A maid distracted her after a while. She brought more tea and the news that a portmanteau of her ladyship’s belongings had been brought over from the village and was now in the dressing room adjoining the bedchamber.
The same maid helped her wash and change into a gown more suitable for evening. She brushed out Gwen’s hair and restyled it. And then she left the room and Gwen wondered what would happen next. She hoped desperately that she could remain in her room, that the maid would bring up a tray at dinnertime.
Her hopes were soon to be dashed, however.
A knock on her door was preceded by the appearance of Lord Trentham, looking large and actually rather splendid in a well-fitting tailed evening coat and other evening attire. He was also glowering. No, that was unfair. His face in repose rather naturally glowered, Gwen thought. He had the look of a fierce warrior. He looked as though the niceties of civilized living were unimportant to him.
“You are ready to come downstairs?” he asked
“Oh,” she said. “I would really prefer to stay here, Lord Trentham, and be no bother to anyone. If it is not too much trouble, perhaps you would ask for a tray to be sent up?”
She smiled at him.
“I believe it would be too much trouble, ma’am,” he said. “I have been sent to bring you down.”
Gwen’s cheeks grew hot. How very mortifying! And what a vastly unmannerly answer. Could he not have phrased it differently? He might have told her that her company would be no bother to anyone. He might even have gone as far as to say that the duke and his guests were looking forward to her joining them.
He might have smiled.
He strode toward the bed, bent over her, and scooped her up.
Gwen set one arm about his neck and looked into his face even though it was disturbingly close. She could retain her manners even if he could not.
“What do you all do during your reunions?” she asked politely. “Reminisce about the wars?”
“That would be daft,” he said.
Was he always so rude? Or was it just that he resented her and could not even be civil to her? But he could have carried her to the village instead of bringing her here. Obviously he was such a strong giant that her weight was no object to him.
“You studiously avoid all mention of the wars, then?” she asked as he made his way downstairs with her.
“We suffered in this place,” he told her. “We healed here. We bared our souls to each other here. Leaving here was one of the hardest things we had had to do in a long while, perhaps in our whole lives. But it was necessary if our lives were ever to have meaning again. Once a year, though, we return to make ourselves whole once more, or to bolster ourselves with the illusion that we are whole.”
It was a lengthy speech for Lord Trentham. But he did not look at her as he spoke. His voice sounded fierce and resentful. It put her in the wrong again. It implied that she was a soft and pampered lady who could not possibly understand the sort of suffering he and his friends here had endured. Or the fact that that suffering never quite came to an end, that the sufferer was forever scarred by it.
She did understand.
When wounds healed, everything should be mended. The person concerned should be whole again. That seemed to make good sense. But she had not been mended when her leg knit together after being broken. Her leg had been poorly set. She would not have been whole even if her leg had healed perfectly, though. She had also lost her unborn child as a result of the fall. It might even be said that she had killed her child. And Vernon had never been the same after it had happened, though that did beg the question—the same as what?
When one had once suffered a great hurt, there was always a weakness afterward, a vulnerability where there had been wholeness and strength before—and innocence.
Oh, she did understand.
Lord Trentham carried her into the drawing room and set her down on the same sofa as before. But this time the room was not empty. There were, in fact, six other people present apart from the two of them. The Duke of Stanbrook was one, Lady Barclay another, Viscount Ponsonby a third. Gwen wondered fleetingly what his wounds had been. He looked dazzlingly handsome and physically perfect, just as Lord Trentham looked large and physically perfect.
It was obvious what was wrong with one of the other gentlemen. He hauled himself to his feet when Gwen came into the room, using two canes strapped to his arms. His legs looked unnaturally twisted between the canes, and it appeared as though he was supporting much of his weight on his arms.
“Lady Muir,” the duke said from his position before the hearth, “I appreciate your making the effort to join us. I fully understand that it must have been an effort. I am delighted to have you as a guest in my home, though I regret the circumstances. I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you during the coming week. You will not hesitate, I hope, to ask for anything you may need.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, flushing. “You are very kind.”
His words were courtesy itself, though his manner was stiff, distant, austere. But at least he was courteous. Unlike Lord Trentham, he was clearly a gentleman from head to toe. An extremely elegant gentleman too.
“You have met Imogen, Lady Barclay, and Flavian, Viscount Ponsonby,” he continued, crossing the room to pour a glass of wine, which he brought across to her. “Allow me to introduce Sir Benedict Harper.”
He indicated the man with the twisted legs. He was tall and slim, with a thin face and angular features that had once perhaps been purely handsome. Now they gave evidence of prolonged suffering and pain.