by Mary Balogh
8
Claudia gave herself one more look-over in the pier glass in her dressing room and drew on her gloves as she turned toward the door. She felt rather self-conscious because Susanna was standing there. “I am sorry,” she said briskly, not for the first time, “that I will be unable to come visiting with you this afternoon, Susanna.” “No, you are not.” Her friend was smiling impishly. “You would much rather go driving in the park with Joseph. I would in your place. And today is as sunny and warm as yesterday.” “It was very kind of him to offer,” Claudia said. “Kind.” Susanna tilted her head to one side and regarded her closely. “It is what you said at breakfast, and I objected to it then, as I do now. Why should he not take you for a drive? He must be close to you in age and he enjoys your company. He proved that the evening before last when he sat beside you at the concert and took you in for supper before Peter could find you to bring you to our table. And yesterday he walked you home from Mr. Hatchard’s and then took you out on the river during the garden party and was sitting in the rose arbor with you when we came looking for you to bring you home. You must not talk of his interest as mere kindness, Claudia. It belittles you.” “Oh, very well, then,” Claudia said. “I daresay he has conceived a violent passion for me and is about to beg me to become his marchioness. I might end up a duchess yet, Susanna. Now there is a thought.” Susanna laughed. “I would rather see him marry you than Miss Hunt,” she said. “His engagement has not yet been announced, and there is something about her I do not like though I cannot explain quite what it is. But I hear sounds downstairs. Joseph must have arrived.” He had indeed. He was standing in the hall when Claudia went down with Susanna, talking with Peter. He sm iled up at them in greeting. He was, of course, looking as handsome as ever and alarmingly virile in a dark green coat with buff pantaloons and white-topped Hessian boots. At least his colors coordinated with hers, Claudia thought wryly. She was wearing the third and last of her new dresses—a sage green walking dress that she had thought very smart when she bought it. And really, what did it matter that she looked far less grand than anyone else she had met socially in the last few days? She did not want to look grand, only presentable. He had brought a curricle instead of a closed carriage, she saw as soon as they stepped outside the door a couple of minutes later, Susanna and Peter coming too to see them on their way. He handed her up to the passenger seat and climbed up to sit beside her before taking the ribbons from his young tiger, who then proceeded to jump up behind them. Despite herself Claudia felt a rush of exhilaration. Here she was in London, staying at a grand house in Mayfair, and riding in a gentleman’s curricle with the gentleman up beside her. Their shoulders were, in fact, all but touching. And she could smell his cologne again. She did not need to remind herself, of course, that this was no mere pleasure trip but that he was, in fact, taking her to meet his daughter—his illegitimate daughter, the offspring, no doubt, of one of his mistresses. Lila Walton must have been right on that visit of his to the school. He had a daughter he wished to place there. And the nature of his interest in her was now quite apparent. So much for romantic daydreams. She was not really shocked at the revelation he had made yesterday. She was well aware that gentlemen had their mistresses and that sometimes those mistresses, as was nature’s way, bore them children. If the mistresses and their children were fortunate, the gentlemen also supported them. The Marquess of Attingsborough must be of that number, she was happy to know. His mistress and daughter were living comfortably in a house he had bought years ago. And if he chose to send the girl to her school, well…She did not doubt he could afford her fees. Yet despite the existence of a longtime mistress and mother of his child, he was courting Miss Hunt. It was the way of the world, Claudia knew, at least of his world. He needed a wife and legitimate heirs, and a man did not marry his mistress. She was very glad she did not move in his world. She far preferred her own. She wondered how Miss Hunt would feel about the existence of the woman and child if she knew about them. But then it was altogether possible that she did. Claudia waved to Susanna and Peter as the curricle rocked into motion, and then folded her hands in her lap as it made its way out of the square. She disdained clinging to the rail beside her. She was no coward, and she was determined to enjoy every moment of the novelty of bowling along through the streets of London in a smart open vehicle, looking down on the world from her high perch. “You are very quiet today, Miss Martin,” the marquess said after a few minutes had passed. “Have Miss Bains and Miss Wood been interviewed yet?” “Yes,” she said. “Both of them went this morning. And both were successful—in their own eyes