Change of Heart
By S. Faith, © 2011
Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,344 (this chapter)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.: See Chapter 1.
N.B.: I leave in the morning and will be traveling all day (2 Jul), so I don't know if I'll be able to get Chapter 10 up tomorrow.
Chapter 9: Country Respite, City Chaos
The sleek silver sedan wound its way north towards Hertfordshire, its destination an unassuming but sizable country house surrounded by meadows and trees. Mark knew this because he had, on past occasion, had opportunity to spend time at this house with Bridget. He knew she'd be there, and he'd told Portia too; for her part Portia had promised to be friendly and would try to get to know Bridget better.
"After all," Mark had told her, "she's the mother of my children and she will remain in my life."
When they arrived they were greeted warmly by Magda and Jeremy, with requisite handshakes and air-kisses. "We've put you on the top floor on that side of the house," said Magda quietly to Mark. "You know, to keep awkwardness down."
"I appreciate your thoughtfulness," said Mark, "but that wasn't really—"
Mark stopped because at that moment Bridget came into the foyer behind Portia, who turned at the sound of Bridget's welcoming greeting. She had clearly just come in from outside, sunglasses in hand; it was an unusually warm day and they'd even made the drive with the windows down. It wasn't really Bridget who had brought him up short, however. It was the man accompanying her, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head.
Why Mark hadn't considered she'd be bringing Sebastian he did not know, and he felt incredibly stupid for not having thought of it. Mark's mouth pulled into a genial smile as he extended his hand. "Sebastian," he said as they shook. "Nice to see you again."
"And you, Mark." He smiled.
"Sebastian," said Bridget, turning her gaze towards Portia. "This is Portia Fawkes. You know Portia, darling; she's a top barrister, works with Jeremy… oh, and Mark too, of course."
"Yes, of course, a pleasure," said Sebastian, hiding a smile, as Mark silently fumed; she was deliberately channelling her mother's most grating demeanour and tone, and Sebastian clearly knew it. "I'm Sebastian Chamberlain."
"You might have heard of him," said Mark. "He's an author, very popular these days."
"Thank you for saying so," said Sebastian. "Aidan tells me you've been working your way through my library. I'm flattered. I know you're a busy man and that you don't have a lot of time for reading that isn't work-related."
It was hard to hear Sebastian's words as anything but condescending. "I've found it quite interesting, indeed," he said. Mark's gaze shifted towards Bridget; she seemed all too amused. "Are the children with your parents?"
"Aidan's watching the place," said Bridget, further raising his temper; she had not consulted him on the matter at all. "He's nearly seventeen."
"I'm aware," Mark replied, then added, referring to their previous conversation, "I was there, too."
"Oh? Where?" popped in Portia, utterly oblivious. At this, Sebastian let out a laugh that he tried hard to hide, unsuccessfully masquerading it as a cough. The laughter itself irritated Mark even more; he hated to admit it, but it rankled his ego to think Sebastian thought he, Mark, had chosen to leave his wife for an idiot.
"Come on," said Magda, who Mark had forgotten was even there, and who sounded distinctly uneasy with the direction the conversation had taken. "I'll take you upstairs."
They followed her to the stairs and up them; passing by two pairs of doors, Magda brought them to the room at the end of the hall. "Here you are," she said with tremulous brightness. "Toilet's just there to your other side. When you're settled come down for something to eat." With that Magda scurried away, closing the door behind herself.
"Oh, I feel daft," said Portia as he carried the bags in, setting them on the bureau. "You meant you were there when Aidan was born."
"Yes," he said as he pulled his trousers out for the next day, then his shirt, in order to hang in the closet to be presentable the next day. His instinct was to stay in the room and away from people, but his instinct was usually to do that, so he turned back to her. "Ready for something to eat?"
Portia looked a bit reluctant. "Well, I suppose… I mean, if you are," she said.
"Absolutely," he said.
"Do I need to freshen up?" she asked.
"You look fine," he said; he realised his tone probably seemed a bit too curt, so he followed up with a smile, saying, "Really."
She came up close to him, taking his hands in her own. "I know it's probably going to be a little strange for you, your ex-wife here with her new beau," she said, squeezing gently, "but it's for the best in the end."
He knew she was right, and nodded. He had to get used to the new reality, even as part of him was ever on the alert for an opportunity to win her back; he knew in his heart of hearts it was a fantasy.
