David flicked a glance at the elderly man he had once despised and felt nothing. No disgust, no hatred. But he avoided looking back at that man’s daughter, because he knew he couldn’t pretend the same apathy, much as he wanted to.
‘I shall just find one of the servants to fetch your coat,’ Victoria politely informed him, feeling ridiculously hurt that he would not stay longer; that he could not even seem to look at her for longer than a second.
Cool hallway air fanned welcomingly against her flushed cheeks as she sped to find Samuel. Her head hammered with tension and haunting words she’d believed she had successfully buried so long ago but never would stay forgotten.
‘He wanted to buy you…he said he would do it. He wanted to buy my daughter as though she was some common whore. But then that is all he is used to and all you mean to him…’
Her father’s bellowed words of seven years ago throbbed in her head. She had dismissed it all as lies. Everything she had heard whispered abroad about David and his family she had rejected as vile rumour. She was aware that the beau monde loved nothing better than to maliciously dissect reputations, especially those of their peers. Even when Aunt Matilda had tendered cautions about her socialising with roguish David Hardinge or his wayward friends, Victoria would have none of it. She was too much in love, too obsessed with this man who wooed her with a captivating, tender passion yet never once attempted to coerce or take advantage of her. And she knew there had been times when he could have, when fate and obliging friends had allowed them a stolen hour alone, and she would have summoned little resistance had he decided to seduce her.
During their short, six-month courtship, David had shown her more affection, more gentleness and respect than any other man she had known. Even her own father. And she’d told her father that, earnestly, and it had earned her a hefty blow and her immediate banishment from Hammersmith to Hertfordshire. Following her father’s ranting censure, still she would not believe that David Hardinge was a callous rogue who did not love or want her.
Unknown to her father, she had managed to smuggle out two letters to David and had been certain he would soon rescue her. In them she’d made so plain her love for him, and the fact that she was prepared to wait, to elope, to do whatever he wanted, so long as he still loved her and would soon come for her. Yet the weeks had passed with no message, no reply…
Then one afternoon, when her father was away from home, Matilda had managed to sneak to her room to gently break the news that David had left the country and was believed to be travelling abroad. With those few whispered words had come real despair. The first inkling that she had been duped…abandoned had iced her skin and made her stomach churn so violently, so indelibly that she could taste the fear again now. Curled on her bed on that autumn afternoon, she had finally given way to a keening, draining grief that no amount of calming draughts or soothing platitudes from Matilda could ease, and only exhaustion could curtail. The redolence of that earthy, rain-spattered October day teased her nostrils anew; the memory of the incongruous perfection of the rainbow that had later bridged the house dazzled her mind. Swollen-eyed at her window, she had watched the drizzle soften into a harvest evening of such serene beauty that somehow she had found the strength to weep again.
Yet still she would have waited…so desperate was she to believe David honourable and her trust in him justified. But the empty days had crawled by, her father’s rancour had escalated to new, demented heights and a final, painful decision had had to be made.
And now she finally knew the truth of it…The awful fear that she had been wrong to marry so soon, that she should have suffered in that harsh, soulless environment longer, had evaporated. Her decision to accept Daniel’s offer of shelter in an unconventional marriage had been vindicated.
‘I suppose…you’ve come back to buy my daughter…’ her father had just said in his painfully honest way, and David Hardinge had simply smiled and complimented him on his fine memory.
Her black lacy veil tumbled forward onto her brow and Victoria swiftly unpinned the hat, dropped it carelessly onto a hall table and hurried on.
What did any of it matter now? It was all seven years old! she impressed upon herself, furious that a wedge of melancholy was blocking her throat. How could she even dwell on it? She had just buried her dear husband. He had been a fine, generous husband for seven long years. David Hardinge had been a reprobate playing a convincing role for just six months.
Daniel’s selfless goodness had stirred feelings of guilt: he might have made a second marriage to rival the consummate success of his first. But whenever Victoria had mentioned such doubts he would smile, with his pale eyes distant, and tell her that such love came but once and that once was a privilege. But a daughter to care for…God had never been that kind to him…until now.
Victoria sighed, dragging her thoughts to the present. If only Daniel had not made her promise to write to David Hardinge, she would have been as oblivious to his disturbing presence today as she had been last week…last month…last year. But for the worry of Danny’s illness and her papa’s worsening dementia, she had been virtually content with her lot in life here at Hartfield. Now she felt hot and restless…and queasy, as though a nest of vipers writhed in the pit of her stomach.
Nearing the kitchens, she spied Samuel’s broad back huddled close to the short, plump figure of Sally, one of the domestics. She had believed Sally still to be serving refreshments in the drawing room. A sigh of impatience escaped her.
‘Samuel, Lord Courtenay is leaving. His coat, please…’ The young couple immediately shifted away from each other. Sally bustled past with a deferential dip of her brunette head but her face was blotchy from weeping.
Victoria closed her eyes in sheer exasperation. She could not countenance dealing with any histrionics from the servants…not today. She already felt as though she was wound as tightly as a spring. Just one more twist and she would snap; of that she was sure.
Samuel tried to pass her too with a gruff, cooperative, ‘I’ll fetch it straight away, ma’am.’
Victoria placed a restraining hand on his beefy arm. ‘Samuel…this is too much today. Can you and Sally—and I suppose it’s Beryl involved too—can you not at least cease your bickering on a day such as this?’ she stressed in a voice quivering with emotion.
‘Sorry, ma’am…’ Samuel mumbled, his coarsely attractive features ruddying in embarrassment and remorse. Straightening his waistcoat with a businesslike jerk, he sedately walked on.
Victoria stared at the kitchen door then momentarily closed her eyes, composing herself, before swishing about and calmly retracing her steps.
She emptied her mind. Nothing was allowed other than the need to get through this day. She concentrated on whether any mourners would expect bed and board. The weather was now so inclement it would invariably come to that, she decided. That would entail arranging chambers and linen, further meals…She was exhausted and desirous of solitude, not extended company. But it was her duty and she would deal with it, just as she always had since Danny’s illness had shifted such mundane matters onto her slender shoulders. For with his declining health had come declining fortune when he’d no longer devoted attention to his business affairs. And as their income had reduced so had the number of servants they could employ at Hartfield. But she had been happy to take over housekeeping duties when Mrs Whittaker had retired and gone to live with her sister in Brighton. And thus the first economies had been made.
Victoria completely ignored the reflexive jump of her heart as she rounded the corner into the main hallway and immediately spied David Hardinge’s tall, imposing figure. He was chatting to Sir Peter by the double
