Remember When (Ravenswood #4)

Chapter Fifteen

When Clarissa and Owen arrived at Colonel Wexford’s the following evening, the house was already humming with the sounds of conversation and laughter. They were welcomed by the colonel and Ariel, his daughter, and by a flushed and clearly excited Prudence.

“Are we last to arrive?” Clarissa asked after smiling at Ariel, kissing her friend on the cheek, and shaking hands with the colonel. “I hope we have not kept you waiting.”

“You have not, Lady Stratton,” Colonel Wexford assured her. “Everyone else was early. Owen, my boy. Good to see you. Ariel was pleased to hear you had come home to keep your mama company.”

“I was pleased to know there would be someone close to my age here tonight,” Ariel said. “But there is no reason to look archly at me in that way, Aunt Prudence. Owen and I are old friends, and that is all we are or will ever be—by mutual consent. Come into the dining room, Owen. That is where everyone else is, including your cousin Clarence.”

She linked an arm through his and bore him off.

“Ariel says the most startling things—in the presence of a young gentleman,” Miss Wexford said. “Young ladies are not what they were in my day, Lady Stratton. I do not know what our world is coming to. But there—she is a dear girl despite everything. Come into the dining room.”

The colonel offered his arm.

It was the first evening entertainment Clarissa had attended since coming home from London. There, all was glamour and glitter and the largest crowd that could be squeezed into the space, as every hostess tried to outdo every other. Here, all the guests had gathered in the dining room, and there was room for all of them even though the new table more than half filled the space. They were all neighbors and friends, and Clarissa felt instantly comfortable despite the slight apprehension she had felt all day about almost surely meeting Matthew here and knowing that everyone would be watching curiously to see how they would behave toward each other.

He was here already, she saw instantly, in a group with the Coxes and the Reverend Danver, a glass in his hand, a look of polite amiability on his face. He had not seen her arrive, or, if he had, he had looked away before she looked at him. She hoped they would not be doing that throughout the evening. Self-consciousness was not something from which she suffered often or willingly.

And self-conscious with Matthew? It seemed like a contradiction in terms.

Almost everyone was buzzing with enthusiasm and exclaiming over the table, which was by way of being the guest of honor. The thought amused Clarissa as she slipped her hand free of the colonel’s arm.

“It is quite…imposing,” she said to Miss Wexford. “I hope you are as pleased with it as you hoped to be.”

“Oh, more so,” Miss Wexford said. “How fortunate we are, Lady Stratton, to have Mr. Taylor living in our midst. Such talent! He could work in London and still be noticed and acclaimed. Do come and have a closer look.”

Prudence had wanted a table that was very special. But the trouble with tables, Clarissa thought as she looked closely at this one, was that they had to be flat on top with four legs, one at each corner, with perhaps another pair in the middle if the table was long. There would appear to be not much a carpenter could do to make the piece unique and memorable. Matthew had done both, though Clarissa could see at a glance why he considered the table a bit of a monstrosity.

There were actually eighteen legs in clusters of three, all of them designed to look like Grecian columns, but each of the three a different style from the other two—Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian, if she remembered her ancient Greek history correctly. They were intended, she realized, to make the table look like a Grecian temple—with a flat roof. Right at the center underneath, as though to hold up the table, was a circle of slender ladies in flowing Grecian robes with laurel wreaths upon their heads, each bearing a delicate urn upon her shoulder. The three graces? No, there were too many of them. The nine muses? There were not enough. The Delphic oracles? But they were not plural, were they? There was one at a time—the Delphic oracle. The oracle with her handmaids, then? But did they have to be any group in particular?

The tabletop was undeniably beautiful, with its overlapping diamond mosaics created out of inlaid wood. Were not such mosaics associated more with ancient Rome than with Greece, though? Perhaps not. A narrow frieze of columns to match the table legs had been carved in exquisite detail all about the edge of the tabletop.

