“You haven’t, not at all.” Rose was touched at the bravery it must have taken for the girl to creep up here, risking the rage of both the countess and Cook. “You may borrow it, take it away with you.” She pressed it into Ellen’s hands. Ellen took it, her face a mixture of terror and delight.
“Thank you so much, my lady! It is such a beautiful story.” She hurried to the door, then paused and looked back at Rose with an expression of longing. “Do you think it could ever come true, my lady? That a duke could fall in love with a dairymaid?”
Rose hesitated. Her instinct was to say no, never. Hadn’t she learned that over the past weeks? But Ellen was looking at her with such longing. False hope was cruel, but sometimes, she knew, people needed kindness more than truth.
“I…think it might,” she said gently. “Maybe. It would depend upon the duke. And the dairymaid.”
Eton
Michael hurried down the corridor toward his next lesson. Speaking was forbidden in the corridors at Eton, but in the Latin book he held was a letter, pressed like a flower between the pages. A letter from Priya.
He glanced up and down the corridor. There was no one to be seen. He knew he would be in trouble if he were late, but he couldn’t wait another moment. He stepped into the shadow of a small alcove, opened the book, and read quickly.
To his disappointment the letter was short. He knew Priya had been ill, Georgiana had told him that in her own letter, but Priya hadn’t replied to any of his anxious questions about her health. Instead there was light, bright chat about the servants, about her brothers and their new school, about her father’s improving health. And then there was a change in the ink, as if she had set the letter aside and come back to it with a new pen. What followed was rushed and almost illegible.
I’ve been thinking how wonderful it will be when we’re married. I am trying to hold on to that. We’ll have a little house, with some climbing roses, and a vegetable garden so we needn’t worry about food. Can you tell I’ve been dreaming of it? I try to think of it when things are difficult. I think of it so hard it floats in front of my eyes, as real as a photograph. It must be somewhere, that safe place. Oh Michael, I mustn’t ramble on like this. I wish I could tell you everything that’s in my heart and mind, but I know I’d regret it, so—work hard, and come back soon!
She had signed it with a flurry of kisses. Michael frowned at the letter. I wish I could tell you everything that’s in my heart and mind, but I know I’d regret it. What did that mean?
He wasn’t the imaginative sort, but he was sure there was something wrong. This desperate rush of words was not like Priya. He had half a mind to walk out of the school, go back to Somerton. But that would be irresponsible. He was here for Priya, he reminded himself. He was here to work hard so that they could have a happy future together. His house had never been a home, there had been no one to love—his brother and sister were so wrapped up in society, his mother distant, his father dead, just a succession of nannies and nursemaids who changed every year. Priya was a miracle; her stories of a loving family made him feel he had come to life for the first time, her affection was all he had ever dreamed of. He clung to the memory of her, her soft lips, her silken hair, the scent of her skin. No, he had to stay here, he had to conquer his anxieties and be a grown-up. He had to think of the future, for both their sakes.
He looked up from the letter, to the pictures that hung on the wall. There were framed photographs of the famous match against Harrow in 1910. Even though he was concerned about Priya, Michael had heard all about Fowler’s match, and he examined the pictures with interest.
Footsteps and the swishing of robes made him jump. One of the masters was coming. He stepped back out of the alcove quickly, and then turned back just as quickly. A single face in the photographs had caught his attention. Dark curly hair, and the distinctive Eton uniform. The camera had caught him just turning toward the lens, and the black eyes looked out of the frame at Michael with a strange intensity.
“Templeton!” called the master sternly. “Hurry to your next lesson, boy.”
Michael scurried on down the corridor, but he was breathing fast with shock. It couldn’t be possible. And yet he would know that face anywhere, he had seen him so many times, impassive as he held Sebastian’s dinner jacket or lathered soap for the razor. The face belonged to Oliver.
London
Rose sat before the piano. The pages of music stirred in the breeze that came through the open door to the garden.
The music will come, she told herself. It must come. It must come back.
She tried a chord, remembering the music of The Rite of Spring and trying to echo it. Alexander was right, it was a masterpiece.
Oh do stop thinking about him, she told herself. As if there were not other, more important things to worry about. She turned her mind determinedly to Sebastian. How was poor Oliver feeling now? But that did not help. The tune she was playing slipped away from her and she made a small sound of annoyance. At this rate it would be time to go up to Céline and be fitted for Mrs. Verulam’s ball, and she would have wasted the hour she had for writing music.
“Why can I not concentrate?” she exclaimed. She jumped up, determined to close the window against the sunshine, the birdsong, the distant rattle of trains, and the clatter of carts. But before she could move, she heard footsteps outside the door, and the butler announced:
“The Duke of Huntleigh.”
Rose turned in astonishment. Alexander Ross strode into the room, just a pace behind the butler. His hair was if anything longer and more tangled than it had been before, and paint stained the sleeves of his morning coat. The smile he gave her was completely disarming.
