Lord Eden frowned.
“And a very special toast,” Sir Jasper said, “to a third person, one who is with us tonight and makes our numbers a very awkward seventeen.” He smiled kindly down at his daughter-in-law.
She closed her eyes.
“To my future grandchild,” Sir Jasper said. “To my grandson, it is my fondest hope. My heir.”
There was a buzz of voices about the table and a scraping of chairs being pushed back. And a clinking of glasses. Lord Eden found himself on his feet and doing what everyone else did. He even heard Susan say that she was never more surprised in her life. And one part of him noticed Jennifer with both hands to her mouth, crying.
He stayed on his feet, bowing and smiling as the ladies left. And he even found himself participating in a conversation about the races and the quality of the cattle that were up for auction these days at Tattersall’s. He had no idea if the gentlemen sat over the port for ten minutes or thirty, or for a whole hour.
But Sir Jasper did eventually suggest that they join the ladies in the drawing room.
JENNIFER SAT BESIDE ELLEN until the gentlemen joined them. Most of the other ladies were gathered about the pianoforte. Several of them played.
Jennifer was feeling happier than she had felt for months, she told Ellen more than once. Why had Ellen not told her before? She was so very happy.
“I have been feeling so sad for you in the last few weeks, Ellen,” she said. “I have new friends and have been going about a great deal more than you have. And I have realized that losing a husband is very much worse than losing a father. I have wished and wished that there were something or somebody for you. But though you are young and very lovely and will undoubtedly remarry eventually, you could not think of doing so yet, could you? But now you do have someone. Your very own child. Oh, Ellen, I know why you did not tell me when we were alone at home. I would have screamed and danced you about the room. I don’t blame you for preventing that.”
“Jennifer.” Ellen looked acutely distressed. “I did not want you to find out like this. I wanted to tell you myself. I wanted to tell you the whole of it. There is a great deal to be said.”
Jennifer smiled brightly at her. “And I want to hear it all,” she said. “You shall tell me all about it sometime when we have the leisure. There will be lots of time, Ellen. Three weeks at Amberley Court. Oh, life suddenly seems very good again. But you are not looking happy. I am being very insensitive. There is a sadness for you too, as well as happiness. Papa isn’t here. He would never have known, would he?”
Ellen shook her head. “No,” she said, “he did not know.”
Ellen rose as soon as the men came into the drawing room, and stood behind the bench at the pianoforte, watching Madeline play. Jennifer stayed where she was, feeling her own happiness. Just a few months before, her world had seemed to end when her papa died. And yet she was now surrounded by family and friends at a party that was being given partly in her honor. And Grandpapa had said that she and Ellen must come to live with him when they returned from the country.
And Ellen was to have a child. She would have something of Papa left.
But Lieutenant Penworth was sitting alone in the darkest corner of the room. And he was shifting about as if he could not find a comfortable position, as if he were in some pain. Jennifer crossed to the tea tray, took two cups from her Aunt Dorothy’s hand, and carried them over to the corner. She took a seat close to his and smiled.
“Would you care for some tea, sir?” she asked.
“Thank you,” he said. “But you do not need to bother yourself waiting upon me, you know. You should be enjoying yourself with the other young people.”
“I can enjoy myself here,” she said, “with another young person.”
“There is no enjoyment to be gained here,” he said. “You should be at the pianoforte, singing or playing, and being admired.”
Jennifer laughed. “I am afraid that if I sang or played,” she said, “I would not be admired, sir. Would you not like to be closer to the pianoforte yourself?”
“It is better if I sit here,” he said. “If I went over there, everyone would be falling over themselves to find me a chair and to speak kindly, as if I were an infant.”
“You don’t like kindness?” she said.
“Not particularly,” he said.
“You would prefer that people ignored you or kicked your leg from under you?”
He stared at her rather coldly from his one eye. “You cannot possibly understand,” he said. “When you have been in the best of health, when other people have treated you as an equal, then it is hard to find that everything-and everyone-has changed.”
“But everything has changed,” she said. “Nothing can be quite the same for you again. But people have not been unkind to you, have they? Perhaps you should be thankful for that at least.”
“The very worst way in the world to be treated,” he said, “is with pity.”
Jennifer stirred her tea and lifted the cup to her lips. “You are right,” she said. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what it would be like to be in your place. But I would think that the very worst thing in the world is to feel self-pity.”
He was very angry. She could see that from the set of his jaw. “Self-pity!” he said. “To know that any stranger looking into my face for the rest of my life will either grimace with distaste or smile with embarrassed pity. To know that I will never again walk properly, never again ride, or sail a boat, or play cricket, or run. Or a hundred and one other things. I would be better off dead.”
“My father is dead,” she said, setting cup and saucer down carefully beside her. “He will never see the sun again. Or feel its warmth. He will never see Ellen again, or me. He will never know love again or laughter or tears. And we will never have him with us again. Only a great heavy emptiness where he used to be. And you dare to envy him?”
“Yes, I do,” he said curtly.
“Then you are greatly to be pitied,” she said. “Not because you have lost a leg, and not because your face has been disfigured. Not because your life must change beyond recognition. But because you do not have the character to cope with those changes. Because you have allowed yourself to crumble beneath adversity.”
“A very eloquent speech,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “I thank you.”
“I try to recognize the man I knew in Brussels,” she said. “I liked him. He was sunny-natured, and he had a love of life, and a passionate desire to serve his country. I think I even felt a little jealous at one time that he seemed to prefer Lady Madeline to me. I can see him sitting before me, even though one side of his face is covered with bandages, and a pair of crutches rests against his chair. But I have mistaken. He is not the same man. I am sorry. I would have mourned that man with my father if I had known that he died at Waterloo.”
His jaw was set very hard. He was choosing his words with care, she could see. But they were interrupted.
“Jennifer has brought you a cup of tea, Allan?” Madeline said, smiling warmly down at him. “That was kind of her. Did you hear me singing? I did so just for you. You are in some discomfort, aren’t you? Shall I take you home? I am sure everyone would understand.”
“We will stay here,” he said. “I want you to enjoy the evening, Madeline.”
“But I don’t mind leaving,” she said. “I don’t want you to be in pain.”
“We will stay,” he said, his eye straying to Jennifer. “I will play a hand of cards as soon as the tables are set up. I am sure I can see well enough to do that.”
“But of course you can,” Madeline said, laughing in some amusement.
Jennifer excused herself and moved away. How unforgivably rude she had been. She had said herself just a few days before that Lieutenant Penworth would need more time to adjust to the harsh circumstances of his future. And yet she had just ripped up at him as if he were a sullen schoolboy.