by Mary Balogh
Claudia strode up the sloping lower lawn until the flower gardens and the terrace came into view again. Then she changed direction and headed toward the orchestra. She needed to calm herself before joining her friends. Her body and mind were seething with unfamiliar, and quite unwelcome, emotions and sensations. She felt like a girl again, totally out of control of her own normally tranquil center. She ought not to have agreed to the boat ride. She actually enjoyed conversing with the Marquess of Attingsborough. He seemed to be an intelligent man, even if he did live an essentially idle existence. But he also happened to be easily the most attractive man she had ever encountered—not to mention handsome—and from the start she had been aware of the dangers of his practiced charm. Except that she had been aware of them on Flora and Edna’s behalf during the journey, assuming herself to be immune. Oh, but she had enjoyed the boat ride—both the exhilaration of being on the water and actually running her fingers through it and the pleasure of being rowed by a personable man. She had even indulged in a little romantic daydreaming if the truth were known. There she was on a warm summer afternoon boating on the River Thames with a gentleman with whom she had shared laughter both last evening and this morning. She had consciously liked him. Until he had spoken those words. …romance does not always have to be sensible. She knew he had meant nothing by them. She knew he had not been flirting with her. But suddenly fantasy had not remained buried deep in her thoughts but had obviously shown openly on her face for a fraction of a moment—but quite long enough for him to notice. How horribly, utterly humiliating! She looked around for a seat on which to relax while listening to the music but, seeing none, she stood on the lawn close to the rose arbor instead. And if she had not been feeling raw enough with embarrassment—for his silence during the return to shore had clearly indicated that he had noticed—there had been that introduction to the Earl and Countess of Sutton and Miss Hunt. She bristled at the memory. They had behaved just exactly the way she always expected the aristocracy to behave. Nasty, superior lot! Yet all three of them probably had nothing but fluff between their ears. And money to burn. She despised herself more than she did them for allowing herself to be upset by them. She applauded politely with a few other guests as the orchestra finished playing one piece and arranged its music for the next. And then Claudia smiled despite herself. The very ferocity of her indignation amused her. All three of them had appeared to be sniffing the air as if they smelled something nasty. But really they had done her no harm at all. They had done her a favor if anything. They had given her an excuse for getting away from the Marquess of Attingsborough. She had certainly been in need of one. Indeed, she would still be quite happy to dig a hole in the lawn at her feet and stick her head in if someone would just offer her a shovel. Instead, she headed for the rose arbor. She fervently hoped she would never see the Marquess of Attingsborough ever again. Some holiday this was turning into!
7
“Claudia!” Even before she reached the rose arbor Claudia heard the sound of her name being called and turned her head to see Susanna hurrying toward her from the direction of the terrace. Peter was some distance behind with Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg—and Charlie. “Wherever have you been?” Susanna asked as she came closer. “We have been looking for you. Frances was feeling tired and Lucius has taken her home.” “Ah. I am sorry to have missed saying farewell to them,” Claudia said. “I have been down by the river.” “Have you been having a good time?” Susanna asked. “It is beautiful down there,” Claudia replied. She hesitated. “I have actually been on the river. The Marquess of Attingsborough was obliging enough to take me out in one of the boats.” “How good of him,” Susanna said. “He is an amiable and charming gentleman, is he not? He deserves the very best out of life. I am not sure he will have it with Miss Hunt.” “Miss Hunt?” Claudia asked, remembering the haughty, beautiful lady dressed all in white who had treated her with such icy civility a short while ago. Susanna pulled a face. “She is the Miss Hunt,” she said, and when Claudia looked blankly at her she explained. “Miss Portia Hunt. The one Lucius almost married instead of Frances. And now Lauren tells me that Joseph is to marry her. Of course, they do make a handsome couple.” They did, Claudia agreed. Oh, goodness, indeed they did. She felt somehow foolish as if everyone within sight of her would realize what silly daydreams she had indulged in while out on the river. Miss Claudia Martin was not usually given to daydreams, especially silly ones—and more especially romantic ones. “But Claudia,” Susanna continued, smiling warmly as the rest of her group