A Lady's Choice

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Miss Danvers,” she murmured, her words masked, she hoped, by the introduction of the next recital piece. “I have heard that this house has the most lovely terraced garden, quite an unusual sight for a London house. Our hostess invited us to view it at our leisure. Would you care to see it with me?”

  “I would,” the lady said with alacrity.

  Rachel avoided Lady Yarnell’s eyes as they walked away; she already knew there would be censure in them. If Lady Yarnell had not, for some mysterious reason, seen fit to introduce Miss Danvers to her, then she must not have wanted to encourage the acquaintance for whatever reasons. In her view, no doubt, Rachel should have respected her unexpressed wishes and snubbed Millicent Danvers. The lady was impossible to fathom at times, even when her purpose was clearly understood. Looking at the young lady accompanying her, Rachel could not imagine any justifiable objection to her, especially since Lady Beaufort had ultimately performed the introduction.

  Thinking of Lady Yarnell’s odd fits and stiff manners, Rachel wondered how she was to go on once inescapably married? She didn’t suppose she had fully realized that when one married a man, one married his family as well. Her original stipulations for a husband had included one stating that he must have no female relatives living at home. That had proved untenable, however, given the number of widowed mothers and spinster sisters, aunts, nieces, female cousins and even daughters that eligible men seemed to have. So when Lord Yarnell proposed, it had been a joyous day. He had only a younger brother, who was away at school and was soon to take up orders, and his mother. Lady Yarnell she had only met as a cool, distant, but pleasant enough woman.

  Her acceptance had appeared to have changed everything. Even though Yarnell had kindly informed her that he had made sure of his mother’s approval before proposing—he seemed to think that was a point in his favor, or in the favor of the match, anyway—ever since, Lady Yarnell had been trying to “correct” her. She feared she was going from one uneasy situation, her home life at Haven Court, to another. But she was not married yet. She would at least make her own friends while still unwed.

  There were servants posted at various stations to guide those of the guests who had had enough mediocre music and preferred excellent gardens, and Rachel and Miss Danvers soon found themselves in the warm sunshine—or as much of it as could struggle through the London miasma—walking down a flagstone path toward vast banks of flowering shrubs and crowded flower beds. Rachel sighed and turned her face up to the sun for just one second, before shading it again within her bonnet. Unlike her sister, she did not let her skin brown in the sun. It was unladylike.

  “It is preferable outside to in on a day such as today, isn’t it?” Miss Danvers said. She closed her eyes and took in a long, heady breath of scent-laden air.

  “Oh, yes,” Rachel agreed with enthusiasm. “It has been raining so the last couple of days, but even on those days when there was sun, there always seemed to be engagements. Especially when one is preparing for a wedding.”

  “So, you are marrying Yarnell.”

  Rachel slid a sidelong glance toward the other lady, wondering at the casual use of his name. “Yes. You must know him well, if you know Lady Yarnell and Lady Beaufort.”

  “He and I were children together. Or at least, he was great friends with my older brother.” Miss Danvers’s tone implied a negligible childhood friendship.

  But it was, Rachel thought, as she murmured a vague “Really?” an opportunity to learn more about Lord Yarnell from one who was likely to be unbiased, and who knew him before he became the stuffy marquess he now appeared to be. A sparrow hopped to a low branch in front of them and she paused to watch.

  Miss Danvers bent to smell an early rose. “How lovely! The gardens truly are magnificent.”

  An elderly couple strolled past them and nodded in greeting. Rachel nodded back, recognizing them as ancient acquaintances of her grandmother’s. She glanced at her companion. How to introduce the subject she was most interested in without appearing forward? She was about to speak, when Miss Danvers took the lead.

  “Miss Neville, I spy a folly in the corner of the garden. Would you like to explore it?”

  “I would,” Rachel replied, thinking it gave her time to pursue the subject of Yarnell and his tightly furled nature.

  They strolled along a path that became mossy as they wound through a grove of trees and found the entrance to the folly, a pretty conceit meant to appear ancient, though it was likely no more than thirty or so years old. Miss Danvers entered first.

