Simply Love (31 page)

“You look very lovely, my dear,” Lady Potford said to Anne as they descended to the small courtyard outside the Upper Rooms.

“You also look half frightened to death. Let me set your mind at rest. I have reserved the whole of the tearoom for our use and so you will not be confronted by curious strangers. I have reserved the ballroom too. I thought a little music might be pleasant while we eat, and the extra space will give the children somewhere to run about without disturbing us.”

What?
Anne exchanged a startled look with Sydnam. They were to have the whole of the tearoom to themselves, just the five of them plus the three children and the nurse? And the ballroom too? And there was to be music?

“I perceive, ma'am,” Sydnam said, “that you have arranged a small reception for us after all—small in number but large in space. We are delighted, are we not, Anne?”

“And overwhelmed.” Anne laughed and looked at Joshua, who had just handed Lady Hallmere down from their carriage. “Did
you
know about this, Joshua?”

“About what?” He raised his eyebrows, all innocence.

“About this reception for five adults and three children and the whole of the tearoom and ballroom in which to celebrate,” she said.

“Oh, that?” he said. “Yes. My grandmother is something of an eccentric. Had you not realized?”

They entered the building and made their way down a long, wide hallway. It was indeed devoid of people and noise. But Sydnam had been quite right—this
was
delightful.

Joshua paused when they arrived outside the door that must lead into the tearoom. A smartly clad servant stood waiting to open it.

“Grandmama? Freyja?” Joshua said, offering an arm to each of them. “We will lead the way in. Sydnam, you may bring Anne in after us.”

Anne turned her head to exchange a smile of amusement with Sydnam. She could hear the children coming along the hallway behind them.

The door opened.

For the first bewildered moment Anne felt embarrassed for Lady Potford. Obviously something must have gone terribly wrong with her plans—a mistaken day, perhaps. The tearoom, large and high-ceilinged and lovely, was actually filled with people. And they were all getting to their feet and looking toward the door and—

And then she and Sydnam were being rained upon by—by
rose
petals of all things in November.

And then there was noise to replace the unnatural quiet that had preceded it—voices and laughter and the scraping of chairs on the polished wood floor.

And finally, only moments after the doors had opened, she realized that wherever she looked the faces of the people were familiar.

“What the devil?” Sydnam said, clamping her hand harder to his side. And then he began to laugh.

“Sitting ducks,” Lord Alleyne Bedwyn said from close beside him. “You will be sorry you wore black, Syd.”

“But the petals look good in Anne's hair,” the Earl of Rosthorn said.

“Oh,” Anne said. “Oh.”

She had spotted her mother and father across the room, her father looking austere and pleased with himself, her mother beaming but holding a handkerchief close to her face too. Sarah and Susan were on one side of them, Matthew and Henry on the other.

And then she saw Frances and the Earl of Edgecombe, and then Miss Thompson—and beside her the Duchess of Bewcastle and Lady Alleyne, and then
Sydnam's
parents with Kit and Lauren, and then Susanna and Claudia and Lord Aidan Bedwyn with the Duke of Bewcastle.

But it was all a flashing impression. There was too much to see and too much to comprehend all at once. There were numerous other people present.

The Duchess of Bewcastle clapped her hands, and a silence of sorts descended on the gathering. Anne and Sydnam were still standing just inside the doorway in a pool of deep red rose petals.

“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Butler,” she said, bright and animated and smiling warmly, “you may have thought yourselves very clever indeed when you married in great secrecy a few weeks ago. But your relatives and friends have caught up with you after all. Welcome to your wedding breakfast.”

Looking back afterward on what turned out to be one of the happiest days of her life, Anne found it hard to remember the exact sequence of events after that first moment. She certainly had no recollection of eating anything, though she supposed she must have done so since she certainly was not hungry for the rest of the day.

But she did remember the noise and the laughter and the wonderful, heady sensation of being the focus of loving attention with Sydnam. She remembered being hugged and kissed and exclaimed over again and again. She even had a few clear memories.

She remembered Joshua bringing forward a pretty, guilelessly smiling young lady, whose free hand was flapping with excitement at her side and realizing that she was Prue Moore—now Prue Turner. She remembered Prue hugging her as if to break every bone in her body.

“Miss Jewell, Miss Jewell,” she cried in her sweet, childish voice, “I love you. I do love you. And now you are Mrs. Butler. I like Mr. Butler even if he
does
have to wear a black patch on his eye. And I am David's aunt. Joshua says so and Constance says so, and I am glad about it. Are you?”

And then she turned to hug Sydnam with just as much enthusiasm.

Anne remembered being hugged by Constance too—the former Lady Constance Moore—and realizing that they must have come all the way from Cornwall just for this occasion.

