Mary Balogh - The Proposal

For three years Hugo had jealously guarded his privacy in the country, first at his cottage and then at Crosslands. It was his own domain, his refuge from the tumult of the world. He had never invited anyone to stay, even his fellow members of the Survivors’ Club, and he had only rarely invited neighbors for dinner and cards.

But things had changed.

Actually, everything had changed.

Come to my world, he had said to Gwendoline. And suddenly he had ached with the need to give her the chance to do just that, not for a mere afternoon of tea and conversation or an evening of tea and cards, but for … well, for a long enough spell that she would know what it felt like to be out of her own comfortable domain.

You will find that wanting, even loving, is not enough.

And he felt the desperate hope, the need to be proved wrong.

He could and would mingle with her world whenever it was necessary to do so, provided he could keep the reins of his businesses in his own hands and retreat to the country for several months of each year. But could she mingle with his world? More important, would she? Or, like Fiona, would she ignore them if they were to marry, pretend they did not exist?

He would not be able to bear that.

His family was important to him despite the fact that he had neglected them for years. He had rediscovered them lately, and he was not going to let them go again. Or marry a wife who would ignore them. And he had discovered Fiona’s family and liked them even though they were not related to him in any way. They were Constance’s family, though.

He had known about the upcoming anniversaries for a while. And he had been toying with the idea of inviting both families to Crosslands for a short time during the summer. It could not be for long. These were working people who could not afford to take lengthy holidays.

But why not invite everyone to Crosslands for the actual anniversaries? Why wait until summer? The possibility popped into his mind during the week following his last visit to Gwendoline. When he had told her she would hear from him, he had not known what she would hear. And when he had invited her to come to his world, he had not known quite how it was to be done.

But then he had known.

And everything had worked out wonderfully well. Despite the short notice, everyone was able to make arrangements to be away from their work for a week. And everyone was excited at the prospect of seeing his large country estate and being together there and celebrating two such grand events.

The only thing that remained to be seen was whether Gwendoline would be able to leave London in the midst of all the activities of the Season. And whether she would wish to. And whether she would.

It did not matter anyway, he told himself. He wanted to go for the sake of his family. It was time that he opened the whole of his life to them. And Crosslands and all he had there were a large and significant part of his life.

If Gwendoline could not come or would not, then that would be the end of it. He would not try to see her again, and he would put the pieces of his heart back together and move forward with his life. If she did come, on the other hand …

But he could not, would not think beyond that. He had told her that wanting, even loving, would not be enough for them. He was not sure he believed that. But he did not not believe it either.

And then he had a brief note from her, accepting his invitation.

His house, he remembered then, was like a barn. Although it was fully furnished, he had only ever used three rooms of it. The others were permanently shut up and covered in dust sheets. His servants could easily manage those three rooms and cater to his needs when he was there, but they would be quite overwhelmed by a house party. His stables and carriage house were well managed by a groom and his young helper. They would need more help, though, when a whole cavalcade of carriages and their attendant horses descended upon Crosslands. His park was barren, his flower garden bare soil.

Was there enough bed linen? Were there enough towels?

Enough dishes and cutlery?

Where would all the extra food come from? And who was going to cook it all?

But Hugo was not his father’s son for nothing. He advertised for a butler and chose with care from the seven applicants. After that, everything was taken out of his hands and he was made to understand that any interference on his part was neither necessary nor welcome. His new butler was a man after Hugo’s own heart.

Even so, he went into the country several days before his guests were due to arrive. He wanted to see what his house looked like without the dust sheets. He wanted to see what the gardeners the butler had hired had done with the park on such short notice. He wanted to make sure that the guest chamber with the best view had been assigned to Gwendoline.

Everything looked quite respectable, he was relieved and impressed to find, and the butler had turned into a tyrant of efficiency, who demanded hard work and perfection of everyone and got both—as well as total devotion, even from the staff members who had been with Hugo for longer than a year and might have resented the newcomer.

The day when everyone was to arrive was fine though not sunny. And everyone made good time. But that was to be expected of people who were up at dawn every day to work instead of sleeping off the excesses of the night before until noon.

Hugo greeted everyone as they came and turned them over to the care of his housekeeper.

And at last he saw his own carriage approaching the house and felt an uncomfortable lurching of his stomach. What if she had decided after all not to come? Or what if she had so not enjoyed the company of Fiona and Constance and Philip Germane, his uncle on his mother’s side, that she would insist upon returning to town without further ado?

No, she would not do that. She had the manners of a perfect lady.

The carriage drew to a halt before the house, and he opened the door and set down the steps. Fiona came first, looking far less wan than Hugo had expected. Indeed, she looked considerably younger than she had when he first arrived in London.

Then came Gwendoline, dressed in varying shades of blue, and succeeding in looking as fresh as if she had just stepped out of her boudoir. She looked into his eyes as she set her gloved hand in his.

