Page 68 of To Swoon and to Spar
Belfry laughed aloud at this, as did Emily and even Violet. Diana cast Jane a speculative glance, as if reassessing whatever her previously held opinion had been, and Jane offered a small smile by way of reply.
The fact was, Penvale’s friends had been nothing but kind to Jane; even Diana, in her own way, had made friendly overtures. She had invited Jane on a walk a day earlier, and they had managed a pleasant half-hour turn about the estate gardens without murdering each other, which Jane counted as a promising development in terms of their sisterly relations.
She was in real danger, she realized, of approaching a state alarmingly close to happiness. And, she thought later, she should have known then that it couldn’t last.
“When are you coming back to London, then?” Audley asked.
It was late on the last night of the house party. The evening had turned celebratory when Emily and Belfry announced at dinner that they were expecting a baby in the autumn, with many a glass lifted in their honor, but eventually, everyone had begun to make their way to bed, and now only Penvale, Audley, and Jeremy remained in the downstairs drawing room. No sooner had Belfry and Emily departed than the interrogation began. In truth, Penvale was surprised it had taken this long; but then, there had been few opportunities for him to be alone with Audley and Jeremy. He hadn’t minded this—Belfry had become a good friend in the months since his marriage to Emily, and West was a capital fellow, but it was only now, left alone with his two oldest friends, that Penvale felt himself properly relax.
For all of three seconds, that is, before they attacked.
“I don’t know,” he said in response to Audley’s query. “Sometime soon, I expect.”
He wasn’t certain why he was hedging; after all, his plan had always been to return to town for a good portion of the Season, regardless of whether Jane wished to accompany him. Why did he hesitate now?
“You should come back with us,” Jeremy said lazily from his spot by the fire; he’d claimed the fattest armchair and was reclining with his legs kicked up onto the tufted ottoman before him, a glass of brandy dangling from one hand. He took a healthy sip. “You can’t rusticate here all summer long.”
“There is work to be done here, Jeremy,” Penvale pointed out, his voice laced with mild irritation. “You might be unfamiliar with the concept.”
This was a bit unfair, since Jeremy, despite the image he presented to society, was actually a very careful steward of his own land. Hiscountry estate was in Wiltshire, and Penvale knew that Jeremy and Diana had stopped there for several days on their journey to Trethwick Abbey, going considerably out of their way to do so.
Jeremy, however, appeared to take no offense. “Work can wait. What have you been doing all winter, if not working?”
“My uncle didn’t leave the estate in precisely the condition I’d like it to be,” Penvale said tersely. “I’ve been making improvements.” Seeing his friends’ unimpressed faces, he added, before thinking better of it, “Besides, I don’t think Jane wishes to go to town.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he regretted them, knowing how much they had just revealed. He darted a glance at his friends to find them regarding him with expressions of mingled astonishment and wicked, knowing glee.
Jeremy went so far as to sit up straight in his chair and set his glass down with a faintclink.“Of course,” he said seriously. “You are married, after all. You wouldn’t wish to go anywhere without your wife.” He nodded slowly. “It is not at all as if you are a man who, just four months ago, informed us quite earnestly that nothing about your life would change whatsoever when you were wed.”
Penvale offered a rude gesture, which did nothing more than make Jeremy abandon any attempt at suppressing his grin.
“Indeed,” Audley agreed calmly. “I can’t imagine any reason that a man who has been recently married—not at all for love, if I recall correctly—and who has spent several months in close company with his wife and precious few other humans, should suddenly be oh so reluctant to leave said wife.” He flicked an invisible speck of dust from his cuff. “There is not the slightest chance that this man may have realized, after getting to know his new bride, that he perhaps likes her considerably more than he initially realized.”
“Go to hell,” Penvale said without heat.
“But things are ever so much more interesting here,” Audley said cheerfully.
“Penvale, have you truly gone and fallen in love with a woman who gave every impression of wishing you dead?” Jeremy asked. “Because if you have, I really question your instinct for self-preservation, old chap.”
“Jane does not wish me dead,” Penvale said, his voice quiet but intent. “And if you think I’m going to confess anything to you before I’ve informed her of it, you’re out of your mind. I spent the better part of last summer listening to you two try to convince yourselves you weren’t in love with Violet and Diana, when any fool could see otherwise, and I don’t think it’s so much to ask that you let me work out my own marriage, and without insulting Jane in the process.”
“Penvale.” Jeremy leaned forward, looking honestly astonished. “Have weoffendedyou?”
“Of course not,” Penvale said instinctively, because, of course, he was not the sort to get offended—not the kind of man whose feelings were ever engaged, who was ever too concerned by what others thought or any of the complicated matters of the heart that had seemed to plague them so much of late.
But then he paused and considered. He thought of watching his friends find love and happiness and not feeling terribly bothered by it—he was happy enough for them because they were his friends; and despite the fact that he occasionally wanted to strangle them, he largely found that their happiness was rather important to his. And he thought of all the years he’d spent shunning any possibility of such connections in his own life.
And then he thought of the past few months, of Jane’s company, of her sharp comments, of her insistence that he needed spectacles, ofher abject horror that he didn’t read novels, of the peculiar quirk to her mouth when she was trying hard to suppress a smile at something he had said. Of her awkward, halting attempts to befriend the villagers. Of the way her voice softened ever so slightly when she addressed the servants. Of the peculiar fierce look that crossed her face when she was staring at the sea, or the distant moors, or occasionally—when she thought he wasn’t looking—at Trethwick Abbey, this house that he’d realized she loved just as much as he did.
He knew now that the house meant little to him if she wasn’t within it.
“I think we owe you an apology nonetheless,” Audley said quietly, after silence had stretched between them for several long moments. His face was utterly serious as he spoke, his steady green gaze fixed upon Penvale’s face. “It was never my intent to disparage Jane—because she is your wife, and because I like her in her own right, truth be told. I did not think that such feeling existed between you two, but if you have fallen in love, I’ll confess that I’m delighted. I think she suits you perfectly, Penvale.” His tone was unusually affectionate, and his words had a ring of truth to them that warmed Penvale through and through.
“I still find her mildly terrifying,” Jeremy said, rising to take a few steps toward Penvale, reaching out to clap a hand upon his shoulder. “But since I married your sister, of all people, I think my fondness for terrifying women has been established. Which is to say, if you, too, suffer from this affliction, then I’m more than happy to welcome you to the club.”
Penvale opened his mouth to make some sort of reply, but before he could utter a single word, a familiar sound rang out:
A clear, unearthly wail.
