Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

Eugenia married in June. Against her better judge-ment she allowed me to serve as a bridesmaid at her wedding, though she did so with deepest foreboding, noting that she knew of no one better able to ruin a wedding. I could have assured her that her marriage delighted me and would in no way cause me to feel sick, and in truth, it was a delightful wedding. My father was extremely pleased and had allowed Eugenia a liberal sum to prepare her trousseau; she voiced her satisfaction with her new clothes and with her husband-to-be with such equality that it was difficult to tell which pleased her most. Cassy had been quieter than usual, but she was a shy person who had never emoted as did Eugenia. Mother, thinking perhaps that she felt left out, reminded her that she would be spending the spring at Aunt Maud's and attending many parties in her honour. That did nothing to cheer her, which hardly surprised me, for I knew she had never cared for Aunt Maud, who was noted for her brusque manner and sharp tongue so that even father stood in awe of her.

  I puzzled over Cassy's despondency, and it occurred to me that perhaps she had developed a fondness for Eugenia's betrothed; I had noticed that whenever the Ramseys visited us she was more attentive than usual and paid greater heed to her appearance. Should that be the cause my heart went out to her. I knew only too well the anguish of seeing the one you loved married to another—how much worse it would be if that other were your sister, a relationship that would force you into constant contact with the happy pair, with the added burden of the freedom allowable between brother- and sister-in-law. If the sentiments Cassy entertained for George Ramsey were anything similar to those I held for Darius, her forlorn atti­tude was completely understandable.

  On the day of the wedding, however, I was to discover—to my relief yet also to my embarrassment—that my suspicions were wrong, at least as far as Cassy's feelings towards George Ramsey were concerned. The ceremony had gone well, the vows being repeated before an altar decked with white lilies and roses, Eugenia equally pristine in her gown of white lace.

  Mother cried, father tried to disguise his satisfaction and I remained perfectly healthy, so that all in all it was a great success. The party returned to Seton Place, where a wedding feast of cold ham, tongue, chicken, dried fruits, wines and cordials awaited us, after which we repaired to the front steps to see the newly married pair climb into the Ramsey coach for the first stage of their journey to Brighton. Mother was still crying despite the fact that they were to return in less than a month to set up their residence at Fern Hall, a property that adjoined Ramsey Manor.

  As we turned to reenter the house, Howard Ramsey caught hold of my arm.

  "Don't go in just yet, Alex. Let's walk down by the or­chard and see whether that old oak is still there, the one we used to hide notes in, remember?"

  I remembered those notes only too well; usually How­ard's orders, which Paul and I had to carry out or bear the consequences. Still, it had been stuffy inside with so many people, and the long summer shadows and cooling afternoon breeze beckoned enticingly.

  "I suppose you, like the rest of your sex, are busily plan­ning another wedding now that this one has taken place," he said as we walked along the path beside the house. "I find there is nothing like a wedding to put women in a matri­monial frame of mind, not just for the bridal pair but for every other unmarried person present. One marriage is not made but another must grow out of it."

  "Indeed, I hadn't thought of it at all," I assured him. "/ am not anxious to marry, and whether other people feel in­clined to do so is their own business. It does not concern me."

  "You don't intend to marry?" he asked with incredulity.

  "I didn't say I don't intend to marry," I replied, "only that I am not anxious to do so."

  To myself I had to admit that since Philomena's death, untimely though it had been and certainly however much I loved Darius I had never wished for it, nevertheless I was acutely aware that he was free, and remembering his kiss and the election ball, hope had been rekindled that eventually he would look upon me with a more-than-brotherly affection. It was a remote hope, though, for he rarely visited Charteris except for brief sojourns on parliamentary business so that I saw little of him; when I did, his greetings were perfunctory. But I had waited so long for him, I was willing to wait indefi­nitely with nothing more to sustain me. And if he decided never to remarry, for his mourning of Philomena was so in­tense that he scarcely could bear the reminder of her in his child, so be it. I only hoped that he would cease to blame Crumpet for her death.