anyway. Flora said that Lady Aidan was extremely kind to her and asked only a few questions before telling her all about Ringwood Manor in Oxfordshire and the people who live there and assuring her that she is bound to be happy there as she will be just like a member of the family. The last governess has recently married—as did the governess before her. Then Flora was taken to meet the children, whom she liked exceedingly well. She will be leaving for her new life tomorrow.” “And was Lady Hallmere as amiable to Miss Wood?” the marquess asked, turning his head to grin at her—goodness, but he was close. He was turning the curricle into Hyde Park. Claudia had thought she was lying when she told Susanna that this was to be their destination. Perhaps it would turn out to be only a white lie. “She asked Edna many questions,” she told him, “both about herself and about the school. Poor Edna! She does not do well when she is being questioned, as you may remember. But Lady Hallmere surprised her by telling her that she remembered hearing about the burglary that killed Edna’s parents and made an orphan of her. And although Edna said she was very haughty and intimidating, it was obvious that she admired the woman greatly. And Lord Hallmere was also present and was kind to her. She loved the children when she met them. And so Edna too will be leaving us tomorrow.” She sighed audibly. “They will be fine,” the marquess assured her, turning his curricle onto an avenue that stretched ahead between rolling green lawns and ancient, shady trees. “You have given them a good home and a sound education, and now you have found them decent employment. It is up to them how they conduct the rest of their lives. I liked them both. They will be fine.” And he startled her by freeing one of his hands from the ribbons and reaching across to squeeze both her hands in her lap. She did not know whether to jump with alarm or bristle with indignation. She did neither. She carefully remembered the purpose of this drive. “Is your mis—Is your daughter’s mother expecting us?” she asked. There had been no time yesterday for any real explanations. Even as he had told her that the person he wished her to visit—Lizzie—was his daughter, Susanna and Peter had been stepping into the rose arbor, looking for her. “Sonia?” he said. “She died just before Christmas last year.” “Oh,” Claudia said, “I am sorry.” “Thank you,” he said. “It was a very sad and difficult time.” And so now he was left with the problem of an illegitimate daughter to provide for. His decision to send her to school, even though she was only eleven years old, was even more understandable. For the rest of her girlhood he would not have to worry about anything more than paying the school fees. And then he would probably find her a husband capable of supporting her for the rest of her life. What had he said yesterday? She frowned slightly, trying to remember. And then she did. Nothing is more important than love. He had put emphasis on the first word. But she wondered if there had been any real conviction behind those words. Had his own daughter become an encumbrance, a nuisance, to him? They did not linger in the park. Soon they were back out on the crowded streets of London again, and the sun began to feel uncomfortably hot. But finally they turned into quieter residential streets, clean and respectable though obviously not inhabited by the most fashionable set. They drew to a halt outside one particular house, and the tiger jumped down from behind and held the horses’ heads while the marquess descended to the pavement, came around the curricle, and held up a hand to help Claudia alight. “I hope,” he said as he rapped on the door, “you will like her.” He
sounded almost anxious. He handed his hat and whip to the elderly and very respectable-looking manservant who answered the door. “Take Miss Martin’s things too, Smart,” he said, “and let Miss Edwards know that I am here. How is Mrs. Smart’s rheumatism today?” “Better, thank you, my lord,” the man said as he waited for Claudia to remove her gloves and bonnet. “But it always is in the dry weather.” He took their outdoor things away and came back a few minutes later to inform them that Miss Edwards was in the parlor with Miss Pickford. He turned and led the way upstairs. Miss Edwards turned out to be a small, pretty, petulant-looking young lady, who was obviously too old to be Lizzie. She met them at the parlor door. “She is not having a very good day today, I am afraid, my lord,” she said, curtsying to the marquess and glancing sidelong at Claudia. The room behind her was in semidarkness, all the heavy curtains being drawn across the windows. In the hearth a fire burned. “Is she not?” the marquess said, but it seemed to Claudia that he sounded more impatient than concerned. “Papa?” a voice said from inside the room. And then more gladly, filled with excitement, “Papa?” Miss Edwards stood aside, her hands clasped at her waist. “Stand and curtsy to the Marquess of Attingsborough, Lizzie,” she said. But the child was already on her feet, her