"Marvellous." She released his hands, offered him a toothy smile. "Now I am positive Magda has some fabulous nosh and excellent vintage. Let's go mingle and everything will be wonderful."
He smiled; he hoped she was right. "All right."
They stood there for a moment before she brought her lips to his for a quick kiss. "I mean it."
He felt heat rise to his skin quite against his will. "I know."
They went back to the first floor, directly to the sitting room, where a sideboard table was laid out with all manner of appetisers; Magda, looking quite recovered, came up to Mark with a glass of red wine. "And you Portia," said Magda. "Wasn't sure if you fancied red or white more."
"White, thanks," she said. "What a lovely place you have here…"
As they talked, Mark took his glass in hand an surveyed the room; there were a handful of other people milling around the table and sampling the food from the spread. The table sat in front of a large picture window with a stunning view of the country, bright blue sky and verdant greenery separated by a low stone wall.
As his eyes adjusted to the brightness outside, he realised that there were two figures walking along the wall in the distance; in very short order they stopped, embraced, and began to kiss; the taller figure, the man, leaned his partner back against the waist-high wall—
Within a heartbeat Mark realised who those figures were, and quickly looked away, looked to the other guests in the room, none of whom were gazing through that same window. He could not bear to look any longer at Sebastian and Bridget.
"As expected, simply wonderful."
Portia was suddenly at his side, and he turned to face her. "Yes. One can always depend on Magda to push out the boat on her parties," he said, offering a smile, then pointed to the tray. "You're fond of those little quiche tartlets, aren't you?"
"Too right," she said, "though I can't have too many of them or I'll bloat up like a balloon." With a little laugh she ran her hand over her flat stomach.
They each put a selection of treats onto small plates then began to circulate about the room; the people present were by and large known to him, so he didn't really have any of his usual reticence when it came to conversation, helped by his glass of wine.
A commotion in the foyer caught his attention; rather, a familiar voice: "Fuck me, I could use something strong to drink after that drive."
Sharon, whom he had not seen since before the split.
This was followed up by a raucous laugh—Bridget's, he'd know it anywhere—and at that moment he suspected that Bridget and Sebastian had returned through the front door and had brought the newly arrived Sharon with them.
And Jude, noted Mark, as the four of them came into the room; Magda rushed to greet them (Mark had yet to see Jeremy, had no idea where he was), giving effusive hugs to Sharon, who spotted Mark almost immediately, then Jude, who was apparently without her husband Richard for this weekend.
"Ah," said Sharon as she approached, leaving Bridget and Sebastian in her wake; Jude was quick to follow; Magda skittered off to get her some wine. "This must be… Portia." Mark knew better than to think the sweet tone was sincere. Portia did not.
"Yes, I am, but you have me at a disadvantage," she said, extending her hand. "You are…?"
"Very good friends of his ex-wife's," Sharon said, not accepting the shake; Portia withdrew it, trying to pretend she hadn't just been snubbed.
"This is Jude, this is Sharon," Mark explained. "It's nice to see you."
Sharon cocked an eyebrow. "I'd say the same," she said, "but I don't like to lie."
"Shaz!" Bridget said sharply yet coolly as one might calm a dangerous lunatic, coming up behind her friends. "Come and let's get some food—clearly you need that drink too."
As Bridget led her away by the elbow to meet an approaching Magda, Sharon's resulting expression reminded him of a muzzled attack dog. Jude, who had yet to say anything to Mark or Portia, remained with them. When she did speak, she was surprisingly friendly.
"So you're a barrister too?" Jude asked, directed at Portia.
"Yes I am," Portia said, offering a smile. "A focus on international law, which is why I get to work with Mark so frequently. What do you do, Jude?"
"Investment banking," Jude replied. "Brightlings."
"Oh, that must be exciting!" Portia said in a tone that indicated Jude was instead in fact perhaps a bounty hunter. "What does that entail?"
As Jude described her work, Mark tuned the conversation out; it was something he was not proud of, but when he saw Bridget speaking with Sharon his attention was naturally drawn to it. They were speaking in hushed tones as they perused the food table, but he was still close enough to hear their words.
"Sharon, I'm beyond it. Really," said Bridget. "There's no reason to be rude or angry with her."
"I have my doubts," she said through clenched teeth, "but if you say so, I'll back off. Mark, however… I could bollock him."