She remembered Frances shedding tears over her.

She remembered Lauren's happy smile and the young man she introduced—Viscount Whitleaf, her cousin, a young man who had her lovely violet eyes. He had come to Alvesley to visit the week after Anne and Sydnam left.

She remembered what Claudia said to her when they hugged.

“Anne,” she said severely, “I hope you realize just how much I love you. I have actually consented for your sake to be in the same room with
that woman
and
that man
. I feel as sorry for the Duchess of Bewcastle as I feel for the Marquess of Hallmere. She is remarkably sweet—but one wonders for how long under
his
influence.”

Anne remembered that Claudia and Miss Thompson sat together talking through much of the afternoon.

She remembered her father laughing and telling her what a splendid joke it had been to keep secret the fact that he had received a letter from Lady Potford on the same morning that Anne's had arrived.

She remembered her mother's happy tears—and Sarah's.

She remembered the cousins of Sydnam's who had been located in time and brought to Bath and were introduced to Anne—though he had to remind her of all their names the next day.

She remembered that for the first chaotic minutes children dashed noisily about getting under everyone's feet until someone arranged to have them all shooed into the ballroom. Anne suspected it might have been the Duke of Bewcastle—he had probably raised an eyebrow or perhaps even his quizzing glass in the right direction.

And she remembered Sydnam's bright and happy look, his laughter—and of course the impromptu speech of thanks he gave from both of them for such an unexpected gathering.

“You may all expect,” he said to much laughter, “that Anne and I will put our heads together over the winter when there is nothing else to do and devise a suitable revenge.”

But there was one part of the reception that was not at all jumbled in with all the other memories.

Music had been wafting from the ballroom all through the tea—or the
breakfast,
if one wished to humor the duchess. No one seemed to have been paying it much attention. But Joshua, seated close by, must have noticed.

“It was just here that we waltzed for the first time, Freyja,” he said. “Do you remember?”

“How could I forget?” she said. “It was while we waltzed that you begged me to enter into a fake betrothal with you, and before we knew it we were in a marriage together—but not a fake one at all.”

They both laughed.

“And it was here we danced together, Frances,” the Earl of Edgecombe said, “though it was not quite the first time, if you recall.”

“The first time,” Frances said, “was in a cold, dark, empty ballroom with no music.”

“It was heavenly,” the earl said with a grin.

“It would be a shame,” Kit said, “to have an orchestra and the use of one of the most famous ballrooms in the country and not dance. I shall instruct the orchestra to play a waltz. But we must remember that this is a wedding celebration. The bride must dance first. Will you waltz with me, Anne?”

But he was looking, Anne noticed, at Sydnam.

Sydnam stood up.

“Thank you, Kit,” he said firmly, “but if it is not the custom for the bridegroom to be first to dance with his bride, then it ought to be. Anne, will you waltz with me?”

For the merest moment she felt alarm. Everyone had hushed and was listening. They all would doubtless come and watch. She had not done a great deal of dancing herself, except at school, but Sydnam—

But Sydnam could do anything in the world he set his mind to—except perhaps clap his hands.

She smiled at him.

“Yes, I will,” she said.

She did not think it was her imagination that the guests gathered around them let out a sort of collective sigh.

She set her hand on Sydnam's offered sleeve and he led her into the ballroom. Almost everyone, it seemed to her, followed them and arranged themselves about the perimeter of the room while Kit spoke to the orchestra leader. The children were drawn back too, though most of them ran off into the tearoom to play.

And they waltzed together, Anne and Sydnam, three weeks after their wedding while their wedding guests looked on.

He took her right hand in his left, and she set her left hand on his shoulder. When the music began, they moved rather slowly and rather awkwardly until he smiled at her, drew her hand to rest against his heart, and so invited her to slide her other hand up behind his neck and thus stand closer to him.

After that they moved as one and twirled about to the music until other couples gradually joined them on the floor—Joshua with Lady Hallmere, Kit with Lauren, Frances with Lord Edgecombe, the duchess with the Duke of Bewcastle, the other Bedwyns with their spouses, Sarah with Henry, Susanna with Viscount Whitleaf, and Susan with Matthew.

“Happy?” Sydnam asked against Anne's ear.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, I am. Yes, I
am
. Are you?”

“More than I can say,” he said.

And they smiled at each other, their faces only inches apart.

No, Anne had no difficulty at all in remembering that part of their wedding reception.

She would remember it for the rest of her life.

Anne and Sydnam arrived home at
TÅ·
Gwyn with David on a
crisp afternoon in November. But, cold as it was, the sun was shining and Sydnam let the window down impulsively when his coachman stopped to open the gate into the park and informed him that he could continue on alone to the stable and coach house.

