Remember When (Ravenswood #4)

Chapter Fourteen

Monday morning brought a servant from Colonel Wexford’s with a written invitation for Matthew. Miss Prudence Wexford requested the pleasure of his attendance at a reception and soiree to be held at the home of her brother two evenings hence.

A reception. And a soiree.

They were grand names to give a social gathering in the country. But Matthew could almost picture Miss Wexford’s dilemma as she planned it. If she had decided upon a dinner, her guest list would have to be relatively small despite the impressive size of her new table. And the table itself would have to be covered, and the guests would have to practically crawl under the cloth in order to admire the artwork beneath. They would not even see the carved frieze around the edge of the tabletop or the mosaic on the surface of it. If, on the other hand, the occasion was a reception, then the table could be left bare of an enveloping tablecloth, with just small mats under the various food dishes from which the guests would be invited to help themselves.

The table would be on view in all its splendor, except perhaps the full effect of the mosaic, while the guests satisfied their appetites and remained on their feet and Miss Wexford gave a guided tour of the table’s architectural features.

The word soiree would have been added to suggest that the gathering would continue into the evening as a more general party.

And Matthew Taylor was to be one of the guests. Perhaps, in a sense, the guest of honor. He smiled in some amusement at the thought. He almost always accepted specific invitations, no matter who the sender. He was comfortable with the company of all social classes despite his preference for solitude. He would have accepted this particular one without a qualm despite a certain embarrassment at being the maker of the table that had occasioned it. He would have looked forward with a mild sort of pleasure to seeing and conversing with his neighbors. He liked the people among whom he lived, after all.

But he would have given a great deal, he thought as he propped the invitation on top of the bookcase in his living room, to find himself with a plausible excuse for not accepting it.

Clarissa would almost certainly be there.

He, she, they were going to be the focus of attention, more even than the table. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Word had spread. It had even, quite predictably, reached her family in London. Young Owen Ware had been sent home as their ambassador to discover what was going on and to confront the village carpenter, who had dared hold his mother’s hand during a walk in the park and ride off to the lake with her in a barouche to enjoy a picnic with her.

Owen’s arrival would not have gone unnoticed. Nor would his visit to the rooms above the smithy the following day. And now the three of them would, almost without a doubt, be on public display at Miss Wexford’s reception and soiree. It was the stuff of grand drama.

Or farce.

Matthew did not like any of it. He did not like it for himself, and he certainly did not like it for Clarissa. Not a whisper of poor taste or impropriety had ever been associated with her name.

It was all very well for them to have decided last Thursday when they were together, just before Owen drove up in his curricle, that they would defy the gossip and exercise their freedom to choose the sort of life they would live and the friends they would have. It was another thing to feel themselves getting more and more embroiled in what he did not doubt was the conversational topic of the moment in the neighborhood.

The quiet, comfortable life he had enjoyed for more than twenty years was definitely slipping away, perhaps never to be retrieved.

For there was the other thing too. Tomorrow was the day his nephew was coming to call on him, and Matthew, despite what he had said at the time, did not look forward to it one little bit. He really, really did not want to reopen that chapter of his life. Chapter? It was more like a volume. He had put it all behind him long ago, shut his mind to it, and moved on. He did not want any reminder. He had never gone back and had no intention of ever doing so. Why would he? He was perfectly happy with his life as it was.

Or as it had been until it had started to fray at the edges.

Anyway, he had agreed to this visit. It was foolish of him to be making a mountain out of what would in all probability be no more than a molehill. His nephew would surely stay for the obligatory half hour while they chatted politely over a cup of tea. Then they would shake hands and take their leave of each other. And that would be that.

Or would it?

He sighed as he went into his workroom to look over the design for the crib and make a few adjustments before he settled to work on it. Perhaps his mind could be absorbed by his work.

He was starting to have the slightly panicked feeling, though, that he might feel compelled to move away from here and start over somewhere else.

Run away.

Disappear.

Again.

—

Clarissa showed her invitation to Owen when he came down to breakfast at what was a respectable hour for him. But he intended visiting his grandparents, her parents, today and wanted to make an early start so he could be there in time for luncheon. She was going to go with him even though it would be the third time she had made that long journey in just a few short weeks. She doubted he would have gone without her anyway. He had been sent home to Ravenswood to guard her, after all.