After a moment's pause, Bridget responded, "I really don't care anymore, Shaz. What's happened has happened—"
Just then Portia laughed, demanding his attention with the sound of his name.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Tell Jude about that awful time we had at dinner," she said with a smile. "You know, with the waiter who kept spilling things on us."
With a half-hearted smile he recounted the whole thing; they had both found the experience unpardonable and did not understand why Portia had brought it up.
"Oh, how awful!" said Jude. "Though the poor boy might just have been having a bad night."
"That's what I suspect," she said. "Certainly not going to hold it against the restaurant for all time."
This confused him, because Mark distinctly recalled her declaring that they would never eat there again.
Through the rest of the pre-dinner appetiser grazing, it took a concerted effort for Mark to pay attention to his own conversations when he was far more interested in Bridget and Sebastian's interactions with the other partners and other colleagues. With the exception of Jeremy (who'd finally turned up, greeting both Bridget and Sebastian with equal fondness), they were treating her with a sort of uneasy deference (due to their past acquaintances, it was difficult to avoid interaction), and who treated Sebastian as a zoo specimen. In interactions with Horatio and Camilla, to Mark it was obvious that Sebastian, while handling with cool aplomb, disliked this treatment intensely.
As the sky outside begin to dim with the approaching sunset, Magda advised dinner would be served at about seven. This seemed to prompt the group to leave the sitting room; some (like Sebastian and Bridget) were heading outside for fresh air, while some went upstairs or to the rear of the house presumably for their rooms. Portia suggested they do the latter. "I could use a bit of freshening up," she said.
The moment they were back in their room, Portia ran her hand over Mark's shoulder, ran her fingers over his cheek. "Perhaps what we really need," she said, "is a bit of a lie down." She reached up and moved to kiss him, but he pulled back. "Mark," she said, pouting a little. "You aren't going to let the fact that she's here—"
"No," he said curtly, then offered a feeble smile. "Sorry. I'm just not in the mood."
She smirked. "Are you sure?" she asked, coming up close to him, running her hand over his arse, then around to the front of his thigh. "Sure you can't be persuaded?"
"Portia," he said quietly; he didn't trust his voice, particularly as her fingers were moving closer to his fly. When she kissed him, he responded in kind and allowed himself to be persuaded after all, particularly as they had not slept together in a couple of weeks. In a way the release was just what he needed in that moment, but after the fact he felt worse than ever. Despite knowing that after dinner Bridget would be retiring to the room she was sharing with Sebastian, would probably be sleeping with him under this very roof, he felt guilty.
"Hey, wake up. Probably ought to get ready," came her voice from beside him. He hadn't really been dozing, but he didn't disabuse her of the notion.
"Yes," he said softly. "You're probably right."
Dinner was a spectacular affair; he wasn't sure how much food Magda thought twelve guests could eat, but apparently she'd guessed correctly, as they all partook of the offerings, dishes from various regions of India, with great relish. "I feel like I've done nothing but eat since I got here," he overheard Bridget say, which made him smile as he sipped more wine.
Post-dinner there was coffee and dessert, which some took with them out through the dining room's French doors and onto the back patio. It was now dark, but the clouds that had rolled in were holding in the warmth of the day, and so it was perfectly comfortable for those doors to stand open.
Out on the patio Mark saw, like a scene from twenty years prior, Sharon, Jude and Bridget, wine glasses in hand and talking animatedly with one another. Sebastian came up out of nowhere and joined in, engaging Sharon and Jude, who clearly liked him. It was only then that a familiar motion, bringing a lit cigarette up past shoulder level, registered with Mark for what it was. It surprised Mark to see Sebastian taking a long draw on a cigarette; even more surprising was Bridget leaning into him to steal away the lit cigarette from his fingers in a surprisingly intimate gesture, taking a drag herself, then exhaling the smoke with obvious pleasure.
Mark could not believe what he was seeing, and in an instant he was irrationally furious. For her to have gone so long—since her first pregnancy—without smoking only to pick it up again as casually as a Sunday paper was to suggest some kind of rebellion, Sebastian's continued bad influence, or a little bit of both.
Bridget then saw him looking at her, and she took another puff before offering Mark an impish, almost defiant smile. He strode towards their little group, not knowing or caring much where Portia had gone.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Mark asked gruffly.
She looked at him as if he were mad, staring pointedly at the cigarette. "As you see," she said. "Rather obvious, I should think."
"Why would you start again, Bridget?"
