Chapter Five #2
On Guy Fawkes Night in November, Alden and the Griffin family, with Harvey, stood with other revelers on the Heath, the flames of many bonfires driving away the chill.
There was enough distraction that Alden could draw Clara away from her sisters and parents, leading her and Harvey along a less-trodden path toward trees that sheltered them from the wind.
He’d brought along a lantern, wanting to prove to Clara that, yes, he could be practical, and it glowed on the branches bending over them.
Harvey, whose ribs no longer showed and whose coat was now sleek and clean, pranced and jumped at the end of his lead. When they were far away enough from the fires and celebrations, Alden unhooked the line from his collar.
They often let Harvey run while they were out for their walks, and he never strayed far from Clara. He’d gambol and dance, chase a rabbit or two to make certain they knew he was a hunting dog, and then rush back to Clara and Alden, barking in delight.
Tonight he scampered off into the darkness but soon reappeared, circled Clara and Alden, and flopped into the grass next to them, panting.
Alden turned Clara to face him and kissed her in the light of the twinkling lantern.
He hadn’t been able to steal many kisses from her since the night they’d rescued Harvey, and this one sparked need through his body. She tasted sweet and of excitement, putting her arms around him to kiss him thoroughly in return.
Alden needed this woman as he’d never needed anything else in his life.
He eased the kiss to its close and traced her cheek. “Clara.” Alden’s throat closed but he drew a breath and threw caution to the wind. “I love you.”
“Oh.” Clara stared at him, eyes wide, and Alden’s heart sank. He’d gone too far, presumed too much.
“You don’t have to—” he began.
“Good, because I love you too,” Clara said, her smile warm.
She squeezed his hands, and the last shadows in Alden’s heart splintered and fell away.
Harvey stared up at him, as though waiting for what he would do next.
“Will you marry me, Clara?” Alden asked in a rush. “I know you’ll say no, but please, will you consider it?”
Clara’s smile vanished, and she took a step back from him. “Why do you think I’ll say no?”
A few shadows crept back. “Because you immediately negate everything I suggest.”
“I do not,” she said with conviction. “I think over what you say instead of gushing that you are the most intelligent man of my acquaintance like some foolish, twittering female.”
Harvey’s head swiveled in her direction.
“You are already disagreeing,” Alden pointed out. “And I’d think you growing ill if you ever gushed.”
Harvey looked back at Alden.
“I am not disagreeing. You didn’t give me a chance to answer before you presumed I’d say no.”
“Then answer,” Alden growled. “Go ahead. Do.”
He fell silent as both he and Harvey gazed again at Clara. They waited, Harvey with ears pricked, Alden’s heart pounding swiftly.
Clara’s mouth softened. “Alden, you ridiculous man. Of course I’ll marry you.”
Alden stilled, anything he meant to retort dying on his lips. Had she truly just said—
Harvey leapt to his feet, tail moving rapidly. Not, Alden decided after a dazed moment, because he knew that something incredibly wonderful had just happened, but because Emily and Anne, followed by Lord and Lady Duxford, were climbing up the hill.
“Here you all are,” Emily proclaimed. “We saw the most beautiful fireworks. You missed them.”
Alden hadn’t missed anything, as the most spectacular event of the night had occurred under this stand of trees.
He knew he should announce the engagement, thank Clara for accepting, and ask her father for his blessing, but he could only stand mutely, reaching to enclose Clara’s hand in his.
She immediately came to his side, sliding her arm through his and leaning her fine warmth against him.
“What do you think, Mama, Papa?” Clara asked, jubilant. “Alden has asked me to marry him, and I have said yes.”
“What?” Emily shrieked. “Oh my. That is splendid. Splendid.” She and Anne seized each other’s arms and began bouncing in a circle and squealing, skirts flying.
“That is indeed splendid,” Lady Duxford said. “How lovely of you, Alden.”
Lord Duxford gave Alden a warm nod and turned a fond smile on Clara. “Excellent news. I’ll have the banns read right away.”
“Yes, indeed, but they shouldn’t marry until spring,” Lady Duxford said.
“December and January are far too cold, and you can’t rely on the weather in February and March.
April either. Late May would be best. Then we can have the wedding breakfast in the garden.
The early roses should be out by then. Do think about guests, Alden—besides your mother and father, I mean—and give me your list as soon as you are able. By next week should suffice.”
“Do not frighten him away, Mama.” Clara clutched Alden’s arm in mock alarm. “Six months is plenty of time to organize guest lists.”
