“So,” he said, looking down at her while noise and exclamations of pleasure erupted about them, “where is the happy bridegroom?”

* * *

• • •

Viola felt as if at last she had come to the end of a tumultuous journey of close on three years. She was in the drawing room of Brambledean in the early evening, two days before Christmas, surrounded by her family—all her family except for the very young children, who were upstairs in the nursery, and she was thoroughly contented. She tested the word happy in her mind, but decided that contented was the better choice. Contentment was a good thing. Very good.

Finally she was able to accept with her whole being that Humphrey’s family was indeed hers too, even though their marriage had never been a valid one. They were her family because they had chosen her, not only during the twenty-three years when really they had had no choice, but in the close to three years since when they could have disowned her. And at last she had chosen them to be her family.

She gazed about the room from her position on a small sofa beside Althea, Alexander’s mother. They were all here—the Kingsleys, the Westcotts, and their spouses and older children. Ivan and Peter were playing a duet of dubious musical distinction on the pianoforte, and Winifred was leaning across the instrument on her forearms, watching their hands and making what were probably unhelpful suggestions when they hit one of their frequent wrong notes or contested the middle keys with some sharp elbow work. Viola’s mother and Mary were in conversation with Humphrey’s mother. Jessica and Abigail were squeezed onto another sofa on either side of Harry, while Boris was perched on a pouf in front of them. They were all absorbed in some tale Harry was telling. Camille and Anna had their heads together, talking about something. Wren and Joel and Avery were in conversation together.

It was, in fact, a warm family gathering. And there was even an extended family member present—Colin, Lord Hodges, Wren’s younger brother, who was currently living eight or nine miles away at Withington House, Wren’s former home, where Alexander had met her less than a year ago. He was a good-looking, good-humored young man who had caught the attention of both Abigail and Jessica earlier in the day. He was currently standing by the window, talking with Elizabeth, who was perched on the window seat.

The room was lavishly decorated for Christmas and smelled wonderfully of pine. Alexander and Thomas, Lord Molenor, had gone out to the stables and carriage house after luncheon to look at the sleds that had been stored away for years to see if they could possibly be used if it should indeed happen to snow. Most of the rest of them went out to gather greenery from the park—pine boughs and holly, ivy and mistletoe. Then they had all set to with a will to decorate the drawing room and the banisters of the main staircase. Matilda had marshaled a group to make a kissing bough, which now hung from the center of the ceiling and had been visited accidentally on purpose—as Avery phrased it—by several couples and a few noncouples. Harry had kissed Winifred and his aunt Matilda, who had told him to mind his manners, young man, and then had tittered and blushed. Boris had kissed Jessica and turned a bright red, even though she pointed out that they were cousins, you silly boy. Colin had gallantly kissed both Jessica and Abigail, and they had turned bright red.

The Yule log would be brought in tomorrow, Alexander promised, and then it would be Christmas indeed. The carolers would surely come from the village—they had promised anyway to revive that old tradition—and there would be a wassail bowl awaiting them and mince pies and a roaring fire in the hall.

Christmas was a happy time, Viola thought, content to be quiet while Althea knitted beside her and smiled about at the scene before her eyes. It was a family time, a time to count one’s blessings and fortify oneself for the year ahead. For the new year would bring changes, as all years did, some of them welcome, some a challenge. One needed to grasp the happy moments when one could and hug them to oneself with both arms.

Her blessings were many indeed. Someone from Harry’s battalion had needed to come back to England for a month or so to select recruits from the second battalion and train them rigorously for battle before taking them out to the Peninsula to bring the first battalion up to full strength again. He had volunteered for the unpopular task so he could attend his mother’s wedding. The letter in which she had informed him that there was to be no wedding after all had not reached him before he sailed for England. The armies moved about a great deal within Portugal and Spain. Often the mailbags were redirected several times over before they were delivered into the correct hands.

Viola was very glad that letter had not arrived. Harry looked healthier and more robust than he had looked several months ago when he had insisted upon going back earlier than he ought after recovering from his injuries. He was also leaner than he had been and . . . harder. There was something about his eyes, the set of his jaw, his very upright military bearing . . . It was impossible to put it quite into words. He had matured, her son, from the carefree, rather wild young man he had been at the age of twenty before his world collapsed along with hers and Camille’s and Abigail’s. He was a man now, still energetic and cheerful and full of laughter—with that suggestion of hardness lurking beneath it all.

But he was here, and she felt it would be impossible to be happier than she was right now. After Christmas, when she went back home, she would carry this feeling with her. She would make her happiness out of her family, though they would be dispersed over much of England. Not too far for letters, however, and she liked writing letters.

“Now who can be coming?” Matilda asked, and they all stopped what they were doing to listen. There were the unmistakable sounds of horses and a carriage drawing up outside the front doors. “Are you expecting anyone else, Wren?”

“No,” Wren said. “Perhaps one of the neighbors?”

But it would be a strange time for a neighbor to come calling uninvited.

“I shall go down and see,” Alexander said.

He was gone for several minutes. When he returned, they all looked at him inquiringly. There was no one with him.

“Harry,” he said. “Can I trouble you for a moment?”

“Me?” Harry jumped to his feet and strode toward the door. Alexander ushered him through it and closed it from the other side. The rest of them were left none the wiser about the identity or errand of the caller.

“If there is something I cannot abide,” Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, said when neither man had reappeared after a few minutes, “it is a mystery. Can it be army business? Whatever can Harry do to help?”

At least ten more minutes passed before the door opened again. It was Harry this time, looking every inch the hardened military officer.

“Mama?” he said, and beckoned her.

“Well,” Mildred was saying as Viola left the room. “Is this some new sort of party game? Are we all to be summoned, one at a time?”

Viola stepped outside and Harry closed the door.

“The Marquess of Dorchester wishes to speak with you in the library,” he said. “If you wish to speak to him, that is. If you do not, I shall go and tell him so. I have made it quite clear to him that I will not allow you to be harassed.”

She stared at him in the flickering candlelight of one of the wall sconces.

“Marcel?” she said. “He is here?”

“But not for much longer if you do not want to see him,” he said. “I shall show him the door, and if he is reluctant to move through it, I will help him on his way.”

Tags: Mary Balogh Westcott Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net