Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  His face reddened as he floundered on, and I made no effort to extricate him from his difficulties, only adding to them by saying softly, half to myself, perhaps reminding my­self of what I must never forget. "The marriage vows state till death do us part."

  "Of course, of course," Mr. Harrington made another effort to hide his irascibility. "But nevertheless, occasionally it is not always as it is with your father or with myself. Some­times there is a tendency, particularly noticeable among the nobility, to stray from the straight and narrow way."

  "You refer, no doubt, to the King and the matter you spoke of earlier. His conduct is indeed deplorable."

  "I did not mean . . ." His annoyance became quite ob­vious, "Oh, well, never mind. You are becoming a very hand­some young lady and must yourself draw many a gentleman's attention."

  "I can assure you that I have not drawn Mr. Wentworth's attention, if that is what you infer." There was a trace of bitterness in my voice.

  "No, no, of course not. I know you would never be a party to anything of the kind. Come, come, I assure you I meant nothing of the sort. I ask your forgiveness, Miss Alexandra, if my remarks were subject to any misconception." We had ar­rived at the gate and he took my hand. "I shall look forward to seeing you at the Linbury election ball next week. I know Arthur will delight in the company of such a pretty and prin­cipled young lady." With that he raised my hand to his lips in continental fashion and, though I had always heard that gen­tlemen on the continent did not actually kiss the hand but merely made the gesture, Mr. Harrington planted a firm and exceedingly wet kiss thereon, so that long after he had left I found myself rubbing it and thinking, for all the world like Lady Macbeth, that it would never again wash clean.

  I had not for a moment supposed that I should be al­lowed to attend the election ball. I therefore forgave Mr. Har­rington much when I discovered that I, together with Thomas,

  Eugenia and Cassy, was to accompany my parents there. Fa­ther allowed me to have a new dress for the occasion, yet another cause for rejoicing, for he was, as a rule, extremely careful with my allowance, saying often that I would cost him a pretty penny to bring out and, until then, Eugenia had plenty of clothes she did not need which should suffice.

  It was to be my first ball dress, and I chose a soft green taffeta and had Mrs. Birdsock, our village seamstress, make it with the new lowered waistline I had seen on Philomena, and just short enough to set off my slim ankles. The result, despite Eugenia's denigrating comments on Mrs. Birdsock's abilities compared to those of London seamstresses, I found admirable.

  The night of the ball I was ready long before anyone else and sat surveying myself critically in the looking glass. I had, with the assistance of mother's maid, parted my hair in the middle and wore it with soft curls on either side of my face, its chestnut colouring highlighted by the glow of the candlelight, warm against the cool green of my gown. I tried some green bows in my hair and, unable to decide whether they enhanced my appearance or not, I decided to ask Eugenia, who had always an eye for such things. But when she flounced into my room to announce it was time to leave, annoyed, perhaps, because I was to accompany them, I decided against it, and, looking back at myself, I resolved that the bows were super­fluous and took them out.

  At the Red Lion we were conducted to the same assembly room where the rally had been held, except it was no longer a plain meeting room but had an air of opulence in the mass of candlelight. On the dais, rather than speakers, the musicians were seated, tuning their instruments. Everywhere was gaiety and festivity, everyone dressed in their best. Even women I con-sidered commonplace seemed suddenly transformed. I thought I would burst with enthusiasm when I saw Darius enter with his parents, but though they smiled at me they took their seats, much to my disappointment, on the opposite side of the room. Darius, clad in a claret velvet coat and silk knee breeches, cut a superbly dashing figure; I decided if women were to vote there could be no doubt as to the outcome of the election, watching as he moved from one to the other of the assembled company with just the appropriate degree of atten­tion and civility. As the dancing commenced I saw that he remained always on that side of the room and danced only with those ladies, and I was aware of crushing disappointment as I realized that it was there that the Whig families were seated while father had, of course, arranged for our places with other Tories of the Linbury district. My hopes of dancing with Darius were dashed.

