Chapter Seven
Roma was never so aware of the depth of silence between her father and herself than when he tried to talk to her. The quality of the quiet seemed companionable, as if they could speak if they wanted to, only they had nothing of any particular importance to say at the moment. But when the silence was broken, it became obvious that they had, in fact, very little to say to each other.
One of her clearest memories of the miserable day when Elliot had died was her father’s utter powerlessness in the face of her grief. He’d literally wrung his hands, walking up and down, unable to comfort her. Guiltily, she remembered also that he had not left her either, though his fidgety presence was more irritant than solace.
Therefore, when Lord Yarborough appeared at dinner in a noticeably buoyant mood and greeted her with words instead of an absent-minded nod, Roma met him warily. “Good evening, Father.”
“Good evening, Roma.” They said grace, and he shook out his napkin. “I trust you had a pleasant visit with Lady Brownlow. How is she?”
“In good spirits. She couldn’t say enough good things about her nephew.”
“Nephew?”
“You remember Mr. Donovan, Father. You met him last night at the Assembly. He is helping Lady Brownlow with that unfortunate business about her man-of-affairs.”
“Oh, yes?”
“You remember, Father. I told you about the matter.”
She was used to prompting him, though he seemed unusually absent-minded tonight. There must have been something new and of great interest in the museum.
Lord Yarborough nodded, though that could have been in acceptance of the roast lamb the butler was offering on a large silver tray. “Yes, of course, my dear. Not too rare, Wilde. He forged her name on a cheque, yes?”
“Among other things. She’s so trusting anyone might impose upon her and she’d never dream of prosecuting.”
“Indeed.” He tasted his food and asked her to pass the salt cellar as their longtime butler and newly hired maid circled the table with the potatoes au gratin and winter vegetables. Lord Yarborough lived simply when dining with just his daughter. Grand meals with many courses and removes were not for him, though poor Wilde and his wife grieved at the lack of scope for their artistry.
“This Mr. Donovan seemed an agreeable fellow.”
“He is very agreeable,” she said, though she boggled a little at that description. Mr. Donovan’s charming smile and warm friendliness were beggared by so weak a word. At least she’d proven last night that he could not entirely overthrow her good sense, though he had not seemed cast down by the coolness of her farewell. Indeed, he’d grinned impudently. Thinking of his smile, her own lips curved.
“I hope Lady Brownlow won’t go from being too trusting of one young man only to commit the same imprudence a second time. Family is not what it was, Roma.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it, Father? Consider the fate of most of the caesars, done to death by their own relations.”
He chuckled but refused to take this tempting bait. “Well, I am glad for Lady Brownlow’s sake that she has this nephew to assist her. How old would you say he is?”
It wasn’t like him to take such an interest in a stranger. “I couldn’t make more than a guess. It is so hard to tell with gentlemen. I should say... thirty?”
“Do most young ladies find it difficult to judge a man’s age, I wonder?”
Certainly, he was in a peculiar mood. “I cannot speak for any portion of my sex, Father. I know I find it difficult”
“So, if you and I had just met, how old would you say I am?”
She gazed at him, trying to imagine meeting him for the first time. Lord Yarborough lifted his head, turning full face and then profile, stretching up a little as though to smooth out his throat. Roma suppressed a smile, having not realized that a man might be vain as a woman.
Her father was too thin, of course, since meals were of minor importance. His skin, browner than most noblemen’s and more weather-beaten, stretched over a broad forehead and high cheekbones. His face was dominated by his straight but prominent nose. His brownish hair had not thinned very much, though it was hard to tell what part of it was graying and what was sun-bleached from this year’s excavations. There’d been a quite remarkably long stretch of sunny weather. The sun had also caused the lines that radiated out from his half-hooded eyes, grayer than her own, looking at her now with more anxiety than she would have thought the question deserved.
“Early forties,” she pronounced at last. “Much, much too young to be my father. I should subtract a few years from my own dish.” Roma saw the tension drain from his features.
