Chapter 13
Alistair Bartrum knew, as did half the county, that Mrs Albery’s heirs – or heiresses, he supposed they should be called – had arrived in Suffolk yesterday afternoon to take up residence in their new home; whether this was to be a permanent arrangement or not, nobody knew yet.
They were reported to be handsome girls all three, with fine figures, as his mother had recounted to him, smiling innocently, over breakfast.
If confirmation of their alien presence had been needed, he had observed lights in several upstairs windows of the Hall last night, for the first time since Aunt Augusta’s death.
And now as he walked, he could see two of them upon the beach.
He was too far away to be able to distinguish their features, but it must be them, taking stock of all they now possessed, and of the fine setting for it.
He could tell, or thought he could, that they were youngish, and dark, dressed in hypocritical mourning – where had they been when Augusta Albery was alive and lonely?
– rather than bright spring colours. One of them was grubbing about in the sand, stirring it with her foot and looking down, and the other was standing straight and tall, looking out at the sea, a raised hand shielding her eyes against the bright sun.
If one were an artistic sort of fellow, which he emphatically was not, she would have made a fine picture, no doubt with some mawkish title to imply romantic sentiment.
Watching For His Sail, The Young Widow’s Patient Vigil, or some such nonsense.
Alistair scowled as an unwelcome stab of interest – call it no more than that – shot through him.
The fierce wind off the sea was plastering the young woman’s dark-grey gown about her body, revealing, even at this distance, more of her feminine form than he wished to have forced on his attention.
And yet he could not look away; he found himself transfixed.
He supposed he should be grateful that such base animal feeling had not, in fact, been taken from him along with so much else.
This was its first appearance in several months, his old acquaintance, sexual desire, and he had been so low in spirits during all that time that he had not even mustered the energy to mourn its passing.
But he had no intention of giving in to such curiosity now, since there could be no good outcome for it.
His mother would be calling on these young women soon enough, no doubt, as he’d told that impertinent cub Seb Pallant the other day.
Mere civility obliged Mrs Bartrum to seek their acquaintance, even if curiosity and neighbourly kindness combined had not urged her on.
He had absolutely no intention of doing the same.
They could be as handsome and desirable as they wished, all three, and his mother could and no doubt would torment him past the point of endurance with talk of them and their many good qualities; still he had no desire to harbour the least spark of interest in them.
And was it not just as well that he was so resolved?
Despite his parent’s doting fondness, he could not suppose himself any longer a man likely to catch the attention of a woman in a romantic fashion, least of all some new-minted heiress who’d be run after and flattered by half the world.
His fiancée – his former fiancée – had made it sufficiently clear how repellent he must now be to any woman of sensibility, not in words but in the way she shrank from him in revulsion, so altered as he was; it would be nothing but self-lacerating folly even to think of another woman in that manner again.
If he wanted feminine company these days, he would have to pay for it, and even then…
Alistair grunted and stumped on across the sand, concentrating on keeping his footing between the hard ridges and sudden treacherous pools, slippery with seaweed.
The fact that he knew he was sinking into a funk of unattractive self-pity again didn’t, apparently, make it any easier to prevent.
At least he was alive, unlike a lot of men, good friends of his and enemies both.
At least he had two legs, more or less, and his eyesight, and the use of his hands and, apparently, various other previously important parts.
He should be grateful, but wasn’t: yet another thing to reproach himself with.
His mother had said, gently, that any woman who would be put off by his scars, gained in honourable service, was a woman who hadn’t deserved his love in the first place, and he was therefore well rid of her and free to find a better mate who would appreciate him as he deserved.
His betrothed Miss Whitehouse’s character had been sadly shallow, it was now clear to his indignant mama, and he had had a lucky escape.
But mothers had to say that sort of thing to their children, he supposed, and possibly even believed them.
Thank God, at least, that he and Charlotte hadn’t already been married, as they easily might have been.
Then she’d have been stuck with him for life, however much she’d hated the idea: a highly unpleasant thought for both of them.
Just a month or so ago, she had wed, with what some people might have considered indecent haste after the breaking of their own engagement, her new husband a frippery fellow in the Seventh Hussars, who no doubt looked wonderful in his showy gold-laced uniform.
She had not lost her taste for military men; it was just him she didn’t care for the look of any more.
He could only wish them very happy. Of course, if the bridegroom were himself to be wounded in the coming hostilities, as he easily might be, that would serve her…
but that was an unworthy thought, born of sick jealousy.
He used to be a better person than that.
No, he would live and die single, and avoid – as should be easy enough – making the acquaintance of any fashionable young women who must look on him with pity at best – not that being the object of pity was something a man of spirit could be expected to welcome – and white-faced horror at worst. Doubtless, the Pallant brothers would be delighted to find themselves without local rivals in the heiress stakes; good luck to the whole damn pack of them.
It was none of his affair and, no matter how hard his mother tried, he would not permit her to make it so.