came up to them, “we have been having a long talk with the Duke of McLeith, and he has been telling us that you grew up together almost like brother and sister.” They were all smiling, obviously happy for her. Charlie was beaming. “Claudia,” he said, “we meet again.” “Good afternoon, Charlie,” she said. Brother and sister, indeed! “How wonderful that you should meet again now,” Lady Ravensberg said, “when you have not been in England for years, your grace, and Miss Martin has come to town for just a week or two.” “I can scarcely believe my good fortune,” Charlie said. “Kit and I are organizing a party to Vauxhall Gardens the evening after tomorrow,” the viscountess continued. “We would be delighted if the two of you could join us. Susanna and Peter have already said yes. Will you come too, Miss Martin?” Vauxhall Gardens! It was one place Claudia had always wanted to see. It was famous for its outdoor evening entertainments, with concerts and dancing and fireworks and fine food and lantern-lit pathways and alleys to stroll along. It was said to be a magical and unforgettable experience. “I would love to,” she said. “Thank you.” “And your grace?” “You are most kind,” he said. “I shall be delighted.” Claudia felt less shock at seeing him today. It was almost inevitable that they meet again, she had realized this morning when she woke up. And perhaps it was just as well it had happened. The long-ago past had never been quite exorcised. Perhaps now it would be and she could let go of the memories at last. “Oh, lovely!” Lady Ravensberg said. “Our party is complete, then, Kit. Elizabeth and Lyndon will be coming and Joseph and Miss Hunt and Lily and Neville. Oh, and Wilma and George too.” Lovely indeed, Claudia thought with heavy irony. And so she would see him again after all—him being the Marquess of Attingsborough. Well, she would just have to frown and look stern and make him believe that he must have been mistaken out there on the river. And those last two people the viscountess had named must be the Earl and Countess of Sutton. She really had walked into the fire with her enthusiastic acceptance of her invitation, but it was too late now to withdraw it. Besides, she wanted very much to see Vauxhall Gardens, and why should she not go? She would have friends there. “Claudia,” Charlie said, “would you care to take a stroll with me?” Everyone else beamed happily at them as they moved away from the group, weaved their way among other guests, a few of whom greeted him as they passed, and headed in the general direction of the river. “You live in Bath, Claudia?” he asked, offering his arm, though she did not take it. He knew nothing about her, then? But she knew nothing about him either, did she? Not anything that had happened to him since her father’s death, anyway. “Yes,” she said. “I own and run a girls’ school there. It is quite successful. All my dreams have come true, in fact. I am very happy.” And how was that for a defensive answer to his question? “A school!” he said. “Well done, Claudia. I thought you were a governess.” “I was for a short while,” she said. “But then I took a chance on opening my own establishment so that I could enjoy more independence.” “I was surprised when I heard that you had taken employment at all,” he said. “I thought you would marry. You had any number of admirers and would-be suitors, as I remember.” She felt a flash of anger as they started down the long slope. But there was some truth in his words. Even apart from her modest dowry, she had been a pretty enough girl, and there had been something in her nature that had attracted attention from the young men of the neighborhood. But she had had eyes for none of them, and after Charlie left—or at least after the last letter h
e wrote her less than a year later—she had renounced the very thought of marrying. Her decision had caused her father some pain—she knew that. He would have liked grandchildren. “Did you know that Mona had died?” Charlie asked. “Mona?” she said a fraction of a second before she realized that he was speaking of his wife. “The duchess,” he said. “She died more than two years ago.” “I am sorry,” she said. At one time that name had been written on her heart as if with a sharp instrument—Lady Mona Chesterton. He had married her just before Claudia’s father died. “You need not be,” he said. “It was not a particularly happy marriage.” Claudia felt a renewed flash of anger on behalf of the dead duchess. “Charles is at school in Edinburgh,” he told her. “My son,” he added when she turned her head to look at him. “He is fifteen.” Oh, goodness, only three years younger than Charlie had been when he left home. How time went by! The Marquess of Attingsborough and Miss Hunt, she could see, were walking up the slope from the river. They would meet soon. She wished suddenly that she had never left the tranquillity of her school. Though she half smiled at the thought. Tranquillity? School life hardly offered that. But at least there she