Mary Balogh - The Proposal

He bent his head toward her.

“Philip—Mr. Germane,” she said, “has asked if he may call on me in London. He wants to show me the botanical gardens at Kew and the pagoda there. He wants to take me to the theater because I have not been there in years, and to Vauxhall Gardens because I have never been there. Would it … anger you, Hugo? Would it be disrespectful to your father? Would it be distasteful to you since he is your late mother’s brother?”

Hugo had watched the partiality Fiona and Philip had shown for each other all week. He had watched with a certain pleasure.

Philip had married years ago as a very young man, just before Hugo went off to war, but his wife had died in childbed less than a year later. He had remained single since then. And Fiona, despite her recent depression and ill health and selfish clinging to Constance, had suddenly bloomed into a greater maturity. She had borne a heavy burden of unhappiness and guilt, but she appeared to be making a great effort to pull her life back together.

Who knew if a match between the two of them—if it came to that—would bring them lasting happiness? It was a question that was not Hugo’s to answer. But he could wish them well.

He patted her hand.

“Make sure he takes you to Vauxhall on a night when there are fireworks,” he said. “I have heard that those are the best nights.”

She sighed deeply.

“I am very happy for you, Hugo,” she said. “When Lady Muir first came to the house to take Constance shopping for clothes, I was all prepared to hate her. But I could not quite do it even then. And this week I have seen how completely unaffected her manners are and how she does not condescend to anyone but seems genuinely to enjoy everyone’s company—even Mama’s. And I have seen how much she loves you. You looked so gorgeous together when you were waltzing last evening, despite her limp. Your announcement at breakfast was not really a surprise to anyone, you know.”

He chuckled, remembering how he had steeled himself up to it.

The first few drops of rain drove them back indoors.

He looked in at the billiards room a short while later and watched a game in progress. When he left, Ned Tucker followed him.

“Are you busy?” he asked. “May I have a word?”

Hugo took him into the library, reminding himself as he did so that he was going to have to find somewhere to donate most of the ghastly blocks of books. Their absence would leave the shelves half empty, but he would rather that than what he faced now every time he walked into the room. He would replace them gradually with books of his own choosing and Gwendoline’s. Perhaps she would have some suggestions about what to do with the bare shelves in the meanwhile.

“It was bad of me,” Tucker said, “to accept your invitation to come here when you offered only because I was there when you invited Miss Emes’s family, and Mrs. Rowlands happened to say that I was like a son to her. You really didn’t have a choice, did you? But I ought to have said no. I said yes because I wanted to come, and I have enjoyed myself and thank you.”

“I have been more than happy to have you,” Hugo said, pouring them each a drink from the decanter on the corner of the desk and indicating two chairs over by the window.

It was still raining, he could see, though it was drizzle rather than out-and-out rain. The roads should not be too badly affected for tomorrow’s journey.

“Your sister is enjoying the spring immensely,” Tucker said, gazing down into his glass as he slowly swirled his port. “She has been mourning her father for the past year, and before that she was just a girl.”

Hugo waited.

“She has been mingling more with her cousins on her father’s side and their friends,” Tucker said. “With her own kind. And she has been mingling with the ton and going walking and riding with a number of gentlemen. I am sure they are all worthy of her, or either you or Lady Muir or both would put a stop to the association. She is too young and too—new to life to make any choices yet. Not that that stops a lot of people. But she is unusually sensible for her age, or so it seems to me. And then there is—”

He stopped to take a drink from his glass, his movements a little jerky.

“You?” Hugo suggested.

“I am who I am,” Tucker said. “I can read and write and compute. I own my own small house and shop. The shop brings in a steady income though it will never make my fortune. But people will always need hardware. I daresay I will keep the shop all my life and hand it on to my son when I die, just as my father did to me. I dabble in a few things out the back, mostly carpentry and some metalwork. I have made a few dollhouses and kennels and sold them for a nice little profit. I wouldn’t mind trying something a bit bigger. A shed, perhaps, though I do like to be able to use some imagination.”