The thought shot through Rose’s mind that Ada would have known how to deal with this—a cool how d’ye do, a little polite chitchat, a call for tea, a brief, distant indication that she had plenty to do this afternoon, thank you, and good-bye. But when she looked into his eyes she found herself saying, “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” he replied so readily and with such a lack of embarrassment that she didn’t even blush, though she was sure that as soon as she allowed herself to think about what she had just said—Good heavens, what had she said?—she would sink to the floor with mortification.
“I’m sorry to say Charlotte is out,” Rose stammered. Why, she wondered, was she not angry with him? Why was she not resenting his behavior toward her? Why did her pride not demand she turn away? Simply because now he was here, standing before her, now that she was looking into his thoughtful green eyes, she knew that Ada was wrong. He did not care if she had been a housemaid.
“I didn’t come to see Charlotte. I came to see you. I have been in Cornwall, painting, and only just received your letter on my return to London this morning.”
Rose collected her thoughts. She had already made enough of a fool of herself.
“I am so sorry for my thoughtless words,” she began, as formally as she could.
“Not thoughtless at all.” His mouth curved in a smile. “Plenty of good thought went into them.”
“But—but I was so insulting.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, my pride was hurt. I’ll accept that. But it only hurt because I knew you were right. The best criticism does hurt, that’s how you know it’s worth listening to.”
“No, no, I—” she began in confusion.
He spoke over her. “My paintings are empty. I know it. And I’ll fix it—somehow. But I don’t want you to think that I’m childish and self-centered enough to ignore you because of my hurt feelings.”
“Then why did you?”
“I was embarrassed.” He met her eyes directly. “Not a much better reason, but when you feel you’ve made a fool of yourself it’s hard to behave well.” He laughed, and her heart seemed to soften with tenderness just as laughter softened his features. The laughter quickly faded, though, and he went on. “I was told—I hadn’t known before, believe me—that yo
u were once a housemaid—”
Rose took a deep breath. So this was it. She could see the conversation playing out in front of her, he would apologize for giving her false expectations, she would have nothing to do but stammer that it didn’t matter, and try not to show how hurt she was.
“You can imagine how horrified I was.”
Rose’s pain gave way to anger. He had no right to speak to her as if she had no feelings at all, and she opened her mouth to say so, but he went on.
“No, no, please let me explain. I didn’t know, when we were at the exhibition, and I remembered instantly how rudely I’d spoken about servants then. I don’t want to remember the exact words.” He winced. “I thought you must despise me. I had already sent the invitation to the ballet, but I could not bear the thought of facing you and knowing how offended you must be. Nor could I stay away.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. His words came back to her. No servant could ever be creative.
“It’s not a good excuse, I know. I was so glad when I received your letter and discovered that you hadn’t taken offense. I hope you will accept my apologies.”
Rose fought back a desire to laugh in relief and happiness. “You haven’t insulted me at all,” she said warmly. “Are we friends then?” She held out her hand to him.
He took it and pressed it, smiling into her eyes. “Very much so.”
It seemed perfectly natural for him to take her arm and for them to walk though the house and out into the gardens for a stroll. Rose found her pace fitted his easily. There seemed no need to talk. The distant rattle of traffic was muffled by the trees that lined the garden wall. This is as close to silence as I have found, she thought, almost startled by the realization.
“I am glad,” she began awkwardly, “that you don’t think…less of me, for what I once was.”
“Not at all. I certainly do think that all this…” he waved a hand, his gesture including the neatly planted flower beds, the majestic house behind them, the bustle of London, “…is at heart ridiculous. One group of people shouldn’t be supported on the shoulders of another. But I think it is all the more marvelous that you have been able to move between two worlds. I think you are very brave.” He turned a serious gaze toward her.
Rose shook her head. She thought of the embarrassment she had felt at the state ball, of the insecurity she felt every day. “I am not brave. I have little choice but to accustom myself to my new life.”
“But you have done that with such grace. You have managed to remain yourself despite everything.”
Rose couldn’t help sighing.
“You don’t agree?”
“I wish I had managed to continue composing,” she replied. “But I have found it so hard to work since the season began.”
He raised an eyebrow. She went on, trying her best to explain as they walked among the flower beds. “When I sit down at the piano, I can’t play. It’s not as it was at Somerton. I feel adrift in a new and unknown sea. It feels as if I’ve lost my way.”
“You too,” he said thoughtfully.
“I know my compositions must change, just as I have changed, but I don’t know what they will change into yet. What I will change into.” Once again she realized that just by speaking to him she had managed to explain to herself how she felt.
“Something about your presence makes me see clearly,” she said with a smile. “I never understood exactly how I felt until just now.”
He turned to her suddenly, his face alight with an idea.
“Why don’t we go away from here? The city, the season, the whole thing. Let’s run away.”
Rose stared at him, shocked at the suggestion, and the light in his green eyes. Her first instinct was to refuse, but she hesitated. What if I said yes? she thought. The bare idea made her feel as if she were in a lift like the one in Selfridges, being whisked up into the air by a force as powerful as the pull of the future.
“What—just us? Together?”
“Who else?”