The whole thing, Clarissa thought, was a bit of a confused mess, the product of Prudence’s imagination, based very loosely upon what she had read of ancient history. Yet it had an undeniable sort of charm. Her friend was clearly ecstatic over it, and that was what mattered. Fortunately most, if not all, of their neighbors appeared to agree with her. Clarissa moved back so others could see more clearly. She glanced across the room and locked eyes with Matthew for a few moments. She allowed her amusement to show and raised in a silent toast the glass Colonel Wexford had placed in her hand.

His eyes did not twinkle back at her as she had expected. He did not raise his glass, which looked as full as it had when she entered the room. He had an expression on his face that she could not interpret, though it was vaguely familiar. Memory came flooding in as he turned his head to speak with Marian Ware, who had just touched his arm. He looked as he often had when he came as a boy to seek her out. He seemed troubled, though there was no outer sign that would betray him to anyone else. He was half smiling now at Marian and at Thomas Rutledge, Lord Hardington’s eldest son, and Thomas’s wife. He looked perfectly composed.

Something told Clarissa he was not.

Was it the strain of being the focus of attention as the crafter of the table? But she might have expected the occasion to amuse him more than it would embarrass him. Was it being in a room with her, then, surrounded by a large number of their neighbors, most of whom would be watching them surreptitiously but closely enough not to miss a thing?

Or was it something else?

The table was set with plates and dishes of sumptuous-looking dainties, both savory and sweet. Hot savories filled the warming dishes on a sideboard. Clarissa filled the plate Ariel Wexford placed in her hand, set her empty glass on a side table with others, and began to circulate in the room, intent upon having a word with everyone. It was something that came as second nature to her. She did not detect any great difference from usual in the way she was treated.

It was tempting to keep her distance from Matthew. But she did not want to be constantly dithering, and she did not want to be forever shaping her behavior to what other people expected of her—as she had done all her life until very recently. She had decided on the last day they had spent time together, just before Owen arrived home, that from now on she was going to live the life she wanted to live and cultivate the friendships she chose, regardless of general expectations. She had come home from her parents’ house yesterday encouraged that they supported her wholeheartedly. If Matthew had decided differently—was that why he looked as he did this evening?—then she would accept his decision.

Some of the guests were wandering into the drawing room. Clarissa went there too with Eluned Rhys and Mrs. Holland and looked around. Owen was over by the window in the midst of an animated group that included Clarence, Ariel, and Edwina and James Rutledge, younger son and daughter of the Hardingtons. Marian and Charles Ware were seated to one side of the hearth, in conversation with Lady Hardington.

“Shall we join them?” Eluned said.

But Clarissa could see that Matthew was coming into the room, his hands empty, alone for the moment. He looked about at those gathered there with his usual quiet, amiable expression, and it was probable no one but Clarissa realized that tonight for some reason he was out of sorts. She stayed where she was, not far inside the door, as Eluned and Mrs. Holland made their way over to join Charles’s group.

She turned and smiled at Matthew, leaving him room to nod pleasantly and join one of the groups if he wished. He hesitated, but then he came toward her.

“Clarissa,” he said, and immediately she felt a change in the atmosphere around them. It was nothing dramatic. Conversations continued, apparently without interruption, and no one turned to look specifically at the two of them as they moved away from the door and went to stand beside the grand pianoforte in the corner beside the window. But Clarissa did not believe she was imagining the sharpening of interest from those around them.

“You were right,” she said. “The table is a bit of a monstrosity, though the skill with which it has been carved makes one largely unaware of the fact. It might also be called magnificent without either irony or bias. Besides, you have made Prudence very happy indeed. I have never seen her so…ebullient.”

“Any self-respecting ancient Greek would have an apoplexy at the mere sight of it,” he said, and they both laughed. Heads turned their way with unabashed curiosity.

“I am so glad to see you this evening,” she said. “It has been almost a week since I watched your last archery practice and showed you where I hope to have a dower house built. Owen arrived, and we were unable to take a proper leave of each other and arrange another meeting. Assuming you wished for another, that is. Have you practiced archery since?”

“No,” he said.

“I am sorry about that,” she said. “Tomorrow is Thursday again. Will you practice and then come to the house to take tea with me? If the weather is warm enough, I will have it brought out to the rose arbor in the courtyard. The roses are beginning to bloom, and the scent of them is heavenly.”