“A summerhouse?” Hugo suggested. “A garden pavilion?”

Tucker considered.

“That would be grand,” he said, “though I don’t know anyone who needs anything like that.”

“You are looking at such a person,” Hugo said.

Tucker stared at him and then grinned.

“Really?” he said.

“Really,” Hugo said. “We’ll talk about it sometime.”

“Right,” Tucker said and returned his attention to the hardly depleted contents of his glass.

“I am not asking for her hand,” he said. “Nothing like that. I am not even asking for permission to court her. I don’t think she is ready for courtship from anyone. What I am asking …” He paused and drew a deep breath. “If the time should come when she is ready, and if she seems inclined to like me, knowing full well that she could do oceans better either with her own people or with the upper classes, would it be better if I pretended not to be interested, even perhaps if I pretended that there was someone else?”

This was a tricky one.

Or perhaps not so very tricky after all.

“Do you love her?” Hugo asked.

Tucker met his eyes.

“Something dreadful,” he said.

“Then I’ll trust you to do what is right,” Hugo said. “And I’ll trust Constance. I already do. The decision must be yours and hers. And her mother’s too if the time should come. I wouldn’t pretend anything, though, if I were you. It is best to be honest and trust her to make a wise decision.”

“Thank you,” Tucker said, and he lifted his glass and drained off the port within it. “Thank you. Now, where did you want that summerhouse to go? And how big were you thinking?”

Hugo glanced at the window. It looked as if the rain had stopped for the moment, though the clouds still hung low.

“Come,” he said. “I’ll show you. Better yet, I’ll go look for Gwendoline and have her come too to show you. Perhaps Constance will want to come with us.”

Actually, he could not wait to see Gwendoline again, to have an excuse to spend time with her. It was just that as the host of a house party, even if it was only a party of his family members, he felt obliged to spend time with everyone but his newly betrothed.

Sometimes life was a foolish business.

And sometimes it was more wonderful than he could ever have dreamed.

It was raining on the morning of their wedding day. Quite heavily.

Hugo, who did not believe in omens, nevertheless thought that sunshine, or at least fine weather, would have been more convenient for all concerned when there was a wedding to attend. But when the sun did come out just as he was leaving the house and the roads and pavements began almost instantly to dry, he thought that perhaps he did believe in omens just a little bit after all.

He had asked Flavian to be his best man, hoping as he did so that he was not about to offend at least half a dozen cousins. But Flavian still felt almost as close to him as his own heart. And he had accepted after only a long enough delay to raise his eyebrows and sigh deeply and deliver himself of a short, languid speech.

“Hugo, my dear old chap,” he said, “the world would take one look at you and conclude that you must be the very last man on earth to succumb to something as flimsy as romantic love. But any one of the Survivors would have been able to tell the world long ago that if anyone was likely to fall, it was going to be you. And this despite all your very sensible talk earlier in the year about finding a suitable mate. Yes, yes, I will be your best man. And I would wager that you will still be gazing at your bride with the eyes of romance when she is eighty and you are a few years older. And she will be gazing back at you in the same way. You are enough almost to restore one’s shattered faith in happy endings.”

“A simple yes would have sufficed, Flave,” Hugo told him.

“Quite so,” Flavian agreed.

All of Hugo’s family members were to attend the wedding, of course. So were George and Ralph. Imogen had surprised Hugo by accepting his invitation. She would come to London for a few days and stay with George, she had said in her letter. Ben was in the north of England, visiting his sister. Vincent was not at home, and his family did not know where he had gone. But he had taken his clothes and his valet with him, and the man had always proved quite capable of caring for all his needs. No one was worried—yet.

Gwendoline’s family had all been invited too as well as a few friends. But it was not to be a typical ton wedding of the Season. The church would not be overflowing with the crème-de-la-crème of English society. Large though the guest list inevitably was, they had both wanted an intimate atmosphere with only those closest to them to witness the occasion.