The Proposal: Number 1 in series (Survivors’ Club)
The Proposal: Chapter 15

Fiona had succumbed to a mysterious illness, which kept her confined to her bed in a darkened room. No one but Constance was able to bring her any comfort. Her physician, whom Hugo summoned to the house at her request, could not shed any light upon what ailed her beyond saying that his patient was of a delicate constitution and ought to be protected from any major changes in her life. According to him, she still had not recovered her health after the untimely demise of her husband just a little over a year ago.

Constance proclaimed herself willing to devote her time to her mother’s care—or to sacrifice herself, Hugo thought.

He went to see his stepmother in her room.

“Fiona,” he said, seating himself on the chair beside her bed, which his sister had occupied all too frequently in the past few days, “I am sorry you are unwell. Your family is sorry too. Quite deeply concerned, in fact.”

She opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow to look at him.

“I went to their shop to call on them yesterday,” he said. “They are prospering and happy. They made me very welcome. The only real blot on their happiness is never seeing you, never knowing how you are. Your mother and your sister and sister-inlaw would be very happy to call on you here, to spend time with you, to help nurse you back to health and cheerful spirits.”

He did not know if cheerful spirits were even possible for Fiona. He suspected, painful though it was for him since it was his father of whom he thought, that she had sacrificed all real hope for happiness when she had been offered a chance to marry a man who was so wealthy that it was impossible to refuse him.

She stared at him with dull, red-rimmed eyes.

“Shopkeepers!” she said.

“Prosperous and happy shopkeepers,” he said. “The business does well enough to support them all, and that includes your two nephews, your brother’s sons. Your sister is betrothed to a solicitor, younger son of a gentleman of modest means. They have done well, Fiona. And they love you. They long to meet Constance.”

She plucked at the sheet that covered her.

“They would have been nothing,” she said, “if I had not married your father and if he had not squandered a small fortune on them.”

“They are well aware of that,” he said, “and they feel nothing but gratitude to both you and my father. But money is squandered only when it is wasted. The financial assistance he gave them because they were your relatives and he adored you was used wisely and well. They never applied to him for more. They never needed to. Let your mother come to see you. She asked me if you were still as dazzlingly pretty as you used to be, and I told her quite truthfully that you are—or that you will be when you are well again.”

She turned her head away from him once more.

“You are the head of the house now, Hugo,” she said bitterly. “If you choose to bring my mother here, I cannot stop you.”

He opened his mouth to say more but then shut it again. She did not feel she could say yes, he supposed, without somehow losing face. So she had put the responsibility of the decision upon his shoulders. Well, they were broad enough.

“It is time for your medicine,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll send Constance to you.”

All people, he thought with a sigh as he left the room, had their own demons to be fought—or not fought. Perhaps that was what life was all about. Perhaps life was a test to see how well we deal with our own particular demons, and how much sympathy we show others as they tread their own particular path through life. As someone had once said—was it in the Bible?—it is easy enough to see the speck of dust in someone else’s eye while remaining unaware of the plank in one’s own.

“Your mama is ready for her medicine,” he told Constance, who was looking pale and wan and rather dull-eyed. He set an arm about her shoulders. “I am going to bring her mother, your grandmother, to see her, Connie. Perhaps tomorrow. It is time. However it is, you will be going to Lady Ravensberg’s ball and to any other entertainments to which Lady Muir is willing to take you and which you wish to attend. You will have a chance for your own happily-ever-after. I promised you would, and I do not break my promises lightly.”

Her eyes had brightened.

“My grandmama?” she asked.

“Did you even know she existed?” He hugged her a little more tightly to his side.

But part of his mind was always elsewhere.

How had Grayson killed Lady Muir’s husband?

How had she?

The questions had buzzed about inside his head like bees trapped inside ever since that ride in the park three days ago.

Had she meant the words literally? Well, of course she had not. He knew her better than to believe her capable of coldblooded murder. But she had not been joking either. One did not joke about such a thing.

So in what sense had she killed her husband? Or why did she feel responsible for his death?

And why had she coupled her own name with that of Grayson? He would be quite happy to consider Grayson capable of murder.

If he wanted answers, he thought, he was going to have to go about getting them in his usual way. He was going to have to ask.

The evening of the Ravensberg ball inevitably came despite Hugo’s attempts to think about it as something comfortably far in the future. Feeling it creep up on him was not unlike knowing a great and bloody battle was in the offing, except that with the battle he could at least look forward to action and the knowledge that once it began he would forget all else, even fear.

He had the horrible feeling that fear would paralyze him when he walked in upon a ton ball.

He could get out of going altogether, he supposed, since Lady Muir had agreed to sponsor Constance, and his presence was not strictly necessary. It would not be fair, though, to Lady Muir, who was being kind to Constance only because of him. And it would not be fair to Connie, whom he had promised to take to a ball.

It would help if he could dance. Oh, he could prance about in approximate time to music as well as most other people, he supposed. He had attended a few country assemblies in the last few years and had never quite disgraced himself—except perhaps with the waltz. But dancing at a ton ball in London during the Season? It was a three-pronged combination to fill him with terror. He would rather volunteer for another Forlorn Hope.