"I think she can bloody well do what she wants," piped in Sharon.
"Yes," said Bridget, nodding towards her friend. "That."
"It's foolish and irresponsible and you—" he began.
"A lot of things are foolish and irresponsible to do," she retorted, "yet some are compelled to do them anyway." She brought up the cigarette again, drew in a breath, then blew smoke in Mark's face, causing Sharon to chuckle, and Jude to hide a smile behind her hand.
"I'm glad you find Bridget risking her health so damned funny," Mark said to them, further angered by his humiliation and stinging eyes, before looking to Sebastian. "I'm appalled that you'd encourage her to start again," Mark said.
"I encouraged nothing," Sebastian said languorously, regarding Mark with scrutiny as he reclaimed the cigarette for a drag. "I happen to smoke occasionally, she asked for one, I obliged. She can make her own decisions. She's a grown woman."
"But she's not —" Mark began hotly, then faltered—he couldn't very well say she's not just a 'grown woman' but someone he still loved, not when he was here with another woman—and ended weakly with, "She's my—" He stopped again; to say she was his wife was even more of a mistake. Brows rose as he stumbled through his retort. Mark felt his jaw tense, hated his self-made embarrassment; he turned his piercing gaze to Bridget again. "I still think you've made an enormous mistake," he said.
"Well," said Bridget icily, "I wouldn't be the first one to have done that, now would I? And in case you haven't noticed, I'm not 'your' anything anymore."
Mark heard his name being called; it was Portia's voice.
"Run along now like a good puppy," said Sharon.
Mark knew she was likely plastered, knew she was still harbouring anger towards him, so rather than spar with her he simply turned and left the group. He found Portia just inside the dining room; it seemed she hadn't seen or heard the exchange. "I got you a coffee," she said brightly. He looked into the cup; his coffee had cream in it. He sighed and accepted it with a thanks.
"Well! Now the party can really start!"
Mark spun around to see the one person he didn't realise until that moment was not present: Tom, accompanied by a young man Mark could only assume was his latest boyfriend. Bridget ran up to him and gave him a big hug. "Tell us the truth," she said with a mock air of confidentiality as she pulled back, glancing towards the dark-haired man. "You just needed a room."
When they all began to chuckle, Mark was struck more than ever how like old times it was. When Tom looked towards him, Mark smiled and nodded. Tom's expression in return was neutral at best before he bent to say something to Bridget. Whatever it was, it caused her to look at him; Mark thought her response was "It's all right," if his ability to read her lips from a distance was anything approaching accurate.
Then Portia said his name; Mark was pulled into a conversation with Horatio and Camilla, and when he next looked over to where the group of them had been, they had gone. He looked down to his tepid, too-pale coffee and sighed. This is my life now, I guess.
…
The chirping sound of an incoming text message woke Mark far too early the following morning. Blinking, he sat up and fumbled for his mobile to silence it. He then read the message, which served only to perplex him.
Headlines today somewhat explosive. Think you might recognise some names, tho they had sense not to name most important one… ~d
It was from Daniel, but to what it was referring, Mark had no idea.
In the dark he rose, dressed in his robe, grabbed his shaving kit and left the room hoping that the toilet was free; it was. He closed and locked the door, then took a long, hot shower, probably longer than strictly necessary, but he doubted anyone else was yet awake. He shaved, brushed his teeth, then ventured out back towards his room, all the while his mind turning over the possibilities for the explosive headlines that day.
It would not take very long to get an answer.
Choosing to leave Portia to sleep a bit longer, he dressed then went downstairs. He knew where the kitchen was so he decided to help himself and make a pot of coffee. He watched the landscape change under the rays of the rising sun; it really was exquisite.
"Oh!" he heard; he turned to see Magda had appeared; his presence there had obviously surprised her. "I thought I was going mad, smelling coffee," she said. "Thank you for getting that started."
"My pleasure," he said. "Anything else I can do to help?"
"Nope," she chirped. "Have the oatmeal soaking, just need to get it to a boil, and fry up some bacon and eggs and what not. Jeremy's right behind me; he'll help. You're a guest here—go on, have a pastry and relax. We'll have everything up in a short while and I expect you'll have company soon enough."
The dining room was pristine and laid out for breakfast; he had no idea who had cleaned everything up or when. Fanciful images of little worker elves or fairies flitting about the room flashed through his mind; it had been something Bridget had suggested once, that Magda kept a passel of woodland creatures on hand to do her cleaning up. It made him smile to think of it.