arms held out toward the door. She was small and thin and pale, with dark hair waving loose down her back to her waist. Her face was alight with joy. “Yes, I am here,” the marquess said, and strode across the room to fold the child in his arms. She wrapped her own tightly about his neck. “I knew you would come,” she cried. “Miss Edwards said you would not because it is a sunny day and you would have a thousand things more important to do than coming to see me. But she always says that, and you always come when you say you will. Papa, you smell good. You always smell good.” “Especially for you,” he said, untwining her arms from about his neck and kissing both her hands before releasing them. “Miss Edwards, why on earth is there a fire burning?” “I was afraid that Lizzie would catch a chill after you took her out in the garden last evening, my lord,” she said. “And why the darkness?” he asked. “Is there not enough darkness in Lizzie’s life?” Even as he spoke he was striding over to the windows and throwing back the curtains to flood the room with light. He opened the windows wide. “The sun was shining directly in, my lord,” Miss Edwards said. “I wanted to protect the furniture from fading.” He looked at Claudia as he moved back to his daughter’s side and set one arm about her shoulders. “Lizzie,” he said, “I have brought someone to meet you. She is Miss Martin, a friend of mine. Miss Martin, may I present my daughter, Lizzie Pickford?” There was something strange about the child’s eyes, Claudia had seen as soon as the curtains were drawn back. One was almost closed. The other w as more open, though the eyelid fluttered, and the eye wandered beneath the lid. Lizzie Pickford was blind. And if Claudia’s guess was correct, she had been blind from birth. “Lizzie,” Miss Edwards said, “make your curtsy to Miss Martin.” “Thank you, Miss Edwards,” Lord Attingsborough said. “You may take a break. You will not be needed for the next hour or so.” “Lizzie Pickford,” Claudia said, walking closer to the child, taking her hot, thin little hand in her own and squeezing it before letting it go, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” “Miss Martin?” the girl said, turning her face to her father. “I had the pleasure of visiting her last week when I was away from you for a while,” he said, “and then of escorting her to London. She has a school in Bath. Would you like to offer Miss Martin a seat and me too since we are visiting you? My legs are aching from all the standing.” The girl chuckled, a light, childish sound. “Oh, silly Papa,” she said. “You did not walk here. You rode. In your curricle—there was more than one horse. I heard them. I told Miss Edwards that you had come, but she said she had heard nothing and that I must not get my hopes up and become feverish. You are not tired of standing. Or Miss Martin either. But I am pleased you have come, and I hope you will stay forever and ever until bedtime. Miss Martin, will you please sit? Papa, will you? I will sit beside you.” She seated herself very close to him on a sofa while Claudia sat as far from the dying fire as she was able. The child took his hand in hers and laced their fingers. She rubbed her cheek against his sleeve, just below his shoulder. He smiled down at her with such tenderness that Claudia was ashamed of what she had thought of him on the way here. He very obviously did know a great deal about love. “Miss Martin’s school is just for girls,” he told his daughter. “It is a delightful place. They learn lots of things, like history and mathematics and French. There is a music room full of instruments, and the girls have individual instruction. They sing and have choirs. They knit.” And not a single one of them, Claudia thought, had ever been blind. She remembered his asking if she had ever thought of taking in girls with handicaps. However did one teach a blind child? “When I heard the violin that one time with you, Papa,” the child said, “Mother said there must never be one in this house as the sound of it would give her the headache. And when I sing the songs Mrs. Smart taught me, Miss Edwards says I give her the headache.” “I think,” he said, “Miss Edwards is beginning to give me the migraines, Lizzie.” She laughed with glee. “Shall I send her to work for someone else?” he asked. “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Oh, yes, if you please, Papa. Will you come to live with me instead this time?” His eyes met Claudia’s, and they looked suddenly bleak. “I wish it were possible,” he said, “but it is not. I come to see you every day, though, when I am in London. How could I not when you are my favorite person in the whole wide world? Shall we be polite and include Miss Martin in this conversation since I have brought her just to meet you?” The girl turned her face in Claudia’s direction. She looked in dire need of air and sunshine and exercise. “Do you read stories at your school, Miss Martin?” she asked politely. “We do indeed,” Claudia told her. “My girls learn to read as soon as they come there if they have not learned