Mary Balogh - A Summer to Remember

His grandmother was tired. There was none of her fierce independence tonight. Instead of clutching her cane with her good hand, she had one arm linked through Lauren’s and the other through his, and she was leaning heavily. But Kit knew it had been an extraordinarily happy day for her.

“Good . . . night.” She relinquished Lauren’s arm when Kit had opened her dressing room door and her dresser had come hurrying to assist her. “P . . . recious boy.”

“Good night, Grandmama.” He hugged her gently as she kissed his cheek.

“Good night.” She turned to kiss Lauren, who leaned down to hug her too. “Sweet . . . child.”

“Good night, ma’am. Happy birthday.” There were tears in Lauren’s eyes when she took Kit’s arm again.

“We have just danced together,” he said as they made their way back downstairs. “If we return to the ballroom, we will have to take other partners.”

“So we will,” she said. “It is the polite thing to do.”

“Would it be impolite to walk outside together?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Everyone has a partner for this set anyway.”

There were still a few other people outside, mostly the young cousins, who were chattering and laughing together in a group. Kit led Lauren past them, exchanging cheerful greetings as they went. They strolled without talking through the parterres and across the lawn below until they came to the little wooden bridge across the stream. They stopped there by unspoken assent and rested their arms along the wooden rail. There was the sound of water bubbling below, though it was invisible in the darkness cast by the trees. In contrast, the lawn and flower beds and house were bathed in moonlight.

Kit sighed. “A long day almost over.”

“But a wonderful day,” she said. “It has been perfect, has it not? Perfect for your grandmother and perfect for everyone else too.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

He could hear distant laughter from the direction of the house. And the faint sound of music. It was good to be alone with Lauren. She was a restful companion. He had not realized until recently how important a component of friendship the ability to be quiet together was. And to feel as comfortable as one felt when alone. No, more comfortable.

“Kit,” she said softly, “we did the right thing, did we not?”

He understood the question immediately.

“If you had come here alone,” she said, “you would be feeling now that you had been forced into a betrothal without any freedom of choice. You might always have resented it, and your family would have sensed it even if you had not put it into words. There would be awkwardness and friction and hostility whereas now there are peace and love and harmony. It was not wrong, was it?”

“It was not wrong,” he said, finding her hand with his own on the rail and covering it.

“After it is all over,” she said, “the harmony will remain here, and you will be free to choose your own future.”

“From tomorrow on,” he said, “I am going to be free to woo you more aggressively. I am going to do it. Be warned. I am going to convince you that the best ending for what had been started here is going to be our wedding. Happily ever after and all that.”

“Kit,” she said after a short pause, “I am going to be leaving with Aunt Clara and Gwen tomorrow.”

“No!” His fingers closed tightly about hers. Panic gripped his insides.

“It will be the best possible solution. You will surely agree when you think about it,” she said. “They are from my own home. They accompanied me here as my chaperones. They are eager to return home because Elizabeth is coming with the new baby. It will be the most natural thing in the world for me to leave with them. And your mother and Aunt Clara between them have assumed that our wedding will take place at Newbury. It will seem, then, that I am going in order to start the preparations. No awkward explanations will need to be made. By the time I write to put an end to our betrothal, your family guests will all have returned home and you will be able to break the news quietly to the earl and countess. And to your grandmother and Sydnam.”

Her voice was quiet and sensible. There was no trace of regret there, of pain, of any emotion whatsoever.

“Stay a little longer,” he said. “A week. Give me one week to persuade you. Don’t leave tomorrow, Lauren. It is too soon.”

“I have accomplished everything I came here to do,” she said. “And I have had my adventure, my summer to remember. There is no good reason to prolong it and every reason to end it. It is time, Kit. You will soon realize it for yourself.”

“Stay,” he urged her, “until we know for sure whether or not you are with child.”

“If I am,” she said just as coolly as before, “I will write to you immediately. If I am not, I will write to cancel our betrothal. I will wait until I know, Kit. I can do that just as easily at Newbury. And I really believe I am not. There were only two occasions, after all.”