“Lord Trentham,” she said.

“Lady Muir.”

She descended the steps. He always forgot about her limp when he was not with her. She did not smile. Neither did she glower.

And then Constance was out of the carriage, helped by his uncle, and was demanding to know if everyone else had arrived and where everyone was.

“We will all be gathering in the drawing room for tea in half an hour or less,” Hugo said. “Fiona and Connie, the housekeeper will show you to your rooms. You too, Philip.”

He shook his uncle warmly by the hand.

And then he turned back to Gwendoline and extended an arm to her.

“Allow me to show you to your room,” he said.

“I merit special treatment?” She raised her eyebrows as she took his arm.

“Yes,” he said.

His heart was beating in his chest like a drum.

Gwen had not known what to expect of Crosslands Park. It must be large, though, she had concluded, if it was to house a sizable number of his family members for almost a week, in addition to her.

It was large, even if not quite on the scale of Newbury Abbey or Penderris Hall. The gray stone house was square and Georgian in design. It was not very old. The park surrounding it was square too and must cover several acres. It was possible that the house was in the very center of it. The driveway that led through the park to the house was as straight as an arrow. There were trees, some of them in copses or woods. And there were lawns, which had been freshly mown. There were stables and a carriage house on one side of the main house and a largish square of bare earth on the other side.

There was something potentially magnificent about it all, and yet it all looked curiously … barren. Or undeveloped was perhaps a better word.

While the other occupants of the carriage gazed their fill and Constance made a few excited comments, Gwen wondered about the original owners. Had they lacked imagination or … what? She knew, though, why the property had attracted Hugo. It was large and solid with no nonsense about it, just as he was.

She smiled at the thought—and clasped her hands a little more tightly in her lap.

This was her test—her test in his eyes and her own.

Come to my world.

She did not know how it would work out. But she had rather enjoyed the carriage journey. Constance, who amazingly had never left London before, was exuberant in her enjoyment of the countryside and every inn and tollbooth at which they stopped. Her mother was quiet but reasonably cheerful. Mr. Germane made interesting conversation. He worked for a tea company and had traveled extensively in the Far East. He was Hugo’s uncle though he could not be his senior by many years.

What was it going to be like spending several days here? How different would he be in his own world and surrounded by his own people? How well would they receive her? Would she be seen as an outsider? Would she be resented? Would she feel like an outsider?

Lily had sat up late with her the night before she left. And she had told Gwen of the struggle she had gone through to transform herself from the wild, illiterate vagabond daughter of an infantry sergeant, wandering about the world in the train of an army at war, to an English lady, under the supervision of Elizabeth, who had still been single at that time.

“There was only one way to make it possible,” she had said at one point. “I had to want to do it. Not because I needed to prove anything to anybody. Not because I felt I owed Elizabeth anything, though I did. Not to win Neville back—I did not even want to do that after I discovered that we were not legally married after all. He was from an alien world, and I wanted none of it. No, it was only possible, Gwen, because I wanted it for myself. Everything else flowed from that. People, especially some religious people, would have us believe that it is wrong, even a sin, to love oneself. It is not. It is the basic, essential love. If you do not love yourself, you cannot possibly love anyone else. Not fully and truly.”

Gwen had known of Lily’s transformation, of course, and of her ultimate remarriage to Neville. She had not known the inner details of Lily’s struggles. She had listened, enthralled. And she had realized why Lily had chosen that particular evening to share her story. She had been telling Gwen that of course it was possible to adjust to a world different from the one with which one had been familiar all one’s life, but that there was only one reason that could make the change bearable or worth making.

She had to want it. For herself.

Yet the change in her case would surely not be so very great. Hugo was wealthy. He owned all this. He was titled.

This was just a house party, she told herself as the carriage drew up to the steps before the house. But she was nervous. How odd. She was always confident and brimful of pleasurable anticipation when arriving for a house party. She loved house parties.

Hugo was at the bottom of the steps. Master of his own domain. He did not wait for the coachman to jump down from the box and open the carriage door. He did it himself and set down the steps and reached up a hand to assist Mrs. Emes to alight.

And then it was her turn.

His eyes locked with hers as he held out a hand toward her. Dark, inscrutable eyes. Hard jaw. No smile.

Had she expected anything different?

Oh, Hugo.

“Lord Trentham,” she said.

“Lady Muir.” His hand closed about hers and she stepped down onto the terrace.

Mr. Germane came next, and he turned to help Constance down. The girl was all chatter and excitement.

There was to be tea in the drawing room in half an hour. The housekeeper was to show them to their rooms so that they could freshen up. But no, not quite. Hugo was to show her to her room.

“I merit special treatment?” she said as she took his arm.

“Yes,” he said.

And that was all he said. She wondered if he regretted inviting her. He could be relaxing now with his family if he had not. There were two wedding anniversaries to celebrate.