The invitation was addressed to both of them.

“Oh, I say,” he said after reading it. “A reception. In Boscombe? And a soiree too? All in one? I wonder what the grand occasion is.”

“I believe,” Clarissa said, “it is the unveiling of Prudence Wexford’s new dining table. She is immensely proud of it, though Matthew Taylor once incautiously described it to me as a monstrosity—fortunately not in her hearing. He gave the making of the table his full attention, notwithstanding.”

“Hmm,” he said. “So…a reception and soiree in honor of a table? I would not miss it for worlds, Mama. Is Ariel Wexford at home? She was gone most of last winter, visiting some great-aunt or other. Actually, I remember now. It was a pair of great-aunts. She has not married in the meanwhile, has she?”

“No,” Clarissa said. “She is at home and unattached, as far as I know.”

“And I know Cousin Clarence is at home,” he said. “I daresay Uncle Charles and Aunt Marian have been invited to this thing too. It could be a jolly affair. We will go, Mama?” Charles Ware was Caleb’s younger brother. Clarence was his son, near to Owen in age and a close friend.

“Of course,” she said. “Prudence Wexford is my friend. Besides, I must confess to an eagerness to see this table.”

She wondered if Matthew had been invited, though he almost certainly had. She did not doubt they would draw considerable attention merely by being in the same room together. She did not know how to proceed now that Owen was home and the curiosity seekers and gossiping tongues must be waiting avidly for further developments.

She sighed as she went upstairs to get ready for the outing.

They really must talk tomorrow evening, she and Matthew. She did not want to give up their friendship. She had already decided she would not, in fact, just before Owen came home. They had both decided. She had not changed her mind. She was not going to have her behavior or choice of friends dictated to her by concerned neighbors and alarmed relatives. She was not.

But Matthew might have come to a different conclusion. This must all be very upsetting for him. She suspected that Owen had called upon him yesterday after driving her all about the park. She had not asked him where he was going and he had not volunteered the information. But she suspected it, and she wondered what had been said. Had harsh words been exchanged? Ultimatums given? Threats made?

It did not bear thinking of, so of course she had thought of little else through a night of disturbed sleep.

They must talk.

Meanwhile, she went with Owen to visit her parents, and allowed him to persuade her to go in the curricle. Actually, it did not take much persuasion, as she liked the vehicle. It was speedier than the carriage and open to the fresh air. It handled ruts and potholes in the road more smoothly. It made her feel more youthful.

Owen hugged his grandmother and wished her a belated happy birthday. He watched her unwrap his parcel containing a pair of black kid gloves, which she told him were almost too luxurious actually to wear. They all had luncheon, and Owen went off with his grandfather to see the new variety of rose that had just been added to the arbor. Clarissa remained indoors with her mother.

“Owen came home?” Mrs. Greenfield said, her eyebrows raised. “Even before the end of the Season?”

Clarissa sighed. “He was sent by the family, who are worried about me being alone at Ravenswood,” she said. “I am a bit vexed with them. Poor Owen will be bored speechless within a fortnight.”

“Does this have anything to do with Matthew Taylor?” her mother asked.

Clarissa huffed out a breath. “Oh,” she said. “You too, Mama?”

“Marian mentioned in a recent letter that you have been spending a little time with him,” Mrs. Greenfield said.

“Marian Ware?” Clarissa said, unable to keep the indignation out of her voice. “I suppose she and Charles are concerned. Caleb has been dead for six years, Mama. My brother-in-law ought to mind his own business. And my sister-in-law.”

“Perhaps they consider that his brother’s widow is their business,” her mother said. “Or at least someone for whom they feel a sort of protective affection.”

“I do not need protection,” Clarissa said.

“Of course you do not.” Her mother reached a hand across the space between them and patted her arm. “You are a strong woman, Clarissa, and always have been. You have always done what is right. Your father and I trusted you as a girl. We trusted you during your marriage, though it was difficult at times not to step in to try to protect the interests of the daughter we loved. We trust you now. I was always fond of Matthew when he was a lad, though he was also a scamp—except when he was with you. Or with us. I always thought he would have thrived if everyone who had the care of him had relaxed and treated him as a person with unique needs. But then, who am I to criticize? I never had a problem child.”

