Mary Balogh - A Summer to Remember

“Dancing? A splendid idea.” He grinned and strode forward. “Why has no one thought of it before tonight? We do not have to wait for the birthday ball, do we? We will have the carpet rolled back immediately.”

The murmur rose to a faint cheer, and his grandmother smiled and nodded.

While Kit supervised two footmen in the task of rolling back the Persian carpet, Marianne wound her arms about her mother’s neck and wheedled her shamelessly into providing the music.

Eight of the cousins began the dancing with a vigorous jig, which aroused much laughter among them and applause from the spectators. The next dance was to be a Roger de Coverly, Aunt Honoria announced from the pianoforte. Kit extended a hand for Lauren’s and winked at his grandmother.

“Come and dance with me, Lauren,” he said. “We will show these young sprigs a thing or two.”

They led off the set, which boasted six couples this time. He had only ever waltzed with Lauren before. But she was an accomplished country dancer too, he soon discovered. She smiled and her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled as they moved down between the lines, she along the gentlemen’s side, he along the ladies’, twirling each member of the line about alternately with each other. It was only after they had led the lines around the outside of the set and had formed an arch with their hands for everyone else to pass beneath that he realized all other activity in the room had been suspended—the card games and the conversations. Everyone was watching, not just the dancers in general, but him and Lauren in particular. The newly betrothed couple. Kit with his beautiful bride-to-be.

He sensed approval and affection emanating from them. And he felt something a little warmer than contentment as he remembered her helpless laughter, her flushed cheeks, and her bright eyes this afternoon—and her softly acquiescent kiss.

He really must prevent her from breaking off their betrothal.

They were at the far end of the line again when the dance ended, close to the windows. Young Crispin Butler, fresh down from Oxford and fancying himself an experienced man-about-town, was already demanding a waltz tune of his mother, and the dancers were eagerly taking new partners.

“Miss Edgeworth?” Sir Jeremy Brightman, Doris’s betrothed, took her hand to lead her into the dance.

“Lady Muir?” Kit bowed to Lauren’s cousin, who was still sitting on the window seat. Too late he remembered her limp and hoped he had not just embarrassed her unpardonably. But she smiled and rose to her feet and set her hand in his.

And then Cousin Catherine came dashing up, all bubbling energy.

“Sydnam,” she demanded, grabbing his hand with both of hers, “do come and dance with me. You surely cannot intend to sit there all night.”

Kit froze. Catherine had never been known for tact or tender sensibilities, but even for her this was a howler.

“I beg to decline, Catherine,” Syd replied. “Ask Lawrence. He needs the exercise.”

“I can dance with my husband any night of the year,” she said. “I want you. You were always a divine dancer, I remember. Do come—”

“Catherine!” Kit spoke far more sharply than he had intended, unconsciously addressing her as he might have addressed a recalcitrant private in his regiment. “Can you not take a civil no for an answer? Syd cannot dance. He—”

“Yes. Thank you.” Sydnam was on his feet, his face pale and set, his voice quivering with barely suppressed fury. He bowed to their cousin and completely ignored his brother. “Thank you, Catherine. On second thought, I suppose I can shuffle about with sufficient competence to avoid banging you into furniture or other cousins.”

It was a tense, nasty moment, a brief flaring of passion, most of it unspoken, which had attracted the attention of everyone in the room. Kit was well aware of the awkward silence behind him, and then the rush of sound as everyone pretended they had not noticed anything untoward.

He closed his eyes briefly. He felt suddenly dizzy and even nauseous. He had been trying to help, to protect Syd from embarrassment. But he seemed to have accomplished just the opposite—and had been soundly rejected in the process. Again! The prospect of turning around to face the room, of smiling at Lady Muir and dancing with her as if the past minute had never happened, was so daunting as to be quite impossible.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, bowing hastily to his partner. “Please excuse me.”

He turned and hurried from the room without looking at anyone as he passed.

He turned upstairs rather than down, though he had no particular destination in mind. His room, where he could hide out for the rest of the evening? He was at the top of the flight when a voice stopped him.

“Kit.”

He turned and looked down. She was standing with one slippered foot on the bottom stair, one slim hand on the banister. He was feeling grim and humiliated— and grief-stricken, as if he had just lost all that was nearest and dearest to him. His first instinct was to tell her to go back to the drawing room. He was no fitting company for her or for anyone else at the moment. But he did not want to be alone, he realized suddenly. He could not bear to be alone.

“Come,” he said.

He watched her until she was halfway up and then turned to take a candle from a wall sconce. He knew where he would go, where he would take her. He did not wait for her to reach his side, but strode away from the bedchamber wing toward the western wing and the family portrait gallery, which stretched the full width of the house.

The door was kept locked, but he knew that the key was kept in a not-so-secret hiding place inside the large marble urn that stood on the floor nearby. He reached inside for it, unlocked the door, and stood aside while Lauren preceded him into the room. He locked the door behind them.