He frowned, and it seemed to Clarissa that he was not paying full attention to what she was saying. Was he finding it so difficult to say no?

“I will not come to the poplar alley to distract you,” she said. “And I cannot promise that Owen will not join us for tea. But I refuse not to invite you for that reason. Matthew, what is it?”

“Mmm?” he asked. “What is what? I am sorry, Clarissa. It is noisy in here.”

There was a hum of conversation. It was no noisier than usual for such social gatherings, however. Besides, they were standing a little apart from any other group. Clarissa waited until he closed his eyes briefly, inhaled audibly, and then looked fully at her for the first time.

“It was all Reginald’s doing,” he said without any clarifying explanation.

“Ah,” she said. “His son was to call upon you yesterday, was he not? You mean it was your brother who sent him to see you? Or…stopped him from coming?”

“He came,” he said. “Philip, that is. His wife came with him. Emily. No, I was talking about thirty years ago, after I had left home and gone off to Europe. My grandmother’s will, leaving everything to me instead of to Reginald as she had always intended and my father and brother had always expected. It was not her idea to change it. She must have been openly hostile to doing so, in fact. Reginald not only had to ask her to change it, he pleaded with her. More than half my life has been built upon a lie I told myself—that none of them cared, that none of them truly loved me. Reggie gave up his most prized and enduring dream for my sake.”

“Oh, Matthew.” She squeezed his hand, remembered where they were, and released it again.

“How am I ever going to forgive myself?” he asked, gazing at her with intent, troubled eyes and looking very like the boy she remembered.

Unfortunately this was neither the time nor the place to continue this conversation.

“I will expect you for tea tomorrow,” she said. “Practice first and then come. We will talk.”

She smiled at him before turning away to join Alan Roberts, the schoolteacher, and his wife, Sally, Cameron Holland’s sister. When she looked a minute or so later, Matthew was part of a group with Colonel Wexford and the Reverend Danver and was looking, outwardly at least, his usual placid, cheerful self.

—

Matthew had intended to make a start on the crib for Ben Ellis’s baby the following day, but he found he could not concentrate or make up his mind about a few details of the design. Should he carve the elephant in relief on the footboard, large and complete and smiling and jolly? Or should he have it peeping over the top of the footboard? But from the inside the child would see only the ears, the eyes, and the trunk. It might look funny, but it was possible the peering eyes might disturb the child’s sleep.

Stupidly, he was paralyzed by indecision. Yet he had to decide that one detail before he could feel ready to start on any part of the project.

He spent most of the morning dithering and allowing his mind to wander in a dozen different directions. He went early to the poplar alley in the afternoon. He felt in desperate need of the archery practice to restore focus to his mind and peace to his being. He shot twenty rounds of arrows. A disturbing number came nowhere close to the bull’s-eye. A frustrating number came close but not close enough. At least one arrow in each round did not even make the target.

He ought to have given up, he decided wearily, when, after ten or fifteen minutes, he had failed to get himself to that place or nonplace of no-thought he needed to be before he shot his arrows. His mind steadfastly refused to get out of his way. The smiling elephant of his earlier imagination had turned into a leering gargoyle.

After the twentieth round, he picked up one of his arrows from the ground where it had landed and snapped it in two. He had even been counting rounds, he realized, something he never did because counting was an activity of the conscious mind.

He was in no state to take tea in the courtyard of Ravenswood Hall, in a rose arbor of all places. He would be better off at home with his door shut and locked, drinking his overstrong tea and eating a slice of the fruitcake left over from Philip and Emily’s visit. Except that he was not hungry. Or thirsty. More reasons he ought to go home anyway instead of up to the house.

She was his only hope.

It was a thought, an instinct, that came from deep within, from a past so long ago that it might have been from another lifetime altogether. When life had overwhelmed him and there had seemed to be nowhere to turn and no one to go to, he had always stumbled off to find Clarissa Greenfield, to pour out everything that was threatening to blow him apart into a million pieces. It had always worked. It had never failed.