“We have become friends again,” Clarissa said. “We have spent a few afternoons together, walking and picnicking, always within the park, just as we always stayed in the park here. The gossips are wagging their tongues over the story, of course. When we were growing up, we were essentially equals, both of us the children of gentlemen. Now I am the Dowager Countess of Stratton while he is the village carpenter. It ought not to make a difference and does not to me. I intend to continue our friendship, Mama, no matter what my children say, or my neighbors. Provided he does not put an end to it, that is. I think perhaps the gossip is more distressing for him than it is for me.”

“Then you must both decide what you want and what you choose to do about it,” Mrs. Greenfield said. “The time was not right for either of you when you were on the brink of adulthood. Your father and I were actually relieved—as well as flattered and honored, of course—when Caleb, or rather his mother, came courting. We saw what was beginning to happen between you and Matthew. And it was not just—or even mainly—the slight difference in your stations that alarmed us, Clarissa. It was the very real possibility that both of you would end up wretchedly unhappy. Forgive us for urging upon you what turned out to be less than ideal.”

“You did not urge me, Mama,” Clarissa said. “You allowed me to decide for myself.”

“At the age of seventeen?” her mother said. “I have suffered many pangs of guilt over that. We ought to have sent Caleb on his way without a word to you.”

“It was not an entirely unhappy marriage,” Clarissa said. “There was much happiness too. He was never unkind to me except perhaps on that one memorable occasion. And I had my children. And Ravenswood. And you not too far away. And now I have my old friend back and intend to keep him if it is what he wants too.”

“You must do what will make you happy,” her mother said. “It is time, Clarissa, just as it was time for George last year, to look to your future and what will bring you the greatest sense of fulfillment. You owe nothing to anyone. I know your love is already freely given to your children and grandchildren—and to us. Now you must love yourself.”

Clarissa blinked several times in an effort to prevent tears from forming in her eyes. Just a few minutes ago she had been bracing for a lecture from her mother. She might have known better. Now you must love yourself. Why was no one ever taught to do that? Why was it looked upon almost as a vice? Was the absence of self-love the cause of that void she felt at the core of herself?

“It is why I came home early and alone from London,” she said. “I wanted to sort out my life now that Caleb is gone and Gwyneth has married Devlin and taken over my duties so competently and the children are all grown and Stephanie has been launched upon society. You are right, Mama. I no longer owe anything to anybody, except my continued love. It is a freeing thought, but also a potentially lonely one. I need to move consciously into a new phase of my life. Perhaps it will include Matthew, though I do not know in what capacity. But of course everyone has become alarmed. Everyone wants me to remain as I am, or as I was.”

“I am not alarmed,” Mrs. Greenfield said. “Nor is your papa. Quite the contrary, in fact. We want you to live your life to the fullest, Clarissa. It is all we have ever wanted for you.”

Clarissa could no longer control her tears. Two of them spilled over and trickled down her cheeks while she fumbled for a handkerchief, and her mother first patted and then squeezed her arm before drawing her daughter into her arms and murmuring soothing words to her while she continued to weep.

“Come up to my room,” Mrs. Greenfield said at last. “You must dash some cold water on your face and comb your hair. It will be time for you to return home soon. And in a curricle, no less. It must have been enormous fun to travel so far in such a flimsy vehicle.”

“It was,” Clarissa said before hiccuping and then laughing as she followed her mother upstairs.

“If only I were twenty years younger,” her mother said.

—

An hour later Clarissa and Owen were on their way back home.

Tomorrow, she remembered, was the day Matthew was expecting a visit from his nephew.

Poor Matthew. She knew he would be dreading it. The quiet life that seemed to suit him so well had been badly disturbed lately—and she was largely to blame.

If she did speak to him at that reception, she must keep her remarks brief. But it seemed such an age since they had been alone together—last Thursday afternoon. And that might very well be the last time.

No matter. She would forge ahead anyway with the plans for her future that were beginning to unfold in her mind. They did not depend upon the decision of one man. She must never allow that to happen. She was a free and strong woman.