before, and they read many books during their years with me. They may choose among the numerous volumes we have in the library. A library is a place where there are shelves and shelves of books.” “So many stories all in one place,” the child said. “Mother could not read me stories because she could not read though Papa told her many times that he would teach her if she wished. And Mrs. Smart does not read. Mr. Smart does, but he does not read to me. Miss Edwards does because it is one thing Papa told her she must do when she came here as my companion, but she does not choose interesting stories and she does not find them interesting. I can tell from the way she reads them. She has a flat voice. She makes me yawn.” “I read you stories, Lizzie,” the marquess said. “You do, Papa,” she agreed, lifting her free hand and touching his face before patting it with her fingertips. “But sometimes you pretend to read when really you are making up your own stories. I can tell. But I don’t mind. Indeed, I like those stories best. I tell stories too but only to my doll.” “If you told them to someone who could write,” Claudia said, “then that someone could write them down for you and read them to you whenever you wished to hear your own story again.” The child laughed. “That would be funny,” she said. A plump, elderly woman entered the room then, carrying a large tray of tea and cakes. “Mrs. Smart,” Lizzie said, “I know it is you. This is Miss Martin. She is Papa’s friend. She has a school and it has a library. Do you know what a library is?” “You tell me, dearie,” the servant said, smiling fondly at her after nodding politely to Claudia. “It is a room full of books,” Lizzie said. “Can you imagine?” “They would not be much good to me, dearie,” Mrs. Smart said, pouring the tea and handing around the cups. “Or you either.” She left the room. “Lizzie,” the marquess said after they had eaten some cakes, “do you think you would ever like to go to a school?” “But who would take me, Papa?” she asked. “And who would bring me home?” “It would be a school where you could stay,” he said, “and be with other girls, though there would be holidays when you would come home and I would have you all to myself again.” She was silent for some time. Her lips moved, Claudia could se
e, though whether it was with trembling or silent words it was impossible to tell. And then she cast aside her empty plate and climbed hastily onto her father’s lap and burrowed close to him, her face hidden against his shoulder. He stared bleakly at Claudia. “Miss Edwards said I was not to do this ever again,” Lizzie said after a short while. “She said I was too old. She said it was unseemly. Is it, Papa? Am I too old to sit on your lap?” But the child had no eyes, Claudia thought. The sense of touch must be far more important to her than it was to other children of her age. “How could I bear it,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair, “if you were ever too old to want my arms around you, Lizzie? As for sitting on my lap—I think it is quite unexceptionable until you turn twelve. That gives us five whole months longer. What does Miss Martin have to say on the subject?” “Your father is absolutely right, Lizzie,” Claudia said. “And I have a rule at my school. It is that no girl is ever forced to go there against her will. No matter how much her parents may wish for her to come and learn from me and my teachers and make friends with other girls, I will not allow her to set foot over the doorstep unless she has told me that yes, it is what she wants. Is that clear to you?” Lizzie had half turned her head though she was still burrowed safely against her father like a much younger child. “You have a nice voice,” she said. “I can believe your voice. Sometimes I do not believe voices. I can always tell which ones to believe.” “Sweetheart,” the marquess said, “I am going to take Miss Martin home now. Later, I am going to come back on my horse. I will take you out for a ride on him. Would you like that?” “Yes!” She sat up, her face alight with joy again. “But Miss Edwards says—” “Don’t worry about what Miss Edwards says,” he told her. “You have ridden up with me before and always been perfectly safe, have you not? I will have a word with her after I bring you home, and she will be gone by tomorrow, I daresay. Just be polite to her until then. Will you?” “I will, Papa,” she promised. Claudia took her hand again before leaving. Despite the strange eyes, she could grow into something of a beauty if there was enough stimulation in her life to bring animation into her face even when her father was not with her—and if she was exposed to more fresh air and sunshine. “I take it,” Claudia said after she had been helped up to the seat of the curricle again and they were on their way back to Grosvenor Square, the tiger up behind, “that you wish to send Lizzie to my school.” “Is it possible?” he asked, his voice without any of its customary pleasant good humor. “Is anything possible for a blind child, Miss Martin? Help me, please. I love her so much it hurts.”