“Well—I—” Rose could hardly believe he was proposing such a scandalous adventure. And yet her mind was already working, thinking, If Céline pretends I’m ill…
He caught both her hands, speaking to her with an energy and excitement that caught her like wildfire. “We’ve both lost something. You have lost your music, and I’ve lost my art. Perhaps we’ll find it together, if we go away from here. To the wilderness.”
Rose grasped one final time for dignity, decorum, discretion. “I—I don’t think I’m dressed for the wilderness,” she objected, looking down at her thin tea gown.
His smile widened, and she felt it catch her like fire. “No, you certainly should have a hat. We’re driving.”
She laughed. And laughed again. Was he serious? How could she risk everything like this? But a drive with Alexander—the thought of the wind teasing her hair, flirting with her hat, the sun kissing her skin—it all seemed so wonderful. She couldn’t possibly—and yet why not? No one need know, not if she was careful. Dare I? she thought. Dare I?
“Wait here,” she said, and turned and ran back to the house.
She burst into her room. Céline, who had been sitting sewing buttons, looked up in surprise. “My lady? Is something the matter?”
“Yes—no. I need a hat, Céline.” She looked around the room.
“Of course. I am so sorry, I had thought you were not going out until the evening, my lady.” Céline scurried to the wardrobe.
“Neither had I.” Rose hugged herself, watching Céline bustle about, securing roses and ribbons. She longed to go with Alexander, longed to escape, to see what he was promising her—but she knew it was madness. She hesitated. Should she go? Was she strong enough to resist, if…“Céline, if you wanted very much to do something—but it seemed madness—what would you do?”
Céline turned. Rose met her keen, sharp gaze.
“Is it the Duke of Huntleigh?”
Rose’s mouth opened. Céline was certainly perceptive. “Er—yes. He wants me go to go for a drive with him—alone.”
Céline crossed the floor in two quick strides and settled the hat on Rose’s head. Rose felt her strong, deft hands securing hat-pins, tilting the brim.
“Voilà. Parfait! My lady, we are not in the days of Queen Victoria. This is the modern world. Why should you not go?”
“You think so? Really?”
Céline nodded firmly. “Be quick and discreet, and no one will ever know.”
Rose flushed with happiness. It was exactly what she had wanted to hear.
“Thank you, Céline.” She hurried to the door, took a deep breath, and went quickly down the stairs to meet Alexander.
The wind rushed into Rose’s face, her veil fluttering with light and speed. The duke drove fast but well, steering the motorcar through the London streets. The sun turned the Thames to diamonds and glittered across the windows of the grand houses.
“Where are we going?” Rose called over the noise of the engine.
“Away from here.” He grinned. “I promise you one thing, and that’s better pictures than the Royal Academy.”
He pressed the accelerator and excitement fizzed inside Rose like the bubbles in champagne. Before them were the open road and the fields. She knew she should be sensible, should make him take them back to London and safety. But was it really safety? How safe was a prison? Do I want a life like Ada’s, she wondered, in which even my heart is not my own?
She clutched the edge of her seat, listening as he half spoke, half shouted, over the noise of the engine, gesturing out at the crowds that hurried home among the grand houses.
“See there—a city of seven million people. A few hundred of them act as if the rest didn’t exist. They’re like dreamers, wandering around in their own airy delusions. They don’t even see themselves, let alone the rest of the world. Sleepwalkers, that’s what I call them.”
“Or castaways, that’s how I feel,” she replied. “Walking round the edge of my tiny island, looking ou
t on the flat unchanging sea.”
“Why don’t you build a boat and sail away?”
“I try, but as soon as I’ve got a few planks together my maid interrupts to talk about dresses, or the butler announces luncheon, or Lady Such-and-Such arrives and I have to make polite conversation with her.”
“A busy desert island.”
She laughed. “Yes, and a most fashionably decorated one, with all the modern conveniences. And it’s got its own tides, you know. As soon as you set out they drag you away, to dress fittings, shopping expeditions, balls, parties, Saturday-to-Mondays.…”
“Hateful, isn’t it?” He flashed her a knowing glance. “It’s a merry-go-round, and all the horses are the same, and the music never changes.… I dance with the same girls every season and all of them I’ve known from the nursery, and all of them are so perfectly predictable. Debutantes pressed out of the same mold, and not one of them has a laugh that’s real. That’s why I went away, to shake myself free.”
“And did you find freedom?”
Alexander was quiet for a moment, running a hand along the smooth leather of the motorcar gear. “Can you feel it? The speed, the power? Nothing can hold us back, we can’t be trapped by the confines of our parents’ generation. Tell me, how can you ride a motorcar, feel that powerful heart beating, how can you feel London shudder and breathe with the rhythm of the trains hurtling through it, the very air split and conquered by aeroplanes, how can you feel all that, and be content to be led into dinner at a sedate pace in precise order of precedence? How can you dream beside the river as if nothing had changed, as if everything were going to go on forever and ever and ever the same?”
Rose found herself breathless. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“We are changing and we can’t stop ourselves. We’re going somewhere, Rose, all of us, and I want to know where. The future has to be better than the past, hasn’t it?” He looked at her, and suddenly said: “I am so glad we’re on the same journey, Rose.”
Diamonds and Deceit (At Somerton) Page 14
