence. I pity poor Mrs. McKay.”
“She asked if we would come again,” he told her. “I suggested she call on you at Robland instead. It seems, though, that neither receiving visitors nor paying calls is quite the thing for ladies in mourning. Was my social education incomplete, Bea? It seems a peculiar notion to me. But she did say she might come anyway. I hope you will not disown me for making so free with your hospitality.”
“She might come?” she asked him. “But
will
she, do you
dance
.” She tipped her head back. He suspected that her eyes were tightly closed. Then she laughed softly. “I want to dance. Only four months after my husband’s death. Could I possibly be more frivolous? Less sensitive? More lost to all decent conduct?”
He looked at her in some surprise. “Has anyone accused you of those things?” he asked her.
She lifted her head and turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Would not everyone?” she asked in her turn. “You are not married, Sir Benedict?”
“No.”
“If you had been and you had died,” she said, “would you have been shocked if your widow had wanted to dance three months later?”
“I suppose,” he said, lifting one finger to rub along the side of his nose, “at that point it would not have mattered much to me, ma’am, what she did. Or at all, in fact.”
She smiled at him unexpectedly and was suddenly transformed into a woman of vivid prettiness. And she must be, he thought, even younger than he had supposed when he walked into the room earlier—and decades younger than he had thought her when they first met.
“But even before my death,” he added, “I would have wanted to know that she would live again after I was gone, smile and laugh again, dance again if she so desired. I suppose that, being human, I would have liked to think that she would grieve for a while too, but not indefinitely. But could she not have remembered me fondly while she smiled and laughed and danced?”
“Will you come again?” she asked him abruptly. “With your sister?”
“You will surely be happy to see the back of me,” he said. For his part, he could hardly wait to make his escape.
“No one comes,” she said. “No one is
allowed
to come. We are in deep mourning.”
Her vivid smile was long gone. He wondered if he had imagined it.
“Perhaps,” he suggested unwillingly, “you would like to call upon my sister at Robland Park? It would be an outing for you and perfectly respectable. Or does deep mourning not allow that?”
“It does not,” she said. “But perhaps I will come anyway.”
It occurred to him suddenly that for the past few minutes she had been standing while he had been sitting—and that he had stayed far longer than etiquette allowed.
“Beatrice will be happy to hear it,” he said, reaching for his canes and slipping his arms through the straps. “Her own activities have been curtailed by the persistent chill she contracted before Christmas. I thank you for the tea and for listening to me.”
He could not thank her for her forgiveness. She had not given it.
He hoisted himself upright, aware of her steady gaze. He wished he did not now have to shuffle out of the room in his ungainly manner while she watched.
“We have something in common, you know,” he told her, stopping abruptly before he reached the door. “I want to dance too. Sometimes it is what I want to do more than anything else in life.”
She accompanied him in silence to the front door and the waiting carriage. Beatrice was already standing beside it with Lady Matilda. They all said their farewells,and the carriage was soon on its way down the driveway.
“Well,” Beatrice said on an audible exhalation, “
that
was a gloomy afternoon if ever I have spent one. I do not wonder if that woman has ever laughed, Ben—I am confident she has not. What I do wonder is if she has ever smiled. I seriously doubt it. She spoke of her father with the deepest reverence. I pity poor Mrs. McKay.”
“She asked if we would come again,” he told her. “I suggested she call on you at Robland instead. It seems, though, that neither receiving visitors nor paying calls is quite the thing for ladies in mourning. Was my social education incomplete, Bea? It seems a peculiar notion to me. But she did say she might come anyway. I hope you will not disown me for making so free with your hospitality.”
“She might come?” she asked him. “But
will
she, do you
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