As he bit into his apricot tartlet, took a sip of the strong, black coffee, he heard behind him:
"Morning, Mark."
He turned to see Jeremy bringing in a tray of honey, a variety of jams, and other breakfast condiments. Mark said, "Morning, Jeremy."
"Sleep all right?" he asked.
"Just fine. Thanks."
"You were up early, weren't you?" he asked.
"Mobile woke me, couldn't get back to sleep."
"Well, I'm hearing more sounds of life around the house so I suspect you'll have company soon. Be back with the coffee and the oatmeal in a tick."
Shortly after Jeremy departed Mark was joined by Horatio and Camilla; he felt quite thankful that the first to arrive were allies rather than, say, Sharon, though it was rather earlier than Sharon was likely to rise after imbibing so much wine. "Morning," said Horatio cordially. "Where'd you get the coffee?"
"Kitchen, though Jeremy said he's bringing the carafe up soon."
"Good, good," said Horatio.
Camilla piped up, "Are you holding up all right, Mark?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well… having your ex here," Camilla said.
"Too right," said Horatio. "Must be difficult to face your missteps."
At first he thought he meant facing up to the things he'd done wrong, but the longer he thought about it, the more he was convinced Horatio meant Bridget herself, that the marriage itself was a mistake. Since he wasn't certain, he kept his response neutral. "Yesterday was an aberration," Mark said. "We have been getting along quite well."
"For the children, I'm sure," said Camilla. "Poor things."
"Must be hard to have such a constant reminder of your error in judgment so close by," said Horatio. "And the mother of your children to boot."
Now he knew Horatio was insulting Bridget, their offspring, their very marriage, and was thinking of what to say in reply when he heard Bridget herself speak up. He wondered how much she had heard. "Very hard, I'm sure," she said in a sickeningly sweet voice but an icy glare at Mark. "Such a disappointment to anyone with good breeding. And to be saddled with a pair of mutts for children, such a pity." With that she breezed away towards the kitchen, nearly walking into Jeremy who was carrying a tureen.
He rose, calling after her: "Bridget." She did not heed him. To Horatio and Camilla he said, "That was uncalled for."
"I didn't know she was there."
"That doesn't matter," he said. "Pardon me." He went after her and into the kitchen, nearly crashing into Jeremy returning to the dining room, this time with the coffee. "Sorry. Bridget," he said, seeing her near Magda. "You know I don't feel that way."
"I didn't see you rising to my defence," she said. "They have never liked me, have tolerated me at best. I accepted that a long time ago. But to see you sit idly by and allow them to insult everything we had, insult our very children…"
"I didn't get a chance."
Bridget stared at him a moment, seemed poised to speak when Sharon came in. "Bridget, come on. Don't listen to his excuses." Sharon pulled her by the elbow back into the dining room.
"Pardon," said Jeremy, going by again with a plate of bacon and a big bowl of scrambled eggs. Mark realised he'd better get some food while there was still some to get.
Sebastian was now there, sitting beside Bridget at the enormous table with Sharon on the other side. "Well, you know how it is, they only care about who your parents are, how much land you have, what your title is… straight out of some fucking Austen novel," said Sharon, lit cigarette in hand. "Fucking paternalistic bullshit, is what it is."
"Too right," said Bridget, defiantly swiping Sharon's cigarette and taking a drag.
"More concerned about lining their own pockets than the greater good," said Sebastian, preparing to light a cigarette of his own, looking murderously at Mark's end of the table, where Horatio and Camilla sat.
"No smoking at table, Sharon; I've told you a hundred times." Magda appeared just then with some orange juice.
"Sorry, Mags," said Sharon glumly, stubbing it out on a tiny dessert plate. Sebastian put his away.
"Liberal codswallop," blustered Horatio. "A nice little thing you commies tell yourself to make government—"
At that moment Mark heard as well as felt his mobile start to go off. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. It seemed to be another text from Daniel, which Mark read then read again because what he saw did not make sense.
Aidan on BBC3 News!
"Need the telly right now."
Along with the harsh scrape of the chair on the wooden floor, Bridget's voice cut through the din of the 'right v left' argument. He looked up to see Bridget holding her own mobile. Mark realised that Daniel must have sent them each the same message. Of course he would have. Mark met her eyes over the table, then without a word they both left the table. As she ran for the sitting room, he strode out of the room behind her.