“Thank you, my dear. So ...” He cleared his throat. “You liked Mr. Donovan?”
“He’s a very pleasant man. When first we met, he walked me home, nearly all the way.”
“Nearly all the way?”
Roma glanced in the mirror across from her place at table to be sure the servants were out of the room. “We were caught in the downpour and took refuge at Dina Derwent’s house.”
“Did Dina try to fascinate the young man?”
“Certainly not. When she arrived, she seemed shocked, for Dina, that I’d brought him there. But what else could I do? He was soaked to the skin, and I believe his leg must have been paining him. He was a soldier, Mother Brownlow told me today, and he suffered a leg wound. Naturally, she couldn’t provide me with details, but I gathered that the damage will be lifelong.”
Roma could have kicked herself for pressing Bret to dance with her last night. Such tactlessness would be hard to forgive in an impudent schoolgirl, let alone in a grown woman. Worse yet, she couldn’t even apologize, for that would be a greater impertinence yet. Better to resolve to be less foolish next time.
“Dina wasn’t there when you arrived?”
“No, she was at some party or other. For some famous singer. I think I received an invitation when we first arrived. But it was impossible to attend so soon. I had hardly unpacked.”
“People knew that you are visiting Bath, then?”
Roma nodded. “I wrote to a few friends, as I usually do. Most are still out of town but will be arriving soon. Just in good time. My new gowns will be ready in a few days, and I shall be glad to be in the mode once more.
Which reminds me . . . Lady Brownlow has asked me to attend the theater in her company. Through one cause or another she has never seen this play and would like to do so now that it is at the Theater Royal.”
“You may do as you wish,” he said, as she knew he would. He’d never attempted to keep her from enjoying herself. She’d hardly had the heart for gaiety after Elliot’s death. Most of her friends had married and gone to live their own lives in the four corners of England. One or two had even gone to India with their serving husbands. But family connections and the social affiliations she’d made as a young woman remained.
In London, she never need spend a night at home if she did not wish to, though she found she was invited more to whist parties and musical evenings instead of to the grand balls and great routs of the past. She recalled Dina’s use of the word “tragic” to describe her. How many of her friends and family still saw her that way, as a widow who had never been a wife? And should she ever wish to find a wider life, who among them would help her do so?
Not Dina, despite her half promise to avail herself of Mrs. Derwent’s wide friendship. Not Lady Brownlow, nor any of her cousins or aunts. Lady Brownlow would undoubtedly believe that no one could supplant Elliot in her affections. Her female relations had their own daughters to fire off into the ton. Besides, she quailed at the thought of the conversations that would have to take place were she to ask for their assistance. No. She would have to find a husband by herself. When the day came, she reminded herself hurriedly.
Wilde and the maid—Fielding? Radcliffe? Something authorial at any rate—returned to whisk away the dishes and the cloth, setting out baskets of pastries and a syllabub. Wild
e poured his master a glass of gleaming ruby port, the only wine Lord Yarborough ever took.
“I met an old friend of yours today, Roma.”
“You did, Father? Who?”
“A Mrs. Martin.”
“Mrs. Martin? I don’t recall. . . Did she say she knew me?”
“I believe she was at school with you. A Miss Keane.”
“Julia Keane?” She feared her exclamation was not one of unmixed joy. “Is she in Bath?”
“Yes, she is visiting her mother.”
“Mrs. Keane always seemed very healthy when she would visit Miss Dodwell’s school.”
“You and Miss Keane were not bosom-friends, I take it?” Lord Yarborough said.
“I’m afraid not. I always felt that were I Miss Roma Yarborough, she would not seek out my companionship. Because I am Lady Roma, she attached herself to me. I must say not many girls at Miss Dodwell’s suffered from that kind of attitude, but Julia had a bad case. She was also something of a tittle-tattle as I recall. But no doubt she has improved out of all recognition. I am certainly not the girl I once was, thank heaven.”
