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Authors: Mary Balogh
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suppose?”
Ben shrugged for answer. But he recalled the unexpected passion with which she had told him that she wanted to
live
. That infamous stroll in the meadow had probably been her way of breaking loose, at least for a short while. And he had ruined it for her.
“Did you make your apology?” Beatrice asked him.
“I did.” He did not add that forgiveness had not been explicitly granted.
“Then duty is satisfied for now,” she said. “It is a huge relief, I must say. And perhaps they will not come.”
“She wants to dance,” Ben said.
“What?” She turned her head to frown at him. “At the assembly next week, do you mean?”
“No. She wants to
dance
, Bea. I do too.
I
want to dance.”
She tipped her head slightly to one side. “We will certainly go to the assembly if you feel up to it,” she said, “though I doubt you will be able to dance to even themost stately of the tunes, Ben. You do very well walking with your canes. I am prouder of you than I can possibly say. But dancing? I think it wisest to put it from your mind, dearest, and concentrate upon what you
can
do.”
Ah, literal-minded Bea! He did not try to explain.
5
S amantha scarcely set foot over the doorstep for the rest of the week. It rained almost without ceasing—though that was not strictly accurate. She might almost have enjoyed an honest-to-goodness rain. This was drizzle and mist and heavy gray skies and chill temperatures. Pea soup weather, she could remember her mother calling it, the sort of weather that seeped beneath doors and around window frames even when they were tightly shut and made one feel damp and cold and miserable despite a fire crackling in the hearth and a woolen shawl drawn about one’s shoulders.
She did not even go to church on Sunday, a rare omission. Matilda had a head cold as well as one of her headaches and submitted to being sent back to bed with a hot brick for her feet. Samantha might have gone to church alone, as she had done for five years, but Matilda became agitated when she suggested it, and she was actually quite glad to avail herself of the excuse not to go out.
She had seen no one but Matilda and the servants since Tuesday. The visit of Lady Gramley and Sir Benedict Harper seemed weeks ago rather than merely days. But when she had broached the idea of their driving over to Robland Park one day next week to return the visit, Matilda had looked pruneish, as Samantha had fully expected she would. It was a courtesy to pay anoccasional call upon a neighbor in mourning, she had explained, but no one would expect a return visit. Indeed, most people of any gentility would be surprised and even shocked if it happened.
Samantha simply did not believe her. Not any longer. And even if Matilda was right about social expectations, how could she possibly submit to remaining inside the darkened house for another eight months with only the occasional foray into the garden for fresh air and one weekly attendance at church? She would go out of her mind with the tedium of it.
She was going to pay that return call, she decided between journeys up and down stairs as she tended to the invalid, a long-familiar role that did nothing to lift her spirits, though she was always careful to be cheerful when she was in her sister-in-law’s room and seeing to her comfort by turning and plumping her pillows or straightening the bedcovers or moving her glass of water closer to her hand or laying a cool cloth on her fevered brow or closing the almost invisible gap between the curtains that was letting in a flood of hurtful light.
She was going to go to Robland Park even if it meant going alone. Indeed, she would far prefer to go without Matilda. Good heavens, she had allowed herself to become a virtual prisoner in her own home since Matthew’s death. And she had somehow relinquished her role as lady of the house.
She liked Lady Gramley, who was refined and elegant with the easy manners of a true lady. She had
Ben shrugged for answer. But he recalled the unexpected passion with which she had told him that she wanted to
live
. That infamous stroll in the meadow had probably been her way of breaking loose, at least for a short while. And he had ruined it for her.
“Did you make your apology?” Beatrice asked him.
“I did.” He did not add that forgiveness had not been explicitly granted.
“Then duty is satisfied for now,” she said. “It is a huge relief, I must say. And perhaps they will not come.”
“She wants to dance,” Ben said.
“What?” She turned her head to frown at him. “At the assembly next week, do you mean?”
“No. She wants to
dance
, Bea. I do too.
I
want to dance.”
She tipped her head slightly to one side. “We will certainly go to the assembly if you feel up to it,” she said, “though I doubt you will be able to dance to even themost stately of the tunes, Ben. You do very well walking with your canes. I am prouder of you than I can possibly say. But dancing? I think it wisest to put it from your mind, dearest, and concentrate upon what you
can
do.”
Ah, literal-minded Bea! He did not try to explain.
5
S amantha scarcely set foot over the doorstep for the rest of the week. It rained almost without ceasing—though that was not strictly accurate. She might almost have enjoyed an honest-to-goodness rain. This was drizzle and mist and heavy gray skies and chill temperatures. Pea soup weather, she could remember her mother calling it, the sort of weather that seeped beneath doors and around window frames even when they were tightly shut and made one feel damp and cold and miserable despite a fire crackling in the hearth and a woolen shawl drawn about one’s shoulders.
She did not even go to church on Sunday, a rare omission. Matilda had a head cold as well as one of her headaches and submitted to being sent back to bed with a hot brick for her feet. Samantha might have gone to church alone, as she had done for five years, but Matilda became agitated when she suggested it, and she was actually quite glad to avail herself of the excuse not to go out.
She had seen no one but Matilda and the servants since Tuesday. The visit of Lady Gramley and Sir Benedict Harper seemed weeks ago rather than merely days. But when she had broached the idea of their driving over to Robland Park one day next week to return the visit, Matilda had looked pruneish, as Samantha had fully expected she would. It was a courtesy to pay anoccasional call upon a neighbor in mourning, she had explained, but no one would expect a return visit. Indeed, most people of any gentility would be surprised and even shocked if it happened.
Samantha simply did not believe her. Not any longer. And even if Matilda was right about social expectations, how could she possibly submit to remaining inside the darkened house for another eight months with only the occasional foray into the garden for fresh air and one weekly attendance at church? She would go out of her mind with the tedium of it.
She was going to pay that return call, she decided between journeys up and down stairs as she tended to the invalid, a long-familiar role that did nothing to lift her spirits, though she was always careful to be cheerful when she was in her sister-in-law’s room and seeing to her comfort by turning and plumping her pillows or straightening the bedcovers or moving her glass of water closer to her hand or laying a cool cloth on her fevered brow or closing the almost invisible gap between the curtains that was letting in a flood of hurtful light.
She was going to go to Robland Park even if it meant going alone. Indeed, she would far prefer to go without Matilda. Good heavens, she had allowed herself to become a virtual prisoner in her own home since Matthew’s death. And she had somehow relinquished her role as lady of the house.
She liked Lady Gramley, who was refined and elegant with the easy manners of a true lady. She had
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