He was to escort his sister to Redfield House on Hanover Square, the site of the ball. Lady Muir would meet them there. Hugo dressed with care—Connie was not the only one who had new clothes for the occasion—and waited in the downstairs sitting room with Fiona and her mother and sister. The latter two had called for the first time the day before. Hugo had not witnessed their meeting with Fiona in her bedchamber. But as they were leaving, they had informed him that they would return this evening to give her their company while Constance and he were at the ball.

Fiona had come downstairs for the first time in a week and sat, limp and uncommunicative, close to the fire. Her mother, plump, rosy-cheeked, and placid, sat beside her, holding one of her limp hands and patting it. Fiona’s sister, twelve years younger than she, sat across from them, working quietly at some crochet she had brought with her. She resembled her mother more than she did her sister though she still had the slimness of youth.

It was a promising situation, Hugo thought.

“I shall go to the kitchen myself, Fee, as soon as Constance and Hugo have gone, and make some soup,” Fiona’s mother was saying when Hugo came into the room. “There is nothing better to coax an invalid back to health than good, hot soup. Oh, my!”

She had spied Hugo.

He made conversation, but only for a few minutes. Constance was not about to risk being late for her first ball. She burst in upon them, looking as if she were literally about to burst, and then stood inside the sitting room door, blushing and selfconscious and biting her lower lip.

“Oh, my!” her grandmother said again.

Like a bride, she had not allowed anyone to see the gown she would wear tonight or even to know anything about it. She was all white from head to toe. But there was nothing bland about her appearance, Hugo decided, despite the fact that even her hair was blond. She shimmered in the lamplight. He was no expert on clothing, especially women’s, but he could see that there were two layers to her gown, the inside one silky, the outer one lacy. It was high at the waist, low at the bosom, and youthful and pretty and perfect. She had white slippers, white gloves, a silver fan, and white ribbons threaded through her curls.

“You look as pretty as a picture, Connie,” he said with no originality at all.

She turned her head to beam at him—and her grandmother wailed and spread a large cotton handkerchief over her eyes.

“Oh,” she cried, “you look like your mama all over again, Constance. You look like a princess. Doesn’t she, Hilda, my love?”

Her younger daughter, thus appealed to, agreed with a smile after setting down her crochet in her lap.

“Constance.” Her mother reached out a pale hand toward her. “Your father would advise you not to forget your roots. I would advise you to do whatever will make you happy.”

It was a remarkable pronouncement coming from Fiona. Constance took her hand and held it to her cheek for a moment.

“You do not mind my going, Mama?” she asked.

“Your grandmother is going to make me soup,” Fiona said. “She always made the very best soup in the world.”

Five minutes later Hugo and his sister were in his traveling carriage, on their way to Hanover Square.

“Hugo,” she said, setting one gloved hand in his, “you are like a rock of stability. I am so frightened that I am sure my chattering teeth will drown out the sound of the orchestra when I get there and everyone will frown at me and Lady Ravensberg will accuse me of ruining her ball. Of course, you do not have to be afraid. You are Lord Trentham. My grandparents are shopkeepers. Is not Grandmama a dear, though? And Aunt Hilda has eyes that twinkle kindly when she talks. I like her. And I still have my grandpapa and my uncle and aunt and cousins to meet—and Mr. Crane, Aunt Hilda’s betrothed. I have a whole other family, as well as Mama and you and all Papa’s relatives, even if they are only shopkeepers. That does not matter, does it? Papa always used to say that no one, not even the lowliest crossing sweeper, ought to be ashamed of who he is. Or she. I always used to tell him that—or she, Papa, I used to say, and he would laugh and say it back to me. I think Mama is happy to see Grandmama, don’t you? And I think she is getting better again. Do you think—Oh, I am prattling. I never prattle. But I am terrified.” She laughed softly.

He squeezed her hand and concentrated upon being like a rock of stability. If she only knew!

They were unable to drive up to the grand, brightly lit mansion on Hanover Square and disappear indoors to replace some shadowed corner in which to hide. There was a line of carriages, and they had to await their turn. And when it was their turn, they had to allow a grandly liveried footman to open the carriage door, and they had to step down onto a red carpet, which extended from the edge of the pavement all the way up the steps of the house.

And when they stepped into the house at last, they found themselves in a large, high-ceilinged hall beneath the bright lights of a large candelabrum and in the midst of a chattering throng of gorgeously clad ladies and gentlemen. Hugo, glancing around, discovered without surprise that he did not know a blessed one of them. But at least Grayson was not among them.

“We will go on up, then, Connie,” he said to his silent sister, his voice sounding to his own ears remarkably like that of Captain Emes ordering his subordinate officers to form the battle lines.

But the broad staircase, which presumably led up to the ballroom, was no better than the hall. It was just as brightly lit, and it was crowded with chattering, laughing people who were awaiting their turn, Hugo soon realized, to be announced prior to passing along the receiving line.

Oh, good Lord, give him two Forlorn Hopes.

“Not too much longer now,” he said with hearty jocularity, patting his sister’s cold, clinging hand.