always felt more or less in control. “I am sorry, Claudia,” Charlie said. “You really do not know anything about my life, do you? Just as I know nothing of yours. How could we have grown so far apart? We were once as close as any brother and sister, were we not?” She pressed her lips together. They had been like siblings once upon a very long time ago, it was true. But not toward the end. “It was not your fault, though, that I left home never to return, was it?” he said. “Or mine either for that matter. It was the fault of circumstances. Who could have predicted that two men and one boy, none of whom I knew, would all die within four months of one another, leaving me with the title of McLeith and properties that went with it?” He had been planning a career in law. She could remember how stunned he had been when the Scottish solicitor had arrived on her father’s doorstep one afternoon—and then how consumed with excitement and happiness. She had tried to be happy for and with him, but there had been a chill of apprehension too—one that had been fully justified as later developments had proved. It was the fault of circumstances. Perhaps he was right. He had been just a boy thrust into a world so different from the one in which he had grown up that it might have been a different universe. But there was no real excuse for cruelty no matter what the age of the perpetrator. And he had certainly been cruel. “We ought to have continued to write to each other after your father’s passing,” he said. “I have missed you, Claudia. I did not realize how much until I saw you again last evening.” Had he really forgotten? It was astounding—we ought to have continued to write to each other… Miss Hunt was all gracious smiles as she approached on the marquess’s arm, her eyes on Charlie. Claudia might have been invisible. “Your grace,” she called, “is this not a lovely party?” “It has just,” he said, smiling and bowing, “turned even lovelier, Miss Hunt.”
Joseph found himself facing a dilemma. Miss Martin was walking with McLeith. Did she need rescuing again, as she had last evening? But why should he feel responsible for her today? She was no wilting violet of a woman. She was quite capable of extricating herself from McLeith’s company if she wished. Besides, he had been rather hoping not to encounter her again today. He had embarrassed himself earlier. He did not know quite what had come over him. She was looking severe and unapproachable, the quintessential spinster schoolmistress again—certainly not the type of woman with whom he would expect to share a spark of sexual awareness. Should he stop now to see if she showed any sign of distress about her companion? Or should he merely nod genially and pass by? But the matter was taken out of his hands. Portia, it seemed, had an acquaintance with the duke and hailed him as soon as they were close enough to be heard clearly. “You flatter me, your grace,” she said in reply to his lavish compliment. “The Marquess of Attingsborough and I have been on the river. It was very pleasant, though the breeze is a little too cool out there and the sun is glaring enough to damage the complexion.” “But not yours, Miss Hunt,” the duke said. “Not even the sun has that much power.” Joseph meanwhile had caught Miss Martin’s eye. He half raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly in the direction of McLeith—do you need help? Her eyes widened a fraction in return and she shook her head almost imperceptibly—no, thank you. “You are too kind, your grace,” Portia said. “We are on our way up to the terrace for tea. Have you eaten?” “An hour or more ago,” he said, “but I suddenly find myself ravenous again. Are you hungry, Claudia? And have you been introduced to Miss Hunt?” “I have,” she said. “And I have not eaten yet this afternoon though I am not hungry.” “You must come and eat now, then,” Miss Hunt said, addressing herself to McLeith. “Are you enjoying being in England again, your grace?” And then all four of them were walking in the direction of the house, though they had somehow changed partners. Miss Hunt was slightly ahead with McLeith while Joseph fell behind with Miss Martin. He clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. He was not going to allow an uncomfortable silence to descend upon them again. “I forgot to ask when I spoke with you earlier,” he said, “if you had spoken with Miss Bains and Miss Wood yet.” “I have,” she said, “and, as you suspected, they were ecstatic. They can scarcely wait for tomorrow to come so that they can present themselves for interviews. They paid not the slightest attention to my warnings. They showed me, in fact, that my teachings have been altogether successful. They can think for themselves and make their own decisions. I should be ecstatic too.” He chuckled even as Miss Hunt tittered lightly at something McLeith had said. The two of them were walking faster than he and Miss Martin. “You will go with them to the interviews?” he asked. “No.” She