  As we strolled towards the orchard, I became aware of Howard staring at me intensely; I had been so lost in my own thoughts that I was hardly pleasant company. I tried to make up for my incivility by asking his future plans.

  "My father has it in mind for me to take a position with the East India Company, but I'm not sure it is what I wish to do. Many things could influence my decision, though."

  He took my hand as we walked, a friendly gesture, I sup­posed, for we were, after all, now related through the marriage that had just taken place.

  We entered the orchard and walked down the path be­tween the pear trees towards the stream. I thought of the day that Darius had saved me from Paul's ducking—how long ago that seemed. So much had happened, so much had changed, except, that is, for the feelings he had awoken in me that day. They alone remained constant. I looked across the stream, imagining Darius as I had seen him then—young, carefree. He was older now, more responsible, but so, too, was I. One day he would see that. . .

  My reverie was brutally interrupted by Howard pulling me close to him, holding me so that I could scarcely move and covering my mouth with his own so fiercely that I could scarcely breathe, either. It was a clumsy, ruthless kiss with nothing pleasant or romantic about it. His lips were hot and moist; he smelled strongly of the port he had been freely im­bibing, and his grip upon me was vicelike; though I was strong, I was unable to free myself. I was about to kick his shins when, with great and utter relief, I heard Cassy calling my name. She was some distance away but she had certainly seen what had occurred. One look at her face convinced me that it was not George Ramsey whom she admired but How­ard. As I broke from Howard's grasp to run towards her, I saw in her eyes embarrassment but also hurt and desolation.

  "Mother asked me to find you, Alex," she said apolo­getically by way of explanation. "She wants to get up a table for loo." Howard did not look at either of us. He was busy paying great attention to his cravat, which had become dis­tinctly disshevelled.

  Without another glance at him, I ran back to the house, leaving them to return together.

  That night I went in to Cassy to thank her for rescuing me from such an awkward predicament. "I can assure you I in no way wished for his attentions."

  "But do you not find him attractive?"

  "Not in the least," I said frankly. Cassy eyed me with an astonishment that bordered on incredulity. It is so when one loves; it is impossible to understand why all the world does not admire one's choice.

  "But . . . but he is so handsome, so self-possessed, you must agree."

  "It may be so," I hesitated, "but if you like him so, Cassy, why have you hidden it? He gives every indication of wanting a wife."

  "Alex, oh Alex! You may be prejudiced by sisterly affec­tion, but even you must admit me to be something less than a handsome, desirable woman. I have as much chance of at­tracting Howard Ramsey's attention as—as a fat June bug has of being swallowed whole by a gnat."

  "But you are a great deal nicer than Eugenia; you are kind, compassionate, and sweet," I protested.

  "I am also short and fat and my complexion is nearer to dun than dew. No man is attracted by kindness and compas­sion," Cassy rejoined.

  "I'm sure you are wrong."

  "Well, no man with the looks and bearing of Howard Ramsey, that is. He obviously prefers someone with your flair, and who is to blame him?"

  "But I don't care for him in the least, Cassy; I assure you I don't. If he makes any further advances to me, I shall be obliged to . .
."

  "To what?"

  "To speak to him quite bluntly about his conduct."

  "I dare say you may, but that will never secure him for me," she sighed. "You will never know what it is to be unat­tractive. The night we attended the election ball at the Red Lion, I saw you dance every dance. I don't suppose you no­ticed that I was only asked once and that was by Mrs. Baxter's son, and I think that was because his mama insisted he do so, for he said not two words to me the whole time. I am dreading going to Aunt Maud's because I know how it will be; she will insist on my going here and there and putting myself out to catch a husband. And if I don't find someone—and I doubt much that I shall—then Aunt Maud will be upset and papa will be angry. You know how great a drain on his resources he considers all of us—especially us girls—he's always grumbling about how much we cost him. Well, at least he is happy about Eugenia, though I suspect he made her a better marriage set­tlement than he will be willing to make for the rest of us. She was always his favourite, and even though she is beautiful I don't suppose George Ramsey would have taken her without it. If I had a fortune I daresay Howard might look more often in my direction."