“Hugo,” she whispered, “I am here. I am really here.”

And he looked down at her and realized that it was excitement and brimming happiness that she was really feeling. And he had been toying with the ignominious idea of suggesting that they flee.

“I do believe you are right,” he said, and smiled at her.

And then they were at the top of the stairs, and a stiffly formal majordomo, who reminded Hugo of Stanbrook’s butler, bent an ear to hear their identities, and announced them in loud, firm tones.

“Lord Trentham and Miss Emes.”

The receiving line was made up of four persons, Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg, whom Hugo remembered from the drawing room at Newbury Abbey, and the Earl and Countess of Redford, who must be Ravensberg’s parents. He bowed. Constance curtsied. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged. Lady Ravensberg admired Constance’s dress and actually winked at her. She looked assessingly at him and did not wink. It was all surprisingly easy. But then the aristocracy were adept at making such occasions easy. They knew how to make small talk, the hardest talk in the world to make in Hugo’s experience.

They stepped into the ballroom. Hugo had a quick impression of vast size, of hundreds of candles burning in candelabra overhead and in wall sconces about the perimeter, of banks of flowers and a gleaming wooden floor, of mirrors and pillars, of the flower of the ton dressed in all its finery and wearing all its most costly jewels. For Constance the impression was more than momentary. Hugo heard her gasp and saw her turn her head from side to side and up and down as though she could never get enough of a look at her very first ton ballroom at her very first ton ball.

But it was a very small piece of the scene that soon riveted Hugo’s attention. Lady Muir was coming to meet them.

She was dressed in pale spring green again. The fabric of her gown—silk? satin?—gleamed and glittered in the candlelight. It skimmed the curves of her body, revealing a delicious amount of bosom and a tantalizing suggestion of shapely legs—even if one was shorter than the other. Her gloves and slippers were a dull gold. She wore a simple gold chain with a small diamond pendant about her neck, and gold and diamonds winked from her earlobes beneath her hair. An ivory fan dangled from one of her wrists.

She was all that was beautiful and desirable—and unattainable. How could he have had the effrontery to make her an offer of marriage not so long ago? Yet he had once possessed that exquisitely gorgeous body. And after refusing his offer, she had invited him to court her.

Did he dare? Did he even want to? And exactly how many times had he asked himself those questions?

She was smiling—at his sister.

“Miss Emes—Constance,” she said, “you look absolutely delightful. Oh, I would not be at all surprised if you dance every set and even have to turn prospective partners away. Fortunately this is not anyone’s come-out ball, so all the focus of attention will not be upon any other young lady in particular. Come.” And she held out her arm for Constance to take.

She did glance at Hugo then, after Constance had linked an arm through hers. And Hugo had the satisfaction of seeing the color deepen in her cheeks. She was not quite indifferent to him, then.

“Lord Trentham,” she said, “you may mingle with the other guests if you wish or even withdraw to the card room. Your sister will be quite safe with me.”

He was being dismissed. To mingle. That simple activity. But with whom, pray? It would be a bit ridiculous to panic, however. She had mentioned a card room. He could go and hide himself in there. But before he went, he wanted to see Constance dance her first set at a ton ball. He could trust Lady Muir to see to it that she did dance and that it would be with someone respectable.

He spoke before she whisked Constance away into the crowds.

“I hope, Lady Muir,” he said, “you will yourself be dancing tonight. And that you will save a set for me.”

She did dance despite her limp. She had told him so at Pen-derris.

“Thank you,” she said, and he was interested to note that she sounded almost breathless. “The fourth set is to be a waltz. It is the supper dance.”

Oh, Lord. A waltz. The vicar’s wife and a few of the other village ladies had undertaken the gargantuan task of teaching him the steps at an assembly eighteen months or so ago, amid much laughter and teasing from them and every other mortal gathered there for the occasion. He had ended up actually dancing it with the apothecary’s wife at the end of the assembly, to much applause and more laughter. The best that could be said was that he had not once trodden upon the good lady’s toes.

He had promised himself that he would never dance it again.

“I would be obliged, then, ma’am,” he said, “if you would reserve it for me.”

She nodded, holding his eyes for a moment, and then moved away with Constance.

Hugo was saved from feeling horribly conspicuous and self-conscious, and perhaps from scowling ferociously at a ton ball, when the Earl of Kilbourne and the Marquess of Attingsborough joined him and made that small talk with which their kind was so accomplished. Other men joined them for brief spells and were either introduced or reintroduced. Some of them had been in that drawing room at Newbury Abbey. Then Hugo saw Ralph.

He actually knew someone.

Constance, glowing visibly with happiness, danced the first set with a ginger-haired young gentleman who looked good-humored and who might or might not be considered handsome by a young girl despite his freckles. He was smiling at her and making conversation and dancing the intricate steps of a vigorous country dance with practiced ease and polish.

Lady Muir was dancing with one of her cousins. Her limp was altogether less noticeable as she danced.

Her eyes met Hugo’s and remained on them for a few moments.

He held his breath and heard his heartbeat drumming in his ears.