But that was then. This was now.

He had learned long ago the secret of tranquil living. Of contented living. He had learned that he did not need to rely upon any other person for his peace. Everything he needed was within himself. Friendships could enrich his life, but the substance came from inside. He had learned to like himself, even to love himself in a non-narcissistic way that had nothing to do with vanity. He had certainly learned to love his life.

And in so doing he had spurned the incredibly selfless love of his own brother.

Reggie.

He did not want to go back to using Clarissa as a crutch.

He did not want to be the boy he had been when he did just that. He was a fifty-year-old man now. He had thought his life all sorted out. He had liked his life—of which he was already thinking in the past tense, he realized. He had thought himself capable of dealing with any unwelcome change or crisis that might come his way—poor health, loss of business, anything. Yet along had come change in the form of a pleasant young man and woman, his nephew and niece-in-law, and he had crumbled almost before their very eyes.

He had held himself together in the days since by sheer effort of will. After last evening’s reception and soiree, his face had literally ached from the half smile he had kept upon it.

Clarissa had known anyway.

He gathered up his equipment, even the broken arrow, which he stuffed inside the quiver, and made his way toward the drive. Until he reached it he was not sure which way he would turn. He was so very tempted to turn toward the village and home. He turned instead toward Ravenswood. He owed Clarissa an explanation at least. He certainly did not owe her the humiliation she might feel if her expected guest simply did not show up. She might even be the laughingstock among her servants. It did not bear thinking of.

The door into one of the arched tunnels on either side of the front steps that led into the courtyard was open. Matthew could see daylight through it, a sign that the door at the far end of the tunnel was open too. He left his quiver and bow beside the steps and walked through.

The courtyard was bright with midafternoon sunshine. Strange—it was only now he was noticing that it was a sunny day. Warm too. The covered cloisters that ran all about the outer perimeter were in shade, but the grass in the large square open to the sky was almost emerald green, and the rose arbor at the center was bright with color and the steady spray of rainbow-hued water shooting up from the fountain there.

He had only ever seen the courtyard before now during fete days, when display tables for various crafts were set up against the cloisters and the place teemed with people. He stopped for a moment to feel the full beauty and serenity of the place.

The most beautiful part of it was walking toward him from the arbor, her hands outstretched for his.

“Matthew,” she said. “I am so glad you came.”

“How could I not when you had invited me?” he asked, taking both her hands in his and squeezing them tightly. “This is a beautiful place.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “I love walking in the cloisters in the winter when it is not too cold or blustery. And I love to sit here during the summer. The four wings of the house keep the scent of the roses inside. And I never tire of gazing at the fountain. There are so many colors within water. Yet it seems colorless in itself.”

She had linked a hand through his arm and was leading him toward the arbor, where she sat beside him on a wrought iron seat.

“I did invite Owen to join us, at least for a while,” she said. “But he has gone riding with Ariel Wexford and Edwina Rutledge and his cousin Clarence. I believe I have convinced him that I do not need a jailer every hour of every day, or even a chaperon. Now I need to persuade him that he will lose his sanity if he decides to spend the whole of the summer here with just his mother for company.”

She made light conversation while a footman and a maid brought out trays of dainties and tea and lemonade. His arrival had been watched for and noted, then, despite the fact that he had not knocked upon the front door.

“Thank you,” she said after everything had been set down upon a table before her, and the servants withdrew silently. “Will you have tea or lemonade?”

“Lemonade, please,” he said.

She poured them both a glass and put one of everything upon a plate before handing it to him. He wondered if he could find enough appetite to eat at least something. He sipped his lemonade. It was delicious and almost icy cold. How did they do that in what must be a hot kitchen?

“Did you have a good practice?” she asked him.

“Yes, thank you,” he said.

She had a way of looking at him, a way that demanded truth and was fully aware when it had not been spoken.

“No,” he said. “No, I did not. The bull’s-eye was elusive today and my timing was off. Perhaps I did not place the target in quite the right place. Or perhaps I am just tired.”

