by Mary Balogh
“I would not have been surprised,” Charlie said, “to have found you ready to leave this morning, Claudia, as soon as the child returned and could go with you. I would have been annoyed on your behalf. It i s Attingsborough’s job to take her away, and it should be done as soon as possible. He ought not to have had her brought here in the first place. It has put Bewcastle in an awkward position and is a dreadful insult to Miss Hunt—and Anburey.” “It was not his idea to bring Lizzie here,” Claudia told him. “It was mine.” “He ought not even to have brought the child to your attention,” he said. “You are a lady.” “And Lizzie,” she said, “is a person.” “Miss Hunt,” he said, “has been dreadfully upset even though she has too much dignity to show it openly. She was humiliated before a houseful of guests from both Alvesley and Lindsey Hall, not to mention the local gentry who were at the picnic. I half expected that she would refuse to continue with her plans to marry Attingsborough, but it seems she has forgiven him.” Yes. She had not needed to be told. She had read the stark message Joseph had sent up after she had watched his approach from the schoolroom window. She had only half noticed that Charlie was with him and Lizzie. She had waited without hope—but had realized after reading his note that in fact she had been deceiving herself. She had hoped. But suddenly all hope, all possibility of joy, was snatched away. As they emerged from the trees to walk toward the far end of the lake, she looked back to where she had lain last night with Joseph—and she could see him farther off, standing at the water’s edge with Lizzie. By a great effort of will, she brought her mind back to what they had been talking about. “Charlie,” she said, “Lizzie was conceived more than twelve years ago, when the Marquess of Attingsborough was very young and long before he met Miss Hunt. Why would she feel threatened by Lizzie’s existence?” “But it is not her existence, Claudia,” he said. “It is the fact that now Miss Hunt and a large number of other people—soon to be everyone of any significance—know of her. It is just not the thing. A gentleman keeps these things to himself. I know the expectations of society—I had to learn them when I was eighteen. You cannot be expected to know. You have lived a far more sheltered life.” “Charlie,” she said, suddenly arrested by a thought, “do you have children other than Charles?” “Claudia!” He was obviously embarrassed. “That is not a question a lady asks a gentleman.” “You do,” she said. “You do have others. Don’t you?” “I will not answer that,” he said. “Really, Claudia, you always spoke your mind far more freely than you ought. It is one thing I always admired about you—and still do. But there are bounds—” “You have children!” she said. “Do you love them and care for them?” He laughed suddenly and shook his head ruefully. “You are impossible!” he told her. “I am a gentleman, Claudia. I do what a gentleman must do.” The poor dead duchess, Claudia thought. For, unlike Lizzie, Charlie’s illegitimate children must have been begotten when he was already married. How many were there? she wondered. And what sort of lives did they lead? But she could not ask. It was something some sort of gentleman’s code of honor forbade him to speak of with a lady. “This has all rather spoiled the atmosphere I hoped to create this morning,” he said with a sigh. “The anniversary is today, Claudia. Tomorrow or the next day at the latest I must leave. I am well aware that I am the only guest at Alvesley who does not have some claim to be family. I do not know when I will see you again.” “We must write to each other,” she said. “You know that is not good enough for me,” he told her. She turned her head to look more fully at him. They were friends again, were they not? She had determinedly let go of the hurt of the past and allowed herself to like him again, even though there were things about him she did not particularly approve of. Surely he was not still— “Claudia,” he said, “I want you to marry me. I love you, and I think you are fonder of me than you will admit. Tell me now that you will marry me, and tonight’s ball will seem like heaven. I will not have an announcement made there, I suppose, since it is in honor of the Redfields and besides, neither of us has any close bond with the family. But we will be able to let it be known informally. I will be the happiest of men. That is a horrible cliché, I know, but it would be true nonetheless. What do you say?” She had nothing to