  “How lovely the gardens appear from the interior, viewed within the framework of gothic arches,” she said.

  Rachel followed, trailing her gloved fingers over the craggy surface of the stone. “There is a bench by one of the windows. Would you like to sit for a few minutes?”

  “Certainly,” Miss Danvers said, taking the lead once again.

  Once seated, they were silent for a few moments. A bird chirped and warbled, but then was silenced when a fat gray tomcat prowled past, leaping up onto a low-hanging branch and sitting in unblinking watchfulness.

  “Are you enjoying the Season, Miss Danvers?” Rachel asked, meaning to lead up to the subject gradually, of Lord Yarnell and his background as a child.

  “Yes. I like London, even though Barcombe, of course, is my beloved home. You must be eager to learn about your new residence. I don’t imagine Lady Yarnell has seen fit to tell you anything.”

  Was there an edge of bitterness in the young woman’s voice or was that in Rachel’s imagination? Careful not to say anything that could be construed as criticism, she responded, “True, Lady Yarnell has told me little, nor has Yarnell said much. I suppose they think I will ask anything that I wish to know.”

  “True.”

  Millicent Danvers kept her gaze steady on the tomcat, and Rachel examined her profile, the perfect, pert nose and high forehead. It was surprising that she was not married, she was so perfectly lovely and with unaffected, pleasing manners. But then Rachel did not know her well. If London taught one anything, it was not to judge by pleasant manners and an attractive façade. Those attributes could conceal a world of deceit and pettiness.

  “Are you here with your family?” Rachel asked, becoming more curious about her companion.

  “No, I’m staying with friends. A girl I went to school with is married to Sir Alexander Pace, and they have a home here in London. She kindly asked me to stay for the Season.”

  Rachel frowned. She was trying to elicit more information about Miss Danvers’s family, but that did not work out well. “How lovely.”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  Finally, Miss Danvers turned to Rachel and said, “I suppose you must be wondering why Lady Yarnell was unfriendly toward me when I approached your group.”

  Rachel carefully said, “I assumed it only reflected Lady Yarnell’s demeanor, which is rather frosty.”

  The young lady gave a laugh that did not sound at all happy. “Miss Neville, you are clearly a sweet and kindhearted young lady.”

  Rachel had never been described thus, but let it go. The big gray tomcat leaped and with a squawk and a flurry of feathers drifting on the breeze, the bird was gone. The cat trotted away with it securely in its teeth, heading into a thick shrub to consume its meal in peace.

  “Lady Yarnell does not like me because . . . well, my family is in trade.”

  “How shocking,” Rachel said, her tone dry. If that was the worst thing of which the lady could be accused, it did not bear mentioning.

  Miss Danvers turned and gazed at her and a beautiful smile lit her face. “How marvelous to meet someone so unspoiled! And with a delightful sense of humor. I like that.”

  “I did not think I was being funny,” Rachel said, raising her eyebrows and looking into the other girl’s green eyes. She was startled to see tears welling. “Miss Danv—”

  “No, it’s all right.” She put up one hand and looked off, out the window at the sun-touched gard
en.

  Rachel hesitated, ever reluctant to pry into someone’s emotions, but then asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

  The other girl shook her head vigorously, and, her tears under control, she gazed at Rachel and sighed deeply. “I am just happy,” she said, sounding not at all so. “I am so happy you are . . .” She covered Rachel’s hand with her own. “Pleasant. Intelligent. Sweet-natured. Good.” She sighed once more. “And so very pretty.”

  Rachel was silent, not knowing how to take such an effusion of compliments, especially since she knew she did not deserve at least two of them. She was often not pleasant and certainly not sweet-natured.

  “You may well think my words strange, and I know they are bold. But I heard there was to be a push this year to find Yarnell a wife, and knowing his mother was to be involved . . .” She trailed off and shuddered. “I was afraid, for Barcombe’s sake and . . . and for Yarnell’s, that she would search out a replica of herself, cold, stiff, unnatural. I know I shouldn’t speak thus, but I am not on good terms with Lady Yarnell, and she is not much liked in our village. With you there is hope that Yarnell can . . . can become again what he once was.”