—

Matthew had thought about his family as little as he possibly could during the more than thirty years since he had left home. Yet when his mind did drift toward his brother and his nephews, as it inevitably did from time to time, he thought of the latter as young children. As for his niece, she had not even been born when he left England.

Philip Taylor, the elder of his nephews, was, of course, thirty-five or thirty-six years old now, and Anthony, his brother, one year younger. Matthew had worked it all out before Philip arrived, but it was still a bit of a shock to actually see him, a neatly dressed gentleman who bore a distinct resemblance to Reginald—but older than Reginald had been when Matthew last saw him.

Philip had brought Emily, his wife, with him. She was a pretty, plumpish woman, probably a few years younger than he. They apparently had two young children of their own. That made him a great-uncle, Matthew thought.

He heard them, right on time, coming up the stairs beside the smithy but waited until they knocked before opening the door. He shook hands with them—two strangers—and invited them in.

“I am your nephew,” Philip said. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, sir. I have taken the liberty of bringing my wife with me. Emily.”

“What a cozy place you have here, Uncle Matthew,” she said. “May I call you that? I can smell wood. It is a lovely smell. Do you work here too?”

“I do,” Matthew said while his nephew stood beside her, looking both awkward and tongue-tied. “I can show you my workroom, if you wish, while the kettle is boiling.”

“I would love to see it,” she said.

He showed them his workbench and his tools and a half-finished rocking chair he was making for the elderly mother-in-law of a farmer who would need it by the end of next month, when she would be coming to live permanently with him and his wife. He showed them the shelves with his wood carvings, and they spent some time admiring them.

“My father says you were forever whittling pieces of wood when you were a boy and making a mess to arouse Grandmama and Grandpapa’s wrath,” Philip said. “He says you did not show much talent in those days.”

“I did not,” Matthew admitted.

“Oh, Phil,” Emily cried as her attention focused upon one particular carving. “Look at this. Have you ever seen anything more exquisite?”

It was a carving of two spindly-legged lambs pressed to the side of their woolly mother. Matthew had carved it after watching the lambs being born at David and Doris Cox’s farm not far from the village in the springtime two years ago. It was one of his favorite pieces, though everything he carved and kept was his favorite piece when he made it. He would not allow himself to keep anything he did not believe at the time to be at least equal to the best thing he had ever done.

“Oh, and I know just how she feels, that sheep,” Emily said. “Look at the smile on her face, Phil.”

“She looks just like a sheep to me, Em,” Philip said. “She would look a bit silly if she were smiling.”

“But the smile is all inside her,” she said. “It fills her up. And look at her wool. I feel as though I could sink my fingers in it and feel her warmth. How did you do that, Uncle Matthew? Oh, I do wish our children did not have to grow up. I want to keep them close to me, just like those lambs, for all the rest of my life. And do not say, Phil, that they and I would look a bit silly when they are fifty and I am over seventy.”

Philip laughed, but with obvious affection for his wife. “At least I will be able to tell my father that you show a bit more talent now than you did as a boy, sir,” he said.

“A bit more?” Emily said.

“Perhaps you would like him to decide for himself, Emily,” Matthew said, reaching up to the shelf to lift the carving down and set it on the bench. “Perhaps you will accept this as a gift.”

She gasped and clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh,” she said. “Really?” And she took Matthew completely by surprise by flinging her arms about his neck and hugging him. “Thank you, Uncle Matthew. I do not know what to say.”

Matthew met his nephew’s eyes over the top of her head. Philip was looking embarrassed. He was not smiling. Even so, it was an extraordinary moment. It brought what felt like a knot to Matthew’s stomach. Of something…lost. Something missing. He imagined for a moment that she was Helena, his daughter, hugging him like this, overwhelmed with gratitude for some small favor he had done her.

“That is incredibly generous of you,” Philip said. “We will treasure it. Thank you, sir.”

We , he had said. Not just she .

“The kettle will be boiling dry if I do not make the tea soon,” Matthew said, leading the way back to his living quarters.

Emily set her carving carefully down on the table and stood gazing at it while Matthew made the tea and covered the pot with a cozy before slicing the fruitcake he had baked himself. Not all the fruit had sunk to the bottom, as it often did, he noted with satisfaction. And there was not that telltale layer of darker-colored cake at the bottom to signify that he had underbaked the cake and left raw dough there. In fact, it looked near perfect, and he could only hope it tasted as good. It had even risen.