say for several moments. She had been taken completely by surprise—again. What had obviously been a deepening romance to him had been merely a growing friendship to her. And today of all days she was not ready to cope with this. “Charlie,” she said eventually, “I do not love you.” There was a lengthy, uncomfortable silence. They had almost stopped walking. There was a boat pushing out from the bank some distance away, she saw—the Marquess of Attingsborough with Lizzie. She was smitten with a memory of his rowing her on the River Thames during Mrs. Corbette-Hythe’s garden party. But she must not let her thoughts wander. She looked back at Charlie. “You have said the one thing,” he told her, “against which I have no argument. You loved me once, Claudia. You made love with me. Do you not remember?” She closed her eyes briefly. Actually she could not remember much apart from the inexpert fumblings and the pain and the happy conviction afterward that now they belonged together for all time. “It was a long time ago,” she said gently. “We are different people now, Charlie. I am fond of you, but—” “Damn your fondness,” he said, and smiled ruefully at her. “And damn you. And now accept my humblest apologies for using such atrocious language in your hearing.” “But not for the atrocious sentiments?” “No,” he said, “not for those. My punishment is to be lifelong, then, is it?” “Oh, Charlie,” she said, “this is not punishment. I forgave you when you asked. But—” “Marry me anyway,” he said, “and to the devil with love. You do love me anyway. I am sure of it.” “As a friend,” she said. “Ouch!” He frowned. “Think about it. Think long and hard. And I’ll ask again this evening. After that I will not pester you. Promise me you will think and try to change your mind?” She sighed and shook her head. “I will not change my mind between now and tonight,” she said. “It is too late for us, Charlie.” “Think hard about it anyway,” he said. “I will ask again tonight. Dance the opening set with me.” “Very well,” she said. A silence fell between them. “I wish,” he said, “I had known at eighteen what I know now—that there are some things on which one does not compromise. We had better walk back to the house, I suppose. I have made an idiot of myself, have I not? You cannot see anything more than a friend in me. It is not enough. Maybe by tonight you will have changed your mind. Though it will not happen just because I want it, I daresay.” And yet, she thought as she walked beside him, if they had not met in London this year, he quite probably would not have spared her another thought all the rest of his life. She could see that Lizzie was trailing her hand in the water—as she had done in the Thames not long ago. And then she heard the sound of distant laughter—his and Lizzie’s mingled. She felt more lonely than she had felt for a long, long time. There seemed to be a dark and bottomless pit right inside her.
Portia Hunt had no relatives at Alvesley Park. She did not have any particular friends there, either, apart from Wilma. And now Joseph had gone off to Lindsey Hall for the morning. Joseph’s relatives were not unkind. Although all except his immediate family disapproved of her as a choice for his bride, they felt genuine sympathy for her. She had had an unpleasant shock during the picnic, even if she had largely brought it upon herself. It was understandable that she had felt somewhat humiliated. And clearly there had been some great upset later in the afternoon and again late in the evening after Joseph returned from escorting Miss Martin home. Somehow the betrothal had survived, though—Wilma had informed them all of that. Susanna and Anne had informed Lauren and Gwen and Lily that it was a great shame because Claudia Martin was in love with Joseph—and he with her, they dared say. It was with her he had gone searching for Lizzie, was it not? And it was she he had asked to come to the house to watch Lizzie while he spoke with his father and Miss Hunt. And it was he who had taken her back to Lindsey Hall though Kit had offered to escort her. He had not come back immediately, eith