  Intrigued, Rachel said, “What he once was? What do you mean?”

  “Let us walk again,” Miss Danvers said, leaping up from her seat on the bench. She exited the folly and Rachel was forced to follow. “Yarnell was not always the stiff, proper, rather formal young man you must have seen on occasion,” she continued, striding quickly out of the shadows into the sunshine, where she stopped. She turned her face up, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Rachel trotted after her. “I had thought it was his perpetual demeanor.”

  “On the contrary,” the young lady said, reminiscence thick and sweet in her voice. “Oh, on the contrary.” She hugged herself, her long fingers clutching her own shoulders. “Once Yarnell was a hot-blooded young man, willful, vigorous, intense. Once he wrote poetry and spun tales. Once he . . . but enough.” She gazed at Rachel and let her arms fall to her sides. “From your words,” she continued, “I assume you have only seen the cool façade he now presents to the public. He is and always has been a very private person. It may take time to chisel away that exterior, but once you have . . . oh, once you have, you will find Francis, the young man I knew as a girl.”

  She put her hands on Rachel’s shoulders and stared deep into her eyes. “Try!” she said, shaking her. “You must, for both of your sakes. If you know anything of life, you must know that it is not worth living if you only skim across the surface like a pretty sailboat on a pond. Our lives are too short; time is too precious. You must dive below the surface to see the teeming activity of the depths. Francis is full of contradictions, a man of many parts, but you will never see any of that if you don’t make the effort.” She shook her once more and released her hold. “Make the effort. If you love him, please make the effort, or he will freeze entirely and become like his mother.”

  Chapter Seven

  Colin, restored to vigor by a good night’s sleep, strode the length of the sitting room on the first floor and moved a chair slightly, stood back, stared at it, and moved it another fraction of an inch. Andromeda, reading a newspaper by the window where the light was better—vanity would not allow her to wear glasses unless she absolutely had to—looked up and frowned.

  “Why are you so agitated?” she said.

  Belinda looked up from her book, a text on horses that her uncle had obtained for her before he left on his wedding visit.

  Colin paced away and glanced around the room. “I am not agitated, Andy.”

  “Yes, you are. And do not call me Andy! You promised, Colin! It’s vulgar and boyish.”

  “All right!” He went to the window and glanced out, then paced away and cracked his knuckles.

  Andromeda winced and grimaced. She hated that sound and had warned Colin repeatedly, but he never remembered when agitated. Ergo, he was agitated. Why? she wondered. “Are you expecting company?” she asked, rattling the paper as she folded it and laid it on the table. She exchanged a look with Belinda, who was listening to the conversation, her book closed over one finger to mark her place.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.” It was said with a hint of defiance.

  She pursed her lips and watched him, but he would not meet her eyes. “Is this what you meant last night by saying you would tell more on the morrow?”

  “Yes. I am expecting . . .”

  “Sir Parnell Waterford, sir,” the butler said, bowing.

  The gentleman himself followed, handing his hat to the servant as if he intended to be a while. Andromeda frowned. Colin strode forward to greet him, pumping his hand vigorously.

  Andromeda stared, avidly wanting to examine this phenomenon who could so enrapture her normally sensible and staid sibling. She saw a tall man, his skin bronzed and weathered, his pale eyes blazing like aquamarines in his dark face. He was immaculately dressed, from topcoat down to Hessians, and his spare smattering of graying hair was carefully combed under the beaver he had just doffed. He was not a picture of dandyism, in other words, but was carefully presented. Appearance would proclaim him a gentleman, but Andromeda eyed him with suspicion. She assumed he was involved in Colin’s dreadful enthusiasm, and she was convinced no true gentleman would be so deeply enmeshed in the world of pugilism.

  “Sir Parnell, may I make you known to my sister, Miss Andromeda Varens, and our charge, Miss Belinda de Launcey? Andy . . . uh, sister, Miss Belinda, this is Sir Parnell Waterford.” It was said with reverence.

