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I have read somewhere that we often spend a lifetime searching for what we already have.
“I am a killer,” he said again. “The great advantage of being a soldier, of course, is that I will never be hanged for my crimes. I will be feted and adulated instead. The ladies will continue to fall in love with me, even though I am already married—and even though I do not smile.”
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“You are not my wife?” He ignored everything else she had said. “There is a certain register in a certain church that would give you the lie on that, ma’am. You wear my wedding ring on your finger. You engaged in conjugal relations with me yesterday afternoon. Today our son or our daughter may be growing in your womb. Is it your claim that that child would be a bastard?”
Though anyone who knows anything of our history would know too that it has always been a matter of honor with Bedwyn men to treat their wives with respect and courtesy. It is why most of us marry late or not at all, I suppose.”
He did not know how he was going to deal with that other Bedwyn tradition—that its males, once they did marry, were scrupulously faithful to their wives. But in the meanwhile there were these few weeks.
He was undeniably enchanted with his wife. She was like a promise of springtime bursting through the arid winter soil of his life. No, not a promise, perhaps. There was to be no future for them. But that was not a thought he cared to dwell upon tonight. Tonight he would simply enjoy watching her and look forward to waltzing with her later—and to having her all to himself when the ball was over. He was very much afraid that he was going to miss her dreadfully once she returned to Ringwood—but yet again he pushed aside any thought that might diminish his enjoyment of the evening.
“Love. What is love but an abstract term that cannot even be defined except in terms of action?
He might have taken into account that he was a Bedwyn, and that Bedwyns almost invariably loved their mates. It was a tradition he and his brothers had snickered and grimaced over when they were boys. And Bedwyns loved and nurtured their children, even if they were overscrupulous about instilling notions of duty and responsibility in them. Not that any Bedwyns to Aidan’s knowledge had ever had foster children to deal with.
Perhaps today was all that mattered. Perhaps today was all anyone could expect. Perhaps tomorrow was always an illusion that never came.
“One cannot always run and hide from life,” he said. “It is best never even to try, but simply to face what must be faced.”
Love needed to be fed and nurtured if it was to flourish and grow. John had not been here for longer than a year to feed her love.
“You will need someone to manage your farms and estate after your steward has gone off to his new place on that madcap scheme the two of you have concocted. The children need me. They desperately need a father as well as a mother. Aunt Mari needs to have her hopes fulfilled, and Agnes needs someone to fight on a regular, daily basis. And Eve—ah, Eve, my love, I need you. All of you. But you most of all, my dearest love. You.” He kissed her hard.
We Bedwyns have always taken marriage very seriously indeed, Eve. Anyone who marries any of us had better be prepared to be loved and cherished for a lifetime.”
“There is something infinitely better than happily ever after. There is happiness. Happiness is a living, dynamic thing, Eve, and has to be worked on every moment for the rest of our lives. It is a far more exciting prospect than that silly static idea of a happily ever after. Would you not agree?”