Lady Duxford’s eyes widened. “No, indeed it is not. I must begin at once. Emily, Anne, cease capering about. We must return home and lay plans.”
She started past Clara and Alden in the direction of the Griffin house, then, at the last moment, turned and crushed Clara in an embrace. Clara rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, her eyes shining with tears.
Lady Duxford released her daughter and surprised Alden with an embrace for him. “I am so happy for you both,” she whispered into his ear. She drew back and patted his arm. “Welcome to the family. Now, I must be off. Emily, Anne, come along.”
Anne and Emily, hands entwined, scurried along after her, waving at Clara and Alden as they passed.
Lord Duxford stepped forward and shook Alden’s hand. “Well done, my boy. She’ll look after you excellently.”
“Papa,” Clara admonished him.
Lord Duxford drew her into a tight hug. “You will look after each other.” He touched her cheek, then laid a hand on Alden’s shoulder, gripping tightly. “I really must have that conversation with your father.”
He spoke offhandedly, but Alden saw his eyes bright with emotion.
Alden deepened his vow to himself to allow nothing bad to happen to Clara, ever. He’d failed a friend, but he’d keep his wife safe and happy.
Clara slid her hand into his as they watched her family speed happily down the hill toward the cottages that lined the Heath. Harvey sat on his haunches next to them, content to stay here in the darkness with Alden and Clara.
“You really should be thinking of your guest list,” she informed Alden. “Mama will stand over you if you don’t hand it to her at the beginning of next week.”
Alden chuckled, enjoying the mirth. “Then I will begin it tonight. Mine will not be a long list, I believe, though my mother might add much to it.”
“Certainly keep Mr. Featherstone and Mr. Colliver off it,” Clara said lightly. She jested, but Alden hadn’t finished with his anger at them.
“I have expunged them from my life,” he assured her. “I have no more need of frivolous jackanapes to distract me.”
“But you must, of course, include Mr. Forsythe.”
The air, which had been cold but almost pleasant, took on a sudden chill, darkness he’d thought banished descending on Alden’s world.
“Mr. Forsythe,” he said woodenly.
“Yes,” Clara said. “Such a pleasant gentleman, very kind. Is there any reason he shouldn’t be included? I hope you haven’t banished him as well.”
She gazed up at him ingenuously, and Alden realized she truly did not know.
He’d not mentioned Forsythe since the night they’d rescued Harvey. A few times, Clara had seemed on the brink of asking about Alden’s deep sorrow but then apparently decided he didn’t wish to speak of it, and had left him alone. Another reason Alden had fallen in love with her.
“Piers Forsythe died,” Alden said, the words thick in his mouth.
“What?” Clara stared at him, stricken, and Alden wished he’d found a less abrupt way to explain. “When? What happened to him?”
Alden let out a heavy breath. “In a duel, more than a year ago now. A stupid exhibition that I could have prevented. All of us were drunk and angry, but Forsythe was a dead shot. I had every conviction he could put Benton in his place, then we’d all laugh and become even more inebriated. Instead …”
Benton had shot Piers through the heart. He had been as shocked as any of them and collapsed himself from the shoulder wound Piers had given him. Benton was now on the Continent, sunk in remorse and self-loathing.
It had been a horrible mess, and the best friend Alden could hope to have was gone.
Clara listened in growing perplexity. “I don’t understand. He cannot be dead.”
“He can, I assure you,” Alden said tightly. “I wish it weren’t so, but it is true. It was his grave I was visiting that afternoon we first found Harvey.”
Harvey glanced up at his name, his feathery ears pricking.
“Mr. Forsythe was there, then,” Clara said, frowning. “I saw him.”
Alden shook his head, his heart leaden. “You could not have. Perhaps there was someone walking about who resembled him.” Not that he recalled Forsythe ever meeting Clara.
“No, I mean, I spoke to him. He introduced himself to me. Helped us free Harvey from that tomb. Escorted me to the gates when your other friends turned up.”
Alden withdrew himself from his stupor and stared down at her. “What the devil are you talking about? I watched him die, attended his funeral. I know you are not trying to be cruel, but you have to be mistaken.”
Clara continued to gaze at him in true bafflement. Whatever she’d seen, whomever she’d met, it was definitely not Forsythe. If one of his other friends had decided to play a trick on her, Alden would throttle said gentleman before the night was out.
He closed his hand more firmly about Clara’s. “Come with me,” he said, and pulled her along the path toward the edge of the Heath.