“We will walk the rest of the way,” he said.

And so they stood, the three of them, a few minutes later, watching the carriage drive down into the slight bowl of the park before climbing up the other side.

“Well, David,” Sydnam said, setting his hand on the boy's shoulder, “this is TÅ· Gwyn. This is home. What do you think?”

“Do those sheep belong here?” David asked. “May I go closer to them?”

“You may indeed,” Sydnam said. “You may even try to catch one if you wish. But I warn you that they are quite elusive.”

The boy ran off into the meadow with whoops of delight after hours of being cooped up inside the carriage. The sheep, forewarned, moved out of his path.

Sydnam turned to smile at his wife.

“Well, Anne,” he said.

“Well.” She was staring off at the house in the distance. But then she turned her eyes on him. “I am going to have to go over the stile, you know. I have to redeem myself. I was horribly clumsy the last time.”

“I did have the bottom step seen to,” he said.

He watched as she climbed then sat on the top bar and swung her legs over to the other side, warmly clad in her russet pelisse, her cheeks already rosy from the cold, a few strands of honey-colored hair pulled loose from her neatly pinned hair and wafting in the breeze, her eyes bright and laughing. His beautiful Anne.

He strode toward her.

“Allow me, ma'am,” he said, offering his hand.

“Thank you, sir.” She set her hand in his and descended to the ground. “You see? Like a queen.”

They stood face-to-face, their hands still joined, and gazed deeply at each other for several moments while her smile faded.

“Sydnam,” she said, “I know you did not want any of this—”

“Do you?” he said.

“You were contented as you were,” she said, “and I was not the sort of woman you would have chosen to marry.”

“Were you not?” he said. “And was I the sort of man
you
would have chosen to marry?”

“We were lonely,” she said, “and we came here on a lovely day and—”

“It
was
a lovely day,” he said.

She tipped her head to one side and frowned slightly.

“Why will you not let me finish anything I am trying to say?” she asked.

“Because,” he said, “you are still not sure I do not regret our marriage deep down, are you? And I suppose I am still not sure
you
do not. I suppose I ought to have told you something long ago. But at first I did not want you to pity me or feel obligated to me, and after that I convinced myself that the words were not necessary. Men do tend to do that, you know, Anne. We do not find it easy to spill our feelings in words. But I
do
love you. I always have, I think. And I
know
I always will.”

“Sydnam.” Tears sprang to her eyes. The tip of her nose was growing rosy, he noticed. “Oh, Sydnam, I
do
love you. I love you so very, very much.”

He leaned forward, rubbed his nose against hers, and kissed her. She wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back.

“You always have?” She tipped back her head and laughed at him. “Right from the start?”

“I thought,” he said, “that you had stepped out of the night into my dreams. But then you turned and fled.”

“Oh, Sydnam.” She tightened her grip about his neck again. “Oh, my love.”

“And I have in my pocket something that always lives on my person,” he said, “and may convince you that I have always loved you. If you even remember it, that is—or them, since there are more than one.”

She stepped back and watched curiously as he drew a handkerchief out of the inner pocket of his greatcoat and flicked open the folds with his thumb to reveal a little cluster of seashells within. He would, he thought, feel foolish if she did not remember.

She touched one forefinger to them.

“You kept them,” she said. “Oh, Sydnam, you have kept them all this time.”

“Foolish, was it not?” He smiled at her.

But a shout distracted them as he flicked the corners of the handkerchief in place and put it back into his pocket.

“Mama, look!” David called from the middle of the meadow. “Look, Papa, I have caught one.”

But even as they looked the indignant sheep pulled free and ambled away to resume the serious business of cropping grass and clover. David, laughing gleefully, went chasing after it.

Sydnam wrapped his arm about Anne's waist and drew her back against him. He spread his hand over her abdomen and hid his face against the side of her neck as she tipped back her head onto his shoulder. He felt almost dizzy.

“He called you Papa,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

He raised his head and looked around him at his home. All of it—the house and stables, the garden, the meadow, the circling trees, the boy chasing sheep, the woman in his arms. And he felt the future beneath his fingers in the slight rounding of his wife's womb.

“Are we mad,” he asked her, “standing out here in the cold like this when a warm house awaits us?”

“Utterly mad.” She turned her head to smile at him and kiss his lips. “Take me home, Sydnam.”

“We
are
home, love,” he said, releasing her in order to take her hand in his. “We are always home. But I'll take you to the house. I want to see if the morning room looks like sunshine.”

“And if the hall looks more cheerful without the browns,” she said.

They half ran down the slight slope in the direction of the house. They were also laughing. Their fingers were laced together.