sighed. “No, Lord Attingsborough. A teacher—just like a mother—must learn when to let her charges go to make their own way in the world. I would never abandon any of my charity girls, but neither would I keep them in leading strings all their lives. Though I was prepared to do just that this morning, was I not?” The other two had moved far enough ahead by now that he could speak without fear of being overheard. “Did you need rescuing just now?” he asked. “Oh, not really,” she said. “I did not last evening either, but then there was the shock of seeing him so suddenly after so many years.” “You parted on bad terms?” he asked. “We parted on the best of terms.” They had stepped onto one of the paved paths through the parterre gardens and slowed their steps by unspoken consent until they stopped walking altogether. “We were betrothed. Oh, unofficially, it is true—he was eighteen and I was seventeen. But we were in love, as perhaps only the very young can be. He was going to come back for me.” “But he never did.” He looked down at her, trying to see the romantic girl she must have been and imagining by what slow stages she had grown into the severe, disciplined woman she was today—most of the time anyway. “No,” she said. “He never came. But that is all very ancient history. We were children. And how we can exaggerate or even distort events in memory! He remembers only that we grew up with the closeness of brother and sister, and he is quite right. We were friends and playmates for years before we imagined ourselves in love. Perhaps I have exaggerated those events and emotions in my memory. However it is, I have no reason to avoid him now.” And yet, he thought, McLeith had ruined her life. She had never married. Though who was he to make that judgment? She had done good things with her life instead. And perhaps a marriage to McLeith would not have turned out half so well for her. “Have you ever been in love, Lord Attingsborough?” she asked. “Yes,” he said. “Once. A long time ago.” She looked steadily at him. “But it did not work out?” she asked. “She did not love you?” “I believe she did,” he said. “Indeed, I know she did. But I would not marry her. I had other commitments. Finally she must have understood. She married someone else and now has three children and is—I hope—living happily ever after.” Beautiful, sweet-natured Barbara. He no longer loved her, though he felt a residual tenderness whenever he set eyes upon her, which was ofte
n enough since they moved in much the same circles. And sometimes, even now, he thought he caught a look of wounded puzzlement in her eyes when she looked at him. He had never given her a reason for his apparently cooled ardor. He still did not know if he ought to have. But how could he have explained the advent of Lizzie in his life? “Other commitments?” Miss Martin asked. “More important than love?” “Nothing is more important than love,” he said. “But there are different kinds and degrees of love, and sometimes there are conflicts and one has to choose the greater love—or the greater obligation. If one is fortunate, they are one and the same.” “And were they in your case?” she asked, frowning. “Oh, yes,” he said. She looked around suddenly at the gardens and the milling guests as if she had forgotten where she was. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “I am keeping you from tea. I really am not hungry. I believe I will go to the rose arbor. I have not seen it yet.” It was his chance for escape. But he found he no longer wished to get away from her. “I will come with you if I may,” he said. “But is your place not with Miss Hunt?” she asked him. “Should it be?” He raised his eyebrows and leaned a little closer to her. “Are you not to marry her?” she asked. “Ah,” he said, “news travels on the wind. But we do not need to live in each other’s shadow, Miss Martin. That is not the way polite society works.” She looked across the formal gardens and up to the terrace, where McLeith and Portia Hunt were standing at one of the food tables, plates in hand. “Polite society is often a mystery to me,” she said. “Why would one choose not to spend as much time as one can with a loved one? But please do not answer.” She looked back into his eyes and held up one hand, palm out. “I do not believe I wish to hear that you gave up on love years ago and are now prepared to marry without it.” She was startlingly forthright. He ought to have been angry with her. He was amused instead. “Marriage,” he said, “is another of those obligations of rank. One dreams as a very young man of having both—love and marriage. As one grows older one becomes more practical. It is wise to marry a woman of one’s own rank, of one’s own world. It makes life so much easier.” “That,” she said, “is exactly what Charlie did.” She shook her head as if astonished that she had made such an admission aloud. “I am going to the rose arbor. You may come with me if you wish. Or you may rejoin Miss Hunt. You must not feel in any way