Mary Balogh - The Proposal

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.

The hall, not unexpectedly, was large and square, the cream walls saved from bareness by several large landscapes of indifferent artistic merit set in matching gilded frames. A wide staircase ahead of them ascended to a landing before doubling back on itself in two branches to reach the upper floor. The housekeeper and her group took the right branch while Hugo and Gwen took the left. And then the others disappeared down a long corridor to the left while Hugo took Gwen to the right.

The architect, Gwen thought, must have had a problem drawing curves. And yet there was a certain splendor about the house. It gleamed with cleanliness and smelled faintly of polish. Paintings similar to those in the hall lined the walls. It was all somehow rather impersonal, like a superior hotel.

The sound of voices, some quiet, a few more animated, came from behind closed doors.

Hugo stopped and opened a door at the end of the corridor. He drew his arm free of hers and stood back for her to step inside. He had not spoken a word the whole way. He had not even inquired about her journey. He looked quite morose too.

“Thank you,” she said.

Then he surprised her by stepping into the room behind her and closing the door.

Did he not realize …?

No, probably not.

Besides, his being here with her was not so very improper. Another door, presumably leading into a dressing room, was slightly ajar, and she could hear her maid busy within.

“I hope you will like the room,” he said. “I chose it for you because of the view, but then I realized that really the view is quite dismal. There has been no chance to plant the flowers, and last year’s were all annuals and have not come up this year. I’ll put it right by next year, but that is not going to help while you are staying here. I ought to have put you somewhere else—with a view down over the drive, perhaps.”

He had crossed the room while he was speaking and was gazing out through the window.

Even now, Gwen thought as she set her bonnet and her gloves and reticule on the bed, she could be fooled into thinking that Hugo’s morose looks denoted a morose mood. Yet all the time, while the carriage had approached, while she had descended, while he had escorted her up here, he had probably been consumed by anxiety.

She went to stand beside him.

Her window looked down upon that huge square patch of bare earth she had seen from the driveway. From up here she could see that the soil had been turned over and weeded in the past few days. Beyond it there was bare lawn with trees farther out. She might have laughed if she had not feared hurting him.