  The man advanced, greeted the child first with a pleasantry, and then lingered over Andromeda’s hand, his cheeks suffusing with a dull, brick red under the coppery skin. “Miss Varens, so very pleased to make your acquaintance. Last evening Sir Colin had much to say about his beloved sister.”

  His voice was gentle, deep, cultured, wholly unexpected. It had a hint of foreignness, as if he had spent much time away from his homeland. Their eyes met for a moment, and Andromeda read something there, an earnestness or gravity to his character that was pleasing in some way she couldn’t quite explain. She glanced at her brother and felt the color come into her own cheeks.

  Colin eyed the two with a hopeful, eager expression. “I invited Sir Parnell here this morning because I thought, Andy, that if you knew more about the sport of boxing, you would not be so offended by it.”

  “I am not exactly offended by it,” Andromeda said, giving him a look for the use of her despised nickname again. “I just do not think it a fit occupation for a gentleman!”

  “Ah, that is where you are mistaken, Miss Varens,” the knight said, taking a seat and looking like he wished he had something to do with his hands. “Many gentlemen box, even including those in Lord Byron’s circle.”

  “I, unlike many in society, would not count Lord Byron and his cohorts among ‘gentlemen.’ Just look at the scandalous way he treated his wife, and then had to flee the country!”

  He raised his gray-flecked eyebrows. “Then you are a rare young lady indeed,” he said. “Most of the fair sex thought he was the epitome of style and demeanor, I have been led to believe by my feminine relations. I honor you for your intelligent discrimination.”

  Brightening at his use of the word young in describing her, Andromeda nevertheless was not one to be taken in so easily. She cast a sidelong glance at Belinda, wondering whether the topic of boxing was quite fit for one so young, though she had to remember, the girl was an unusual child and had had adventures others her age had not. She had even seen a boxing match, whereas Andromeda had not. The child had cast aside her book and was leaning forward, listening intently, glancing from face to face.

  “Some may think so,” Andromeda said, continuing on the topic of Byron. “But I find the fellow’s writing ostentatious and his purported manner insidiously immoral. He hasn’t determination, restraint and resolve, and his behavior does not mark him with the stamp of ‘gentleman,’ though I am well aware the title ca
rries with it no guarantee of good behavior. Rather the opposite, I would think, judging from some of the stories I have heard since coming to London.”

  “Getting back to boxing,” Colin said impatiently, pacing still. “Sir Parnell taught me much last night, Andy . . . romeda.” He goggled slightly on the name, tripping over his usual shortening of it, only remembering at the last minute his sister’s preference.

  Andromeda bit her lip. It was rather funny, and she smiled, joining Belinda, who was giggling behind her hand.

  Sir Parnell blinked and looked from person to person. A smile tugged at the corner of his well-shaped mouth, though he could not have known the joke. “Yes, well, your brother, Miss Varens, had a bad experience in his first attempt at a bout here in London. In Yorkshire, no doubt, one can fight the locals in a barroom, but in London, as in everything else there is a pugilistic protocol. The bout he engaged in was one not sanctioned by those in the know. Here we fight by Broughton’s Rules of Conduct.”

  “Broughton?” Andromeda had to ask.

  “Yes. Did you know, Miss Varens, that it is believed that there is a pugilist buried in Westminster Abbey?”

  “Really?” Belinda asked, eyes shining.

  “Really,” Sir Parnell said, warming to the child and her eagerness. He went on to tell them all about Jack Broughton, a pugilist of some renown who had died in 1789, but whom Sir Parnell, as a very young child, had had the opportunity to meet once before that man’s timely end at the age of eighty-five or eighty-six. A Thames waterman in his youth, Broughton became famous for his boxing prowess and formulated the code that bore his name. He also introduced gloves to the practice ring, making it, he felt, a sport fit even for a gentleman.

  Andromeda was not impressed. “Are you saying, sir, that no one is ever hurt boxing?”

  He fastened his grave gaze on her. “No, Miss Varens, I cannot say that.” He straightened in his hard chair and crossed his legs. “But I can say that there are many fewer deaths in the boxing ring, proportionately, when the rules of conduct are followed, than deaths on the hunting field during the hunting season. And everyone hunts.”