One. There had been only one occasion when she might have conceived. “I hope you are,” he said, gripping her hand even more tightly. “I hope you are with child.” Did he? Was he so desperate that he wanted her to be coerced?

“Why?” she asked.

Because I love you. Because I cannot bear the thought of life lived without you. But he could not hang that albatross about her neck. It would be horribly unfair. She might somehow feel honor-bound to stay with him, to marry him, to give up the life she dreamed of, now so close to being in her grasp.

“It is because you have . . . possessed me, is it not?” she said. “As a gentleman you feel you must persuade me to marry you at all costs. There is no need—not unless I am with child. It was not seduction. What I did, I did freely. It was part of the adventure, part of the memorable summer. I will never regret it. I will always be glad that I—that I know. And that it was with you. And that it was so . . . wonderful. But you owe me nothing, certainly not a lifetime of devotion. You are free, Kit. So am I. Free!”

She made freedom sound like the most desirable state of the human condition. He might have agreed with her a month or so ago.

He tasted defeat. How could he argue against a plea for freedom?

“There is nothing I can say to change your mind, then?” he asked.

“No.”

He lifted her hand, set his forehead against it, drew a slow breath.

“Thank you,” he said. “For all you have done for me and my family, thank you, Lauren. You have been sweetness and patience and generosity and unfailing dignity.”

“And thank you.” She set her free hand on his arm. “For my adventure, Kit. For the swimming and riding and tree-climbing. For the—for the laughter. And for persuading Grandpapa to tell me the truth about my mother. That is a more precious gift than I can put into words. Thank you.”

He felt her lips against his cheek and fought the urge to pull her into his arms, to use his superior physical strength, to flatly refuse to let her go—ever.

“Tomorrow morning, then?” he said, his eyes tightly closed. “We will need to be cheerful, will we not? Regretful for the brief parting, but cheerful because wedding plans are being set in motion. Basically cheerful, yes. I’ll kiss you, I believe. On the lips. It will seem appropriate.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “There will be others gathered to see us on our way, I daresay. There will be others watching.”

“But now,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips, “we are alone together. For the last time. Good-bye, then, my friend. Good-bye, Lauren.”

“Oh, my dear,” she said, and for the first time it seemed to him that her voice faltered and emotion crept in. “Good-bye. Have a good life. I will always remember you with—with deep affection.”

He stood there for several silent moments, his back to the house, his eyes closed, her hand to his lips, memorizing the feel and the soap fragrance of her and the gentle aura she seemed to cast about him, before escorting her back for what remained of the birthday ball.

Summer had lingered on through the hot, lazy days of August and well into September. But it was finally giving place to autumn, it seemed. There was a distinct chill in the air and clouds were gathering overhead, low and heavy. It was going to rain.

She was in the very worst place she could be on such a day, Lauren thought. She was on the beach at Newbury Abbey. Not only on the beach, but perched on the very top of the great rock that appeared for all the world as if a giant must once have hurled it there from the cliffs above to land in the middle of the wide expanse of golden sand. She was sitting with a cloak wrapped warmly about her, her arms clasping her updrawn knees beneath its folds. But she was hatless—her bonnet lay at the foot of the rock, wedged into a narrow cranny with her gloves, where they would not blow away. The wind—no, it was more like a gale—whipped her hair back from her face and tasted of salt. The sea, on the ebb and halfway out along the sand, was slate gray and rough and flecked with angry white foam.

She was feeling almost happy. She allowed herself the qualifier of almost because she had accepted the fact that self-deception was also self-destructive. She would not deceive herself any more or hide behind any mask in an attempt to shield herself from the reality of her life.

Hence the beach, which she had never liked until recently, especially on a wild day. And hence her perch on top of the rock, which she had never climbed before today. Climbing it had been forbidden when she was a child, and so of course both Neville and Gwen had scaled it several times. Equally inevitably, she never had. Climbing it more recently had been unladylike. She could remember her shock at seeing Lily sitting up here one day, not long after her arrival at Newbury.