Philip explained during tea that he had long wanted to call upon his uncle, the only surviving relative on his side of the family apart from his mother and father, and his children, of course. He had especially wished it after marrying Emily, who had seven brothers and sisters and so many aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews that he was not sure anyone had ever made an accurate count.

“And if anyone ever has,” he said, “someone new is sure to come along the very next day to be added to the number.”

“Oh, Phil,” Emily said, laughing. “We have always been a close family. And we can certainly count. This is a very nice cake, Uncle Matthew. You have even learned to cook, something I have never had to do, to my shame.”

“It was either learn or starve,” Matthew said. “Really, it was an easy choice to make.”

“I never knew quite what caused the rift between you and the rest of our family,” Philip said. “Your wife, my aunt, died after giving birth to a stillborn baby, I learned when I was growing up. Everyone tried to comfort you—my grandparents, my mother and father, my great-grandmother—but you went away without a word to anyone and did not come back until many years later. Then you came to live here and work here when you might have lived comfortably in the house Great-Grandmama left you. The farm there is prosperous enough. You might have lived right beside us. But you did not even come to see us, and nobody came here to see you. I have never understood it.”

Emily reached across the table to pat the back of his hand. “Papa-in-Law has always said that if you wanted to come home at any time, Uncle Matthew, you would do it,” she said. “He says that your not coming means you want nothing to do with any of us and is a decision we must respect. He says he never fully understood you and does not now—because you do not choose to be understood. He did not want us to come bothering you when Phil asked him a couple of weeks or so ago if we might. But he did not forbid it. Not that he could, of course, since Phil is a grown man. But he said if we wanted to try, then we must do so, though we must be ready to find that you would not welcome us very warmly.”

Matthew sat very still, taking in all her words. Then he sighed. “I was never happy as a boy,” Matthew said. “I did not fit in. I do not put all the blame on my parents or upon your father, Philip. They tried their best, I believe. It was just that their best was not what I wanted or needed. Eventually, after my wife and daughter died and the comfort my family offered me was to tell me that it was better that way and God’s will had been done, I had to leave. I stayed away for longer than ten years, learning wood carving and carpentry as well as some things about myself and what I wanted of the rest of my life. When I returned, I decided it was best not to renew any ties with my family. And when they did not reach out to me, it seemed they felt the same way, and I was relieved. I never did understand why my grandmother changed her will to leave her property to me instead of to your father as she had always intended. It must have come as a severe shock to him and to my parents, your grandparents.”

“Well, no.” Philip laughed as he stirred sugar into his second cup of tea. “It could be no shock, could it, since Papa was the one who had suggested it.”

Matthew stared blankly at him. “Suggested what?” he asked.

“I was just an infant at the time,” Philip said. “I have no memory of any of those events. But apparently Papa suffered terribly after you left. He felt he ought to have done more, made more of an effort to understand you and be your brother. According to Mama, he once said that you had always had three parents while you were growing up, and that was one too many. What you had lacked, he said, was a brother. That was what he ought always to have insisted upon being. I think it very possible that he has felt guilty ever since. I think maybe he has always waited for you to come home.”

“But what did he suggest?” Matthew asked, staring intently at his nephew. “Why was it no shock to him to discover that our grandmother had changed her will?”

It was Philip’s turn to stare blankly at him. “Well, because it was Papa who asked her to do it,” he said. “Begged her, actually, since I believe she was a bit annoyed at your going away without a word when she had given you and your wife a home after you married. Papa had always felt a bit bad that he would inherit Great-Grandmama’s property as well as everything of ours while you would have nothing. After you left, he did something about it. He talked Great-Grandmama into changing her will and leaving everything to you.”

“Did you not know, Uncle Matthew?” Emily asked as Matthew scraped his chair over the bare floor with the backs of his knees and got to his feet.

“I did not,” he said. “No, I did not.”

He closed his eyes briefly and let this new, all-consuming knowledge seep into his being.

“I did not know,” he said again as Emily came around the table and hugged him again.