  Mr. Harrington arrived, accompanied, as he had prom­ised, by his son, a dispirited youth. Mr. Arthur Harrington, who was up at Oxford, had come to Wiltshire for the election and was staying at Feltenham with the Ramseys. Thin and gangly, he had a complexion given to alarmingly active erup­tions. He spoke not a word while his father was present, but at his father's urging, he asked me to dance, and once on the dance floor, some of his timidity dissipated. Though tall, he appeared of no great stature because of his stooped posture, which proposed to apologize to all and sundry for his height; thus his one advantage went for naught. I managed to elicit a few words from him and discovered that he had met Paul at Oxford, though he was in Merton, while Paul was in New College. I also discovered that he stuttered. When the silence became oppressive I asked whether he was excited about the coming election, at which his prominent Adam's apple bobbed convulsively.

  "P . . . p . . . please don't let's talk of it."

  "But why not?"

  "Because n . . . n . . . nothing else has been d . . . d . . . discussed since D . . . December. When I'm with a pr . . . pretty girl I w . . . would rather talk of something else."

  "Well, then," I thought for a moment, "would you like to talk of cricket? Paul is a fine player, you know, and he has taught me the game."

  "Has he, b . . . by jove, and I don't doubt you make a capital p . . . p . . . pitcher. You have just the f. . . form for it." He suddenly blushed violently. "P . . . pardon me, I didn't mean anything p . . . p . . . personal, you know, I meant f. . . form in respect to the manner in which the ball is p . . . p . . . pitched. Though, of course, your other f. . . f. . .. f.. . form is capital also."

  He became quite overcome, and I was astounded that I could produce such convulsive feelings in a young man, albeit one as unattractive as Arthur Harrington.

  "And what are you studying now?" I asked, trying to change the subject, and the remainder of our time together in the set was spent in a minute if disjointed description of Eu­clid's Elements.

  Though I did not dislike the younger Harrington as I did his father, nevertheless I found conversation with him tedious, and I was glad to dance next with Howard Ramsey, George's younger brother. He had recently been sent down from Ox­ford for some misdemeanour. I longed to ask what it was but did not dare. It lent him, however, a provocative air, of which he made the most. He was much like his elder brother in appearance, of medium height with a square jaw and dark eyes. I noticed he had a tendency to squeeze my hand when­ever he had occasion to hold it in the set, and each squeeze was accompanied by a look I found difficult to understand till, at the end, he whispered, "You've grown to be absolutely adorable, Alex." I thought it improper for him to make such a comment, but I was unsure what to answer so I pretended not to have heard, though I suspect my flushed cheeks gave me away.

  Between Arthur Harrington and Howard Ramsey I found my dances were taken, and since father had said we could not stay long after supper, any hope that might have lingered in my breast of dancing with Darius fled. I saw him on the dance floor with Mrs. Sinclair and later with Mr. Fos­ter's daughter, and at supper he was with a large Whig party, while I was pinioned between Arthur Harrington and father. Father's interest in making sure that Arthur remained with us throughout the evening and always at my side reinforced my suspicions that he was the reason I had been allowed to attend the ball and to buy a new dress for the occasion, and I found the idea offensive. I had no wish for matchmaking, least of all with Arthur Harrington. He was innocuous, certainly, but the thought of him as a prospective husband was insup
portable.

  I was sitting with him after supper as he expounded on Christopher Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, wondering how it was pos­sible to make Marlowe's poem sound so prosy and boring, when I felt a light tap on my arm, and I looked around to see Darius.

  I smiled with such relief that I fear young Mr. Harring­ton must have noticed, but I could think of nothing but the joy of speaking to Darius.

  "Would you care for this dance if it is not already taken?" he asked.

  Would I! My heart nearly burst with enthusiasm, but I managed a demure nod and walked out onto the floor, at once aware that everyone was looking at us and that all traditions had been broken by the Whig candidate dancing with the daughter of the neighbourhood's leading Tory. I don't believe Darius could have caused more comment had he already been elected to Parliament and crossed the floor to vote with the opposition.