responsible for keeping me company.” “No, Miss Martin.” He set his head to one side as he regarded her with eyes squinted against the sun. “I know you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself. But I have not yet seen the rose arbor, and I believe I have more of an appetite for roses than for food. May I accompany you?” Her lips quirked at the corners, and then she smiled outright before turning and walking diagonally across the parterres in the direction of the rose arbor. That was where they spent the remaining half hour of the garden party, looking at the roses, a bloom at a time, dipping their heads to smell some of them, exchanging greetings with acquaintances—at least, he did—and finally sitting on a wroughtiron seat beneath an arch of roses, gazing about at all the beauty and breathing in the fragrant air and listening to the music and speaking very little. It was possible to sit silently with Miss Martin now that the discomfort he had felt out on the river had disappeared. With almost anyone else he would have felt obliged to keep a conversation going. Even with Miss Hunt. He wondered if it would always be so or if marriage would bring them enough contentment in each other’s company that they could be satisfied with a shared silence. “Silence,” he said at last, “is not the absence of everything, is it? It is something very definite in its own right.” “If it were not a very definite something,” she said, “we would not so assiduously avoid it through much of our lives. We tell ourselves that we are afraid of darkness, of the void, of silence, but it is of ourselves that we are afraid.” He turned his head to look at her. She was sitting with straight spine, not quite touching the back of the seat, her feet side by side on the ground, her hands resting palm up, one on top of the other, in her lap—a growingly familiar pose. The slightly floppy brim of her hat did not quite hide the rather severe lines of her face in profile. “That sounds bad,” he said. “Are we such nasty creatures at heart, then?” “Not at all,” she said. “Quite the contrary, in fact. If we were to see the grandeur of our real selves, I suspect we would also see the necessity of living up to who we really are. And most of us are too lazy for that. Or else we are having too good a time enjoying our less than perfect lives to be bothered.” She turned her face to his when he did not answer. “You believe in the essential goodness of human nature, then,” he said. “You are an optimist.” “Oh, always,” she agreed. “How could life be supported if one were not? There is a great deal to feel gloomy about—enough to fill a lifetime to the brim. But what a waste of a lifetime! There is at least as much to be happy about, and there is so much joy to be experienced in working toward happiness.” “And so silence and…darkness hold happiness and joy?” he said softly. “Assuredly,” she said, “provided one really listens to the silence and gazes deeply into the darkness. Everything is there. Everything.” He made a sudden decision. Ever since deciding to call upon her in Bath, and especially since being shown around her school and talking with her on the road to London, he had been meaning to take matters further with her. Now was as good a time as any. “Miss Martin,” he said, “do you have any plans for tomorrow? In the afternoon?” Her eyes widened as she continued to look at him. “I do not know what Susanna has planned,” she said. “Why do you ask?” “I would like to take you somewhere,” he said. She looked at him inquiringly. “I own a house in town,” he said. “It is not my place of residence, though it is on a quiet, respectable street. It is where—” “Lord Attingsborough,” she said in a voice that must surely have even the most intrepid of her pupils quaking in her shoes whenever she used it in school, “where exactly are you suggesting that you take me?” Oh, Lord! As if… “I am not—” he began. She had inhaled sharply while he spoke the three words, and her bosom had swelled. She looked forbidding to say the least. “Do I understand, sir,” she said, “that this house is where you keep your mistresses?” Plural. Like a harem. He leaned back in the seat, resisting the sudden urge to bellow with laughter. How could he possibly have been so gauche as to give rise to such a misunderstanding? His choice of words today was proving quite disastrous. “I must confess,” he said, “that the house was bought for just that purpose, Miss Martin. It was years ago. I was a swaggering young sprout at the time.” “And this,” she said, “is where you wish to take me?” “It is not unoccupied,” he told her. “I want you to meet the person who lives there.” “Your mistress?” She was the very picture of quivering outrage. And part of him was still amused at the misunderstanding. But really this was no joke. Ah, this was not funny at all. “Not my mistress, Miss Martin,” he said softly, his smile fading. “Lizzie is my daughter. She is eleven years old. I would like you to meet her. Will you? Please?”