er. But they were kind ladies. Although there were all sorts of things they might have been doing in preparation for the grand anniversary ball in the evening, they invited Miss Hunt to go walking with them—and Wilma too. They strolled along the wilderness walk beyond the formal garden and the little bridge. Lily asked Miss Hunt about her wedding plans, and she launched into a discussion of a subject that was obviously dear to her heart. “How lovely,” Susanna said with a sigh as they passed the turnoff to the steep path that would have taken them to the top of the hill, and kept on along level ground instead, “to be so in love and planning a wedding.” “Oh,” Portia said, “I would not dream of being so vulgar, Lady Whitleaf, as to imagine myself in love. A lady chooses her husband with far more good sense and judgment.” “Indeed,” Wilma said, “one would not wish to find oneself married to a miller or a banker or a schoolmaster merely because one loved him, would one?” Susanna looked at Anne, and Lauren looked at Gwen, and Lily smiled. “I think what is best,” she said, “is to marry a man with a title and wealth and property and good looks and charm and character—and to be head over ears in love with him too. Provided he felt the same way, of course.” They all laughed except Portia. Even Wilma tittered. Tiresome and stuffy as the family all found the Earl of Sutton, it was also no secret among them that he and Wilma were partial to each other. “What is bes t,” Portia said, “is to be in control of one’s emotions at all times.” They turned back in the direction of the house rather sooner than they might have done. Although the sky was still blue and cloudless and the tree branches overhead not so thick that they blocked out all the sunlight, a chill seemed to have settled on the air. The Duke of McLeith was standing on the small bridge, his arms draped over the wooden rail on one side, gazing down into the water. He straightened up and smiled when he saw the ladies come toward him. “You are back from Lindsey Hall already?” Susanna asked redundantly. “Did you see Claudia?” “I did.” He looked mournful. “She is, it seems, a dedicated teacher and a confirmed spinster.” Susanna exchanged a glance with Anne. “I think,” Wilma said, “she ought to be grateful for your condescension in taking notice of her, your grace.” “Ah,” he said, “but we grew up together, Lady Sutton. She always had a mind of her own. If she had been a man, she would have succeeded at whatever she set her hand to. Even as a woman, she has been remarkably successful. I am proud of her. But I am a little—” “A little—?” Gwen prompted. “Melancholy,” he said. “Did Joseph return with you?” Lauren asked. “He did not,” the duke said. “He took his d—He went boating with someone. I chose not to wait for him.” “He is incorrigible!” Wilma said crossly. “He was fortunate indeed yesterday that Miss Hunt was generous enough to forgive him for saying what was really quite unforgivable in my estimation, even if he is my brother. But he is tempting fate today. He ought to have returned immediately.” “Well,” Lauren said briskly, “I really must return to the house. There must be a thousand and one things to be done before this evening. Gwen, you and Lily were going to help me with the floral arrangements.” “Harry will be needing to be fed soon,” Susanna said. “And I promised to go and watch Sydnam and David paint,” Anne said. “Megan will be waiting to go with me.” “Wilma,” Lauren said, “your parties are always in the very best of good taste. Do come with us and give your opinion on the decorations in the ballroom and the arrangement of the tables in the supper room, will you?” She paused and looked at Portia. “Miss Hunt,” she said, “perhaps you will keep his grace company for a while? He will think we are deserting him so soon after coming upon him.” “Not at all, Lady Ravensberg,” he assured her. “But I have been told, Miss Hunt, that the view from the top of the hill over there is well worth the rather steep climb. Would you care to come with me to see?” “I would be delighted,” she told him. “Joseph will be very fortunate,” Wilma said after they had moved out of earshot, “if the Duke of McLeith does not steal Miss Hunt from right beneath his nose. And who could blame him? Or her? I never thought to be ashamed of my own brother, but really…” “I have been more than a little annoyed with him myself,” Gwen said, linking her arm through Wilma’s. “Keeping such a secret from us, indeed, just as if we were all stern judges instead of family. And I am annoyed with Neville. He knew all along, did he not, Lily?” “He did,” Lily said, “but he did not tell even me. One must admire his loyalty, Gwen. But I wish we had known sooner. Lizzie is a very sweet child, is she not?” “She looks like Joseph,” Lauren said. “She is going to be a beauty.” “She is blind,” Wilma protested. “I have a feeling,” Anne said, “that she is not going to allow that fact to be an affliction to her. Now that everyone knows about her, it is going to be very interesting to watch her development.” Wilma held her peace. They all went about their various tasks when they reached the house and left the comforting of Miss Hunt to the Duke of McLeith. 22