  "Cassy!" I said, genuinely shocked. "Surely you wouldn't want him if he were interested in you for what you bring him rather than for yourself?"

  "Your studies have made a romantic of you, Alex. That is all men look for in any of us—what we can bring them, mon­etarily at marriage and, of course, children, preferably boys, after it."

  "I don't believe it is always so," I said stoutly. "Look at Darius Wentworth. He was certainly very much in love with Philomena when he married her."

  "Undoubtedly he was, but he had the best of all possible worlds—an incredibly beautiful woman and a handsome for­tune into the bargain. Now he has a son, so that despite the loss of his wife, the title is assured for another generation. And I don't doubt that he will soon marry another fortune and become even more wealthy and powerful. The world was made for men, Alex. If you don't know it now, you should. If all the reading you do doesn't tell you that, then look about you."

  I had the uncomfortable feeling that Cassy was as right about Darius as she was about our own inferior position in the scheme of things. I was sure he had married Philomena for love, but it was true she had been very rich, and it had been described as a perfect match. I wondered, if another perfect match presented itself, whether he would put aside his grief in favour of it.

  VIII

  I missed Cassy far more than I had expected after her depar­ture for Salisbury. Since our talk after Eugenia's wedding, a friendship greater than any sisterly affection had sprung up between us. I thought a great deal of her confidences to me and I empathized with her in her hopeless admiration for Howard Ramsey, though I would have wished her affections fixed on a more deserving object.

  The object of Cassy's devotion visited Seton Place fre­quently. He was now received as a member of the family, but in observing him whenever Cassy was present, it was all too apparent that even had she behaved in some bizarre fashion, turning somersaults or dancing a jig, it was doubtful that Howard would have given her any special attention. I was not at all sure he was aware that she existed. I was convinced, much though I wished otherwise, that he had singled me out. I had been aloof, even cold towards him, since the incident in the orchard, yet he continued to pay me compliments I did not want, did not seek. Everything I did to discourage him, even, on occasion, being plainly rude and risking thereby my parents' disapproval, was without avail. His departure at last for Calcutta, where he had taken a position with the East India Company, was a cause of utter relief. I ignored his enig­matic farewell. "When I get back, I'll be a nabob, Alex. Then things will change. You'll see."

  With Cassy gone and Paul up at Oxford, I found myself spending more time at Charteris. There I was always sure of a ready welcome. The soft English summer drifted on, lazy days and quiet, the stillness broken only by the fluttering marbled white butterfly or the darting green dragonfly. Despite the somnolence I found myself bursting with energy. I began to write again. Remembering my talk with Cassy, I was inspired to tell the plight of those of my sex possessing neither great beauty nor wealth, yet equally capable of falling under a man's spell as any other. Cassy would be the model for my heroine, but I refused to make the hero from Howard Ram­sey's cloth. There could be only one hero of whom I could write and that was Darius. Yet how to make him sympathetic and yet break the heroine's heart? It was a task to which I applied myself with the omnipotence of the Almighty; even if life might deny happy endings, I could make it otherwise.

  But my days were not spent wholly in writing, for there was Crumpet. In fact, as he grew, he consumed more and more of my time. Not that it was a sacrifice to give up writing for him, for he was the joy of my life. Eugenia had been right in surmising that I loved him as though he were my own. Yet look as I might, I could find no resemblance to Darius in him. He was Philomena's child totally. Poor little fellow! Had he resembled her less, perhaps Darius might have been able to look on him with less pain; as it was, to see him was to be reminded immediately of the woman who had died giving him birth.

  If I thought of Crumpet as mine, equally I was his. He waited for me always, laughing and reaching out for me as soon as I arrived. It was with me that he took his first steps. I had taken him down beyond the south lawn, down where the foxgloves bloomed in such profusion. I spread out a blanket for him to crawl on while I opened my notebook and nibbled speculatively on the end of a pencil. Moments later my atten­tion was attracted by a chortle of triumph. There was Crum­pet, standing, quite on his own. He took one step, then another and still another.