“So . . . ,” her father said slowly. “You would not be amenable to a meeting with Mrs. Martin?”
“I shouldn’t say that,” Roma said. “It would be pleasant to speak of old friends and younger days.”
He chuckled, one of his rare, warm tributes to her. “You’re not a hundred and eight, Roma. Your younger days are not so far behind you. Not like mine,” he added, dropping his voice to an almost inaudible level.
A second reference to his years? That was most unusual. As a rule, even birthdays left him unmoved and uninterested. Then he looked up to fix her with an entreating eye. “Will you call upon her tomorrow?”
“Why this determination to have me renew my acquaintance with Julia?” Roma asked, pushed by curiosity into making such a forthright demand.
To her surprise and suspicion, Lord Yarborough colored visibly. A pink flush swelled under his skin, deepening his already dark skin tone. He stuttered a little. “I... I met her sister at the museum. She neglected to take something with her when Mrs. Martin and her other sister came for her. I... I hoped you might return it for me.”
“Naturally, I should be only too happy, Father,” Roma said, hoping her mouth hadn’t dropped open too far. She felt as though her chin had fallen upon her chest. Suddenly, her half-eaten pastry failed to tempt her, abandoned in favor of this new and dreadful fascination. “Which sister is this?” she asked.
“Miss Sabina Keane.” Was there something reverent in his pronunciation?
“Sabina? I don’t recall Julia ever mentioning her. I believe she was quite close emotionally to her younger sister—Lydia? Lavinia?”
“Livia. I met her as well. She seemed a giddy young creature, and I must say I concur with your assessment of Mrs. Martin. I did not take to her, though she spoke fondly of you.”
Roma noted that her father did not say what impression the eldest Miss Keane had made upon him, though she feared this oversight meant more than anything he could have said.
Roma examined her feelings. Early days yet, but what if her father should choose to remarry? Some well-meaning friends and relations had, in the past, hinted at such a thing, even going so far as to suggest her proper behavior toward a stepmama. But as the years slipped past without Lord Yarborough making any such announcement or taking any step toward matrimony, even Aunt Clare, in whose heart hope sprang eternal, had stopped dreaming of that.
Above all things, Roma would have her father happy. To this end, she had aided him all she could to achieve his wishes, whether it was spending a cold, wet winter in Falmouth or a hot, airless summer in Chichester. She had quietly smoothed his path where she could, taken notes, and listened to him debate with himself the thoughts and intentions of men long dust. Though often unthanked, the times when he had thrown her a word of appreciation had been enough. Herself at a loss after Elliot’s death, she’d been happy to find such employment. What, however, if he remarried?
“Othello’s occupation’s gone,” she said softly.
Her father, gazing into his untouched wine, had not heard her, his thoughts elsewhere. Perhaps he imagined the presence of Miss Keane. There certainly seemed a different flavor about his smile. Dreamy, diffident, distracted as always, yet something a little more tender gentled the curve of his lips. He spoke so little and so rarely about anything but Rome that she’d become used to studying him for even the subtlest clues to his mood. Perhaps she’d given him too much of her observation. So much so that she’d forgotten the duty she owed to herself. If she’d been less content to stay by her father, would she have found another husband by now?
But all this was speculation. Whatever Lord Yarborough thought or might think of Miss Keane, they had only met today. Roma took a determined bite of the raspberry tart. “I will call on Mrs. Martin tomorrow, Father. Give me what Miss Keane left behind at the museum, and I will undertake to return it to her.”
“Pray ...,” he began, then seemed at a loss.
“Yes, Father?” Roma prompted.
“It is against my nature to indulge in any form of deceit, as you know.”
“Certainly,” Roma agreed, wondering in which erratic direction his fancy would carry him now. She mentally withheld all the times he’d circumvented the truth to achieve some rarity ahead of a fellow collector.
“And to suggest to any child that one would be willing to assist in deceiving her parent is certainly repellent to any honest man. However, in special circumstances such as these...”