  "Do you suppose you should have asked me to dance?" I asked him, aware of the consternation.

  "Of course I do, otherwise I should not have done so. It is a sad ball when a fellow can't have any fun, even if he is a candidate for Parliament. I can assure you it's been rather heavy going so far. You don't look over-joyed with your com­panion, so I thought I would do us both a favour."

  "It was simply wonderful of you!"

  "Don't be a silly goose, it's not wonderful at all—just rather selfish. I wanted to dance with the prettiest girl in the room. You know, Alex, I hardly recognized you when I came in. You look remarkably grown-up somehow. Perhaps it's your hair; you've done some-thing different with it, haven't you? And now that I really look at you I realize for the first time that your eyes are exactly the same rich colour as your hair-altogether delectable."

  "Are you teasing me?" I demanded, delighted yet unable to trust I had heard right.

  "I'm trying to pay you a compliment, if you'll allow it, fellow moonraker."

  My feet barely seemed to touch the ground as I danced. It was what I had wished for all evening. My happiness was perhaps all too evident, because as soon as Darius returned me to my seat, father announced that it was time for us to leave. Though he clearly disapproved he said not a word of my tak­ing the floor with his party's opponent, but all the way home he sang the praises of Arthur Harrington. I said nothing, scarcely following what he said, busy with my own dreams. My silence must have satisfied him for I had no rebuke. Per­haps he thought that I found the ungainly young man ac­ceptable.

  Father's good humour increased when, at the end of Feb­ruary, the Times reported the discovery of the Cato Street con­spiracy, in which a group of dissidents had planned to blow up the entire Cabinet while its members were dining with Lord Harrowby in Gros-venor Square.

  "Let's see the Whigs win now," he chortled, disregarding that the conspirators were extreme radicals rather than Whigs.

  The attempt cast a pall over an otherwise jubilant atmo­sphere at Charteris. Darius left immediately for London, Lord Harrowby's house being adjacent to his own, and did not re­turn until he had vouchsafed that Philomena had not been unduly upset by the harrowing events.

  Whig liberalism, though advocating reform, strongly op­posed radicalism that sought reformation through violent means. Nevertheless, Darius, while disavowing the radicals, emphasized that it was the government's repressive actions that caused conspiracies such as the Cato Street affair.

  Elections took place early in March, but it was almost a fortnight before the results were known. Overall the Tories were victorious once again, but Darius had gained our county seat for the Whigs with a respectable margin. Though he said little he was clearly elated at his victory.

  At Charteris Lord Bladen toasted his son, " 'Tis an office of great work, and you an officer fit for the place." I joined in the champagne toast, the bubbles tickling my nose. Though I knew it meant that Darius would return to London—to Phi­lomena—I felt light-headed, strangely satisfied.

  "For all you've done for me," he said, handing me a small box. It held a gold signet ring engraved with the letter A. I put it on the little finger of my left hand, determined never to take it off, and in answer to father's enquiring glance that evening, I explained that it was an advance birthday present from Lady Bladen. My lie caused me no pangs, but the fact that it did not gave me cause to wonder.

  Father's mood of deep gloom over the loss of the county seat cast a pall on Seton Place that threatened to engulf it indefinitely. Then it was miraculously lightened by George Ramsey, who could not have chosen a more propitious mo­ment to solicit Eugenia's hand in marriage. To settle his el­dest, his favourite daughter so handsomely immediately restored my father's spirits. Eugenia's humour also improved. Her husband captured, her trousseau now absorbed her en­tirely.

  With Darius gone and the campaign over, I turned back to my studies in an effort to avoid thinking of his marital bliss, soon to be blessed by the birth of their child.

  VII

  Before Darius had been in the House a month, he had made his maiden speech on the abolition of slavery, the report of which I cut from the Times to put in my diary. It was the most impassioned yet thoroughly reasonable argument I had yet read of that iniquitous practice. His manner of delivery was praised as forthright yet unaffected; having been a firsthand witness to his oratory, I was able to endorse this praise.