"What's going on?" called Sharon from behind them; Mark came into the sitting room just as Bridget was flipping through channels, her hand quivering as it held onto the remote. Out of habit, but more importantly out of genuine concern, he slipped his arm around her shoulders to steady her. Finally she landed on BBC3. It was not Aidan at all, but an older woman. The caption on the screen, however, made sense of everything: Mrs Alice Remington. The title below it read Scandal at Eton.
"—the only one to defend my son against that brute, the only one!" she was saying. Mark thought this must have been pre-recorded, since she was lit by artificial light and the sky was dark around her. "And instead of giving him a commendation, they kick him out! All because of the son of a man who ran on a platform of education and discipline." Her eyes met the camera. "If it hadn't been for his mother, this never would have come to light, so: thank you, Bridget."
"Oh my God," said Bridget, her trembling hands coming to her mouth; he could feel her lose her balance, and he tightened his grip upon her upper arm. He was in a way relieved, as he was sure she was; he had been expecting so much worse, an accident, a house fire—
It switched back to the news presenter, a very serious looking woman who spoke in a very serious voice. "There is an in-depth review of the situation at Eton this morning, happening even as we speak, to assess if undue and unfair political pressure was put to keep Ethan Hawthorne in the prestigious school—"
"Have to get to London. Now," she said, her voice shaking. He turned and took her into his arms. He suspected she needed it as much as he did; regardless of their differences, when it came to their children, they were united, a force to be reckoned with.
"Yes," he agreed quietly.
"I don't think they gave his name, so he should be okay," Bridget babbled.
"We missed the beginning," he said. "Daniel seemed to indicate they hadn't, though. I think he just knew it was Aidan."
"Shall I call your house, Mark?"
He turned sharply to see Portia standing there with a strange expression on her face. "No," he said. "I'll call him directly myself."
Bridget pulled back, wiping tears from under her eyes before turning and searching for Sebastian. "We have to go," she said to him.
"I heard. I'll get our things together."
"But Mark," Portia said petulantly as Mark dialled Aidan's mobile. "Do we really have to leave straightaway? Doesn't seem like there's much that needs your immediate attention and…" She trailed off.
"What?"
"It'll really ruin our first weekend out together."
Mark was appalled, and did not do much to hide this fact. "You're free to stay if you wish," he said coolly. "Pardon me, it's ringing."
Mark vaguely heard Sebastian offering to take Portia back to London—"Aidan needs both of his parents right now," Sebastian said, which was very sensible of him—as he waited for Aidan to answer the line. Bridget was at his side, waiting to hear whatever news Aidan had to give.
"Dad," said Aidan. "I take it word has made it to the farthest reaches."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," said Aidan. "We're fine. There have been a few calls on the house line, a media van or two making us wary of going outside."
It relieved him deeply to hear Aidan in such good spirits. "I'm glad to hear." After a beat he asked, "Where do you need to go?"
"Not me," said Aidan sheepishly. "Um. Marilyn."
"Ah," said Mark, smiling a little.
"Oh, another van," he said; probably he was looking out of the window, and also deflecting conversation away from the likely activity of the previous night. "The media aren't as stupid as we are often led to believe."
"Excepting your mum."
"Well, of course, but who told me they were stupid in the first place?"
Mark laughed again, then turned his gaze towards a very anxious-looking Bridget. "Speaking of, your mum is right here and wants to talk to you."
The moment the phone came away from his ear Bridget reached and took it from him, bringing it up to speak. "Aidan, sweetie, are you okay?" She looked up to Mark, and it was only once she heard the words come from his own mouth that she looked genuinely relieved. "I'm so glad to hear; you have no idea. Yes, we're leaving momentarily."
By the time Bridget disconnected with Aidan, Portia was approaching Mark looking very chastened. "Sorry about my outburst before," she said. "Go ahead back to town as soon as you need to. I'll pack our things up and will ride back with Mr Chamberlain."
He smiled, feel much more charitable towards her in that moment. "Thank you."
Portia reached up and pecked his cheek, surely aware how many eyes were upon them. "Have a safe drive." When Mark turned to ask Bridget if she was ready, he found Sebastian holding her face in his hands and planting a firm kiss right on her lips.
"Call when you can," he said quietly to her. "It'll be fine."
She nodded, then looked to Mark. "I'm ready when you are."