“Such as what, Father?” Roma said, her curiosity burning like a fall of ash on her skin.
“In the service of true art,” he said. “Miss Keane is an artist of exquisite sensibility, but her mother does not approve, I fear.”
“I see,” Roma said, though her confusion was now complete.
“Good,” he answered with his shyest, happiest smile. “Then you will call upon Mrs. Keane and her daughters tomorrow morning?”
“As soon as I may.”
“And you will manage to restore Miss Keane’s property to her without her mother’s notice?”
“I can but try.”
“I know you of all persons are capable of discretion, Roma.”
“Thank you. Father,” She had not the slightest idea of what he referred to, but the praise, rare and mild though it was, pleased her lonely heart.
* * * *
Nothing was ever so easily done as said. When Roma saw what she was to return, she was moved to protest. “That cannot be it,” she exclaimed, taking the book in her hands.
“This is what his lordship gave me, my lady. It has Miss Keane’s name on it,” her maid said, pointing out the faded, delicately inscribed signature across the front cover. Roma looked incredulously at the stained ecru linen and brown leather bag, marked with tea rings and paint. It had to be fourteen inches square, not the sort of object readily hidden in a reticule and passed hand to hand under the eyes of an easily distracted parent.
With difficulty, she took out the book. A moment later, she was smiling in pleasure. Though she hardly had time to search through the entire volume, what she did see entertained and amused her. Happening upon the picture of the future Mrs. Martin as a bride, she gave a snort of unladylike laughter. She closed the large cover with regret. Diverting though it might be, it was an ungainly object.
“I thought he meant a handkerchief or a glove, not this great cardboard and leather thing. How on earth can I smug—” Roma caught Pigeon’s consumingly curious gaze and bit off the last word.
The last thing she wanted was to enter into a discussion of her father’s actions with her maid. Pigeon disapproved of Lord Yarborough even at the best of times, feeling it her duty to protect her mistress from even her own father’s requirements. “He’s got enough servants, don’t he?” was her plaint whenever “my lady” was performing some task Pigeon thought beneath her dignity.
“Carry it
for me, will you?” Roma asked.
Roma thought it wise, when visiting a heavily populated town like Bath, to take her maid with her even on the most innocuous journeying. If she’d taken Pigeon on that disastrous walk home from Lady Brownlow’s house, no doubt she would have been far more circumspect in her talk. Pigeon did have a damping effect.
No sooner had she stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the rain-washed morning air, than she saw Mr. Donovan coming up the shade-dappled street. He caught sight of her. Smiling, half raising his hand in greeting, he hurried his pace.
“Here’s Lady Brownlow’s nephew, my lady,” Pigeon said brightly.
“So I see,” Roma answered and hoped the blush in her cheeks would not be misunderstood. It was not pleasure at seeing him again so soon but embarrassment at her misbehavior of two nights before that brought pink into her cheeks. She hoped that her disappointment at not dancing with him had not been too obvious.
But what had brought that note of pleasure into Pigeon’s tone? Had her middle-aged heart been won over by Mr. Donovan’s undoubted charm of address? Come to think of it, Roma realized that Pigeon had been, for some time, more complimentary toward males than she’d ever been before. Good heavens, was even her maid matchmaking?
It was with this thought in her mind that she greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Donovan,” she said, allowing the coolest of smiles to reach her lips.
“Good morning, my lady,” he said, taking off his hat and bowing. His smile glowed in his eyes as he took in her appearance. “Am I too late to call upon you?”
“I am myself making morning calls.”
With a flick of a glance, he took in Pigeon and the bulky bag she carried. “So I see. May I walk with you?”
She really couldn’t bring herself to snub him, nor would she if she could. She’d never learned the trick of giving a thorough set-down. Nor did so many personable men smile at her with such pleasure that she could afford to alienate even one. But she would control her tongue at all costs.
Lady Roma's Romance Page 8