  "Ala! Ala!" he cried, which was as much as he could manage of my name, before toppling down first on one pudgy knee and then the other, in among the pink foxgloves.

  "Oh, Crumpet! How very clever of you. Do it again for me."

  And I took his hand and again he tottered, one foot be­fore the other, four more steps. I was as proud as though he were the first of mankind ever to stand on two feet.

  "Come along, Crumpet. You must do this for your grand­parents."

  I scooped him up into my arms. Life was exciting and ever changing. One day this bundle in my arms would be a man, as tall and strong as his father, eventually to become the seventh baron of Bladen. His first step along that road had been taken.

  Crumpet was closer to assuming that title than I, or any­one else, realized. The Bladens, as their rank demanded, had attended the coronation of George the Fourth—"that shameful affair," as Lord Bladen termed it, for Queen Caroline had been left pounding on the doors of the abbey, to be refused admittance. His wrath at the deplorable state of affairs into which the new King had plunged England caused a deeper depression in Lord Bladen than I had ever known, yet no one foresaw the sudden and treacherous heart attack that overtook him on his return and that was to leave him paralysed for the short remainder of his life.

  The efforts of everyone at Charteris were directed to his comfort. Lady Bladen scarcely left his side, and when she did so, it was to relinquish her place to me while I read to him or wrote letters for him. He was then, as he had been always, gracious and gentle, grateful for each small deed.

  Darius came often. He it was who was with his father when he died. One look at his ashen face as he left his father's room told me all I needed to know. I ran home without a word to anyone. There I stayed, alone with my grief. I could scarcely believe that he was dead, that I would never see him again. I had never felt so lost, so alone. He had been my teacher and my friend. As I had learned from him in health, even more had I learned from him in those last weeks of his affliction. I loved him more than I would ever love my own father, and the tears I wept were those of a daughter, one bound by a bond closer than blood lines could bestow, for there was no duty in my tears, only unmitigated grief.

  I could scarcely speak to Darius at the funeral, or to his mother, who leaned heavily on her son's arm, grown suddenly old. It wa
s odd and strange to hear Darius addressed as Lord Bladen. It took a long time for me to think of him by that name. Darius was much concerned about his mother's health, and before he left for London he asked that I watch and com­fort her as I could.

  "She thinks of you as a daughter, you know."

  "As your father was a father to me, so she is a mother. I shall do everything within my power to help her."

  "I know you will, Alex. Sometimes I wonder where we would all be without you. My sisters, as you know, are wrapped up in their families, and my duties force me to return to London. Mother refuses to come there, though I believe the change would do her good. As matters stand, I would not return unless it were imperative."

  Impulsively I reached out, and he clung to my hand for a moment.

  "Give her time, Darius. This has been a terrible shock to all of us, but most particularly to your mother. She has to adjust to it in her own way, in her own time, and probably these familiar surroundings are the place to do it. Crumpet is here. She is so very fond of him . . . unless you were thinking of taking him back to London with you."

  "No, I had no thought of that."

  "Lady Bladen would never go to London if it meant leav­ing him behind."

  "Well, he could come with her if she wished it. I am giving up the Grosvenor Square house and moving back to Great Stanhope Street now. I doubt he would find it as com­fortable there as at Charteris."

  "Crumpet feels comfortable wherever there is love." From the sharp look he directed at me, I knew I had said too much. Though he might think of me as a sister, even his own sisters never criticized him.

  Lady Bladen drew a curtain of mourning around herself, one impossible to penetrate. She spoke little to me or to any­one else, yet if for any reason I delayed arriving at my usual time, she missed me. My presence alone, I suppose, supplied some comfort; that and the fact that Crumpet followed me whenever I came. He was a source of solace, yet mischievous as he was, he tired her. When I came she retired to the solitude of her room, not to be tempted, no matter how bright the sun, to join us on our rambles.