His single candle threw darting, ominous shadows across the floor and up the walls. It was quite inadequate to light up the whole gallery. And it was cold up here. Sometime during the evening the wind had come up. He could hear rain lashing against the windows. All Lauren had with which to cover her arms was a thin cashmere shawl. He strode along the room, shadowy, barely visible ancestors gazing silently down at him from their heavy ornate frames on the walls, and Lauren followed. Neither of them spoke until he came to the great marble fireplace in the center of the long wall, flanked by wide, velvet-covered benches with low backs.

A fire had been laid in the hearth. He knelt down and lit the kindling with the flame of his candle and then set it on the mantelpiece. He stood looking down into the feeble flames, listening to the crackling of wood, feeling the first thread of warmth.

He was reminded of the night before. There was a strong similarity of circumstances but a far different atmosphere. There would be no comforting and lulling exchange of stories tonight. Tonight he was staring deep into the abyss of all his worst and most frequent nightmares. The ones he had not told her about last night. The ones he had shared with no one for three interminable years.

Lauren, he sensed rather than saw, sat down on one of the benches. She made no attempt to speak to him. He had not expected that she would. She was one of a rare breed, he had learned. She was a giver rather than a taker. And God help him, he was about to take from her. He was about to use her as an audience, as he had begun to do last night. He was about to force her to hear what he was compelled to say. He had bottled it inside for too long. He would surely go mad—literally insane—if he did not tell her. He would not allow himself to consider the impropriety of telling such a tale to a gently raised lady.

“It was I who first suggested that Syd purchase a commission,” he said abruptly. “I had come to England on official business and dashed home for a week’s leave. I accused him of softness and inactivity. A military life would toughen him up and make a man of him, I told him. It was said as a joke. I did not mean it, and he knew I did not. I was inordinately fond of him—and he of me, more is the pity. But I had planted the seed in his mind, and before I knew it, he was urging our father to purchase him a commission. At first I joined the chorus of protest and told him not to be an idiot, that there were more important things for him to do than brandish a sword at Frenchmen. But when I saw that his mind was made up, I was—God help me, I was taken with the idea. When Mother pleaded with me to talk him out of it, I told her it was Syd’s decision, that I would not interfere. I could easily have done what she wanted. He would have listened to me. But I did not do it.”

Flames were licking about the larger logs wedged above the kindling. Warmth was beginning to radiate beyond the hearth.

“I was good at my job as a reconnaissance officer,” he continued. “It was a lonely, dangerous job, but I had the physical stamina and the mental fortitude for it as well as a well-developed love of a challenge. It was a job that needed a will of steel and a heart of flint. There was no room for fear, for indecision, for pity, for any of the finer sensibilities that a gentleman might permit himself in more civilized circumstances. Too many lives depended upon me alone. But I did it willingly and well. Honor and duty were all that mattered. They were right and good. I did not ever expect to have to choose between honor and love. They ought to be on the same side, ought they not? On the side of right? It should be not only possible to choose both but impossible to separate them. What would you do if they were on opposite sides? Which would you choose?”

He did not expect an answer even though he paused for several moments to gaze into the dancing flames. He had almost forgotten that he had an audience, except that he felt all the uncertain relief of finally unburdening himself to another human being. He would take any judgment that might follow. He would take any punishment. God grant only that it be harsh enough and painful enough to bring him some absolution—provided it was not everlasting, as the guilt was now.

“Syd persuaded Colonel Grant to allow him to accompany me on one of my missions,” he said. He did not want to continue. He could not continue. But neither could he stop. He leaned one arm along the mantel, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. “I don’t know how he did it, but he did. I raged and stormed at both of them, but to no avail. Grant was his usual inflexible self, and Syd merely went quietly and cheerfully about his preparations. Two things were wrong about that mission—three if one counts the fact that I had my brother with me. First, the nature of the task made it imperative that we travel without uniform. It was very rare. I had done it only two or three times before. Second, I had papers with me—usually there was nothing written, nothing tangible, but this time there was. If they had fallen into French hands . . . Well, they simply could not be allowed to do so, that was all. But on our second day out we became trapped in the mountains of Portugal by a French scouting party—something that had never happened to me before.”

He curled his hand into a fist and rested his forehead against it. His heart was beating so loudly he could hear it hammering against his eardrums.

“There was one slim chance of breaking out,” he said. “Syd was the one who saw it. If one of us created a diversion, something that would mean certain capture, the other might be able to get away. The choice of which of us would court capture and which would continue on his way with the papers was mine to make—I was the superior officer. Syd had no experience. Even if he had broken free, the chances were slim that he would successfully complete the mission. It had to be completed. Honor dictated that I do all in my power to serve the allied cause. Honor dictated that I be the one to escape the trap. Love dictated that I choose the more painful role. Which would you have chosen, Lauren?”

She spoke for the first time. “Kit,” she said softly, “Oh, Kit, my dear.”

“I chose honor,” he said, pressing his forehead so hard against his fist that he felt—and welcomed—pain. “God help me, I took the chance of escape and assigned my brother the role of scapegoat.”

From a position high in a mountain pass, after he had broken free of the encircling trap, he had looked back to see Syd being led away captive. He had continued on his way and had completed his mission successfully. He had been highly commended afterward, mentioned in dispatches, hailed as a fearless hero. One of God’s bizarre jokes.