“Or perhaps you cannot forget your nephew’s visit,” she said.

He bit into a jam tart, which was as light as air and had obviously been made with fresh preserves. He swallowed the mouthful before he answered.

“I ought not to have burdened you with that revelation,” he said. “It was not important.”

“I will certainly respect your right not to talk about it,” she said. “But I will not allow you to get away with telling me it was unimportant, Matthew. Our friendship was always based upon truth telling.”

He looked at the other half of his tart but put it back on his plate rather than into his mouth. He took another sip of his lemonade.

“Since Tuesday I have been feeling like the boy I was when we were friends,” he said. “And somehow last evening I found myself reverting to that time and blurting out to you the depths of my guilt and misery. I ought not to have done so. It was grossly unfair to you. And it was not…who I am now. I am not that boy any longer. I have managed my own life and affairs and problems quite successfully for more than thirty years. I will continue to do so. I am sorry about last night. Truly sorry.”

“Matthew,” she said softly. “Tell me about Poppy.”

He was certainly not expecting that. She had known Poppy, of course. Everyone had. She had been the daughter of a ne’er-do-well drunkard of a small landowner and his slattern of a wife, who had given up early the struggle to keep a tidy home and raise a decent family. Poppy, pretty and spirited and sharp-tongued, had worked at a tavern and had inevitably acquired a reputation for being unchaste. Whether the reputation was justified or not had been questionable.

“You will have heard all the rumors,” he said. “She was increasing with…Helena when I married her. I had lain with her and took the consequences. She was not a bad person. She was human. She was my wife.”

He thought of picking up his glass and sipping his lemonade again during the silence that followed. But he was not sure his hand would remain steady.

“Did you…lie with her while you and I were still friends?” she asked.

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

“Was it because I was going to marry Caleb?” she asked.

He set his elbows on his knees, bowed his head, and pressed his two bent forefingers against his eyes.

“I will not answer that,” he said. “I lay with her, I married her, and I cared for her. She died, and I buried her with our daughter. That is all.”

Except for a terrible ache about his heart. Poppy might have lived all these years if he had not lain with her. And he had not done so out of love or even any real desire. He had done so in an effort to forget another pain, another woman. He had cared for her and he would have continued to do so. But he knew he would never have loved her, not in the way a woman has a right to be loved by her husband.

And if he had not lain with her, of course, and she had already been with child by another man, she might have lived the last months of her life with a reputation shattered beyond repair.

“She seemed happy enough. She had a good home, where she was safe and well fed and cared for. My grandmother, though appalled with me, treated her with surprising kindness. Poppy, impertinent though she often was with everyone else, behaved toward my grandmother with a sort of awed respect.”

He realized he had spoken aloud.

“And you would have continued to care for her if she had lived,” Clarissa said. “You would have seen it as your duty. And through her you would have found your way through, Matthew, to the person you could be. Not quite as you found it when you went away after her death. In a different way. But you would have done it. You would not have neglected or abandoned her. Or mistreated her.”

“Even given the person I was then?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Even given that.”

He was amazed by her words. He would have assumed she had despised him for marrying Poppy, that she might have seen it as some sort of revenge against his father or perhaps against her for so abruptly marrying the Earl of Stratton. But no. Somehow, despite the odds, Clarissa had always believed in him. She believed he would have stepped up to take responsibility for what he had done so impulsively out of the depths of his misery. Was she right? He would never know.

“But she died,” he said.

“Yes.”

He picked up the other half of the jam tart again and looked at it before returning it to his plate. He could not finish it or eat anything else.

“I am sorry,” he said, getting to his feet. “I am not hungry. I hope I will not offend your cook.”

“Don’t go home yet,” she said. “You are feeling too miserable. Take a walk with me. In silence if you wish. You have reminded me lately that we were always as good at that as we were at talking. And every relationship should consist of both.”

“I will not be good company,” he said before smiling despite himself. “But I rarely was, was I?”

“You were company I always liked,” she said, setting her glass upon the tray and standing up. “I still do. I will walk with you as far as the bridge at least.”

“Very well,” he said.