“What on earth did I do to deserve such a tumultuous summer?” Claudia asked. It was a rhetorical question, but Eleanor attempted an answer anyway. “You decided to go to London,” she said, “and I encouraged you. I even urged you to stay for longer than you had originally planned.” “Mr. Hatchard was evasive about Edna’s and Flora’s employers,” Claudia said. “Susanna persuaded Frances to sing and invited me to stay for the concert. She sent the Marquess of Attingsborough to escort me to London because he was in Bath at the time—and he happened to have a daughter he wished to place at the school. Charlie chose this particular spring to leave Scotland for the first time in years. And you just happen to be the sister of the Duchess of Bewcastle and accepted an invitation to bring the charity girls here and so I have been tripping over Bedwyns at every turn since I left Bath. And…and…and so the list goes on. How do we ever discover the root cause of any effect, Eleanor? Do we trace it back to Adam and Eve? They were a pair to cause any imaginable catastrophe.” “No, no, Claudia.” Eleanor came to stand behind her at the dressing table in her bedchamber. “You will pull your hair out by the roots if you drag it back so severely. Here.” She took the brush from Claudia’s hand and loosened the knot at her neck so that her hair fell more softly over her head. She fussed a little over the knot itself. “That is better. Now you look far more as if you are going to a ball. I do like that green muslin. It is very elegant. You showed it to me in Bath, but I have not seen it on you until tonight.” “Why am I going to the ball?” Claudia asked. “Why are you not the one going and I the one staying?” “Because,” Eleanor said, her eyes twinkling as they met Claudia’s in the mirror, “you are the one those women insulted yesterday, and it is important to Lady Redfield and her daughter-in-law that you make an appearance. And because you have never hidden from a challenge. Because you have promised to dance the opening set with the Duke of McLeith even if you did make it clear to him this morning that you will not marry him, poor man. Because someone has to stay with the girls, and it is generally known and accepted that I never attend balls or other lavish entertainments.” “You have made your point,” Claudia said dryly, getting to her feet. “And also I attend such entertainments because I sometimes consider them obligations—unlike some persons who will remain nameless.” “And you will go,” Eleanor said, “because it may be the last time you see him.” Claudia looked sharply at her. “Him?” Eleanor picked up Claudia’s paisley shawl from the bed and held it out to her. “I have misunderstood all summer,” she said. “I thought it was the Duke of McLeith, but I was wrong. I am sorry. I really am. Everyone is.” “Everyone?” “Christine,” Eleanor said. “Eve, Morgan, Freyja…” “Lady Hallmere?” Was it really possible that all these people knew? But as she took the shawl from Eleanor, Claudia knew that indeed they must. They had all guessed. How absolutely appalling. “I cannot go,” she said. “I will send down some excuse. Eleanor, go and tell—” “Of course you will go,” Eleanor said. “You are Claudia Martin.” Yes, she was. And Claudia Martin was not the sort to hide in a dark corner, her head buried beneath a cushion, just because she was embarrassed and humiliated and brokenhearted and any n
umber of other ugly, negative things if she only stopped to think what they were. She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, pressed her lips together, and regarded her friend with a martial gleam in her eye. “Heaven help anyone who gets in your way tonight,” Eleanor said, laughing and stepping forward to hug her. “Go and show those two shrews that a headmistress from Bath is not to be cowed by genteel spite.” “Tomorrow I return to Bath,” Claudia said. “Tomorrow I return to sanity and my own familiar world. Tomorrow I take up the rest of my life where I left it off when I stepped into the Marquess of Attingsborough’s carriage one morning a thousand or so years ago. But tonight, Eleanor…Well, tonight.” She laughed despite herself. She led the way from the room with firm strides. All she needed, she thought ruefully, was a shield in one hand and a spear in the other—and a horned helmet on her head.