  The Bladens were clearly elated at his success, yet their attention was divided between that and their anticipation of the birth of their grandchild. Lady Bladen had wished to be with Philomena, but Darius had dissuaded her from returning to London with him, saying that Philomena's mother would be there and one mother would suffice. I knew Lady Bladen was disappointed, but she concentrated on preparing gar­ments and making plans for the baptism while arranging, in­stead, to go to Margaret, who was to have her second child that summer.

  The joy of anticipation was shattered three weeks before Philomena was due for confinement; an express arrived late one afternoon just as I was about to leave. I saw Lord Bladen's hand shake as he read it, and his face grew ashen.

  "What is it? What has happened?" I cried

  I confess, with some shame—for I thought only of Darius—that when, speechlessly, he handed it to me, I felt a sense of relief that he was unharmed, followed immediately by guilt at that relief, for the express, written in obvious haste and affliction, conveyed the tragic news that Philomena had not survived the premature birth of a son.

  The man who arrived shortly thereafter, bringing with him that son to be cared for at Charteris, was in no wise the same man who had only so recently celebrated his parliamen­tary victory. He was pale. His eyes, dark and brooding, were lifeless and heavily underlined with shadows bespeaking his lack of rest. He scarcely spoke and paid little heed to the tiny bundle carried by a nursemaid, which his mother took with such loving care.

  John Frederick Wentworth had been baptised in Lon-don immediately after birth. I overheard Lord Bladen remonstrate with Darius for allowing Philomena's body to lie in London rather than at St. Mary's, to be en-tombed with the other Bladens.

  "It was the parish in which we lived," Darius replied flatly. "I believe it is what she would have wished."

  "But the child—why was he not baptised here, and why-why did you choose those names? They are so—so common­place. He is your heir, yet he does not have a family name."

  "It was imperative that the boy be christened at the ear­liest moment. It was believed that he would not survive, but he did." He spoke, as before, without any intonation.

  "But the names," his father pressed. "Why not your own, or even mine?"

  I knew he was hurt, yet I wished he would leave Darius alone in his grief.

  "They are names for a male child. They seemed suitable at the time." His brevity clearly indicated that he would talk no further on the subject, and his father, grieving also, put his arm around his son's shoulders as I left the room, fearing to witness the sight of both men in tears. Water drops were women's weapons, not to stain a man's cheeks, King Lear had said, yet tears were
a necessity not merely to wash the eye but to wash the soul, and my presence could only inhibit their freedom to express their grief openly.

  Darius returned to London without a word, with barely a glance at his son. He seemed to place the burden of Philo­mena's loss upon the baby, and certainly the sight of him was an all-too-poignant reminder of his mother, for he had inher­ited her dark eyes and hair, yet he was of a paler complexion— so pale that at first his colour gave some cause for alarm at Charteris, though he was remarkably alert. He was, above all, an utterly lovable child.

  I talked of him incessantly until Eugenia remarked, "To listen to you, Alexandra, one would think that child was your son rather than Philomena's." Stricken, I realized that some­how I felt he was.

  Most of my days were spent with him, which pleased Lady Bladen, for it was long since she had had a child in the house, and though Darius had arranged for a nurse as well as a wet nurse, she would not have him left to the care of the domestics though she herself found such a tiny child tiring.

  He grew in strength though he remained unduly pale and I took care to wrap him well when I took him for his daily airings in the park, there allowing him to sniff the roses while keeping his fingers from the thorns, holding bright yellow but­tercups under his chin to show, by their reflection there, how much he liked butter, playing catch with the fluffy blue ball I had knitted for him. At tea he always licked my crumpets and cried out whenever I delayed bringing them over to him. In fact his liking for crumpets was so great that I gave him Crumpet for a nickname. It became a name generally adopted by everyone else, Lord Bladen particularly preferring it to John Frederick. Nothing in my life had ever delighted me as did those summer days.