Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  I buried my own grief in writing, rewriting and writing yet again until at last my novel assumed some measure and shape. There came a time, however, when I decided to change it no more. The last word written, I searched for a title and found it in Christopher Marlowe's Conquests of Tamburlaine: "Virtue solely is the sum of glory and fashions men with true nobility." Sum of Glory it should be, and I felt a thrill of excite­ment as I added that title to the first page. I then put it aside, feeling more bereft than ever.

  Darius had been forced to relinquish his seat in the Com­mons on assuming his father's title, and he had moved over to the august body of the Lords, more powerful, perhaps, than the Commons, but on his frequent visits he told us how much he missed their lively debates. He had been promised a seat in the government when the Whigs regained power. As it was, he worked hard with their shadow cabinet. I would read aloud to Lady Bladen reports of his speeches in the Times. His was fast becoming a name of stature within Whig circles, and he worked hard at the bi-election for his vacated county seat to ensure that it was kept within his party.

  Politics, though, were not his only concern. He was clearly worried about his mother. "She must get out of her room and out of this house, for some time at least. I've asked her again and again to come to London. I am sure the change would be beneficial to her. I believe she might agree if you were to come, too. She is fond of your company, Alexandra, I need hardly tell you that."

  London! The very name excited me. What wouldn't I give to go. Yet father had refused before; he would never agree.

  Darius, as if reading my mind, added, "I shall speak to your father if you would wish to go."

  "Of course I wish to go, but father will never allow it."

  "Don't give up before the battle has even been joined," he remonstrated. "Allow me to speak to him. I may be able to allay his fears."

  "Don't be forceful or commanding," I warned. "He hates to be told what to do."

  "I suspect that may run in the family," he smiled.

  "Ask it as though you do him the favour by taking me," I continued, ignoring his comment. "Then he can't get you into a compromising position."

  "My dear young lady," he assumed a mock oratorial stance, "I can assure you that I have not spent months on those hard benches in the House for nothing. My powers of persuasion have been much enhanced by that inconciliable body. Believe me, it is so."

  It must have been. Father, after assuring himself that I cared nothing for the plan one way or another—for he hated to please any of us, excepting Eugenia—gave a grudging consent, emphasizing, however, that since I was not out I could attend no formal functions. He was anxious as ever that I not make my bow to society under Whig auspices, for I was certainly of age, having already passed my nineteenth birthday.

  "Aunt Maud is to bring you out as she did Cassy, though with better results, I should hope." He, directed an infuriated glare at Cassy, who, seated on the sofa, bent closer to her mending without looking up.

  "I am so happy for you, Alex," she whispered when at last he left us alone. "I've so often wanted to see London. Now you can tell me all about it. Salisbury may have been a veritable metropolis compared with Linbury, but it was less than pleas­ant with Aunt Maud constantly admonishing me to bestir myself."

  Cassy had already confided to me her humiliation at the hands of Aunt Maud. Much to our aunt's displeasure, Cassy had scarcely taken Salisbury society by storm. Miss Tabitha Bramble, Aunt Maud had designated her, a positive wall­flower who should be at pains to please. But gentle Cassy had remained as she always was and would ever be, quiet and shy. Aunt Maud had packed her up and sent her home a month before she was due to return, with a sharp note to father tell­ing him he must set to himself to find her a husband.

  "To be treated with such incivility, as though I had no sensitivity, no feeling—it was hard to bear. I make no claim to be pretty, to be brilliant or witty, but that woman treated me as though I were some freak of nature. I hate her!"

  I did also for her uncharitable behaviour to one least de­serving of it. I resented my father even more for siding with her, for humiliating Cassy since her return by talking of the constant burden of her expense.

  "One day we'll be free of all of them, Cassy; we'll break away, we'll be happy. We will!" I consoled.

  "You will, Alex, for you will marry and be free of him."

  "I don't wish to marry. There is no one . . . at least there is no one who will ask me whom I would accept."

  "I think Howard Ramsey would. I expect he'll be back from India soon."

  "Well, I would never take him if he did. I don't like him one bit. I'm sorry to say it, Cassy, but I wish you had fastened your attentions on someone more worthy of them. I positively detest him. He brags and he is as bossy now as when he was a boy. If he should ever ask me to marry him, I should certainly refuse."

  "Oh, Alex, you wouldn't!" Her look of horrified astonish­ment made me giggle, and soon we were both thinking up the most improbable suitors whom it would be our duty to refuse: Mr. Wilson, the apothecary, who took greater care of his beaver hat than of his patients; Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Harrington's, who imagined himself an orator and cleared his throat before each sentence he uttered, even if it were only, "Pass the butter, please"; Mr. Bunby, father's lawyer, who was stiff and dry and always dressed in sombre colours and gave the impression of having himself become the writing imple­ment which he used so freely; or Mr. Flintwell, his partner, who was fat and round where Mr. Bunby was hard and thin, and who laughed constantly as though he had once been told that fat people laugh a lot and he was prepared to oblige on even the most melancholy occasions. Soon we were in such fits of giggles that we felt like little girls in short petticoats again.

  As I bid her good-bye on the clear September day I left for London, I hugged Cassy and promised that the month would soon pass and then I would bring her back a surprise.

  "A husband," she laughed.

  "No, silly," I scoffed, "something much better and much more useful—a merino shawl, for instance, or a beaded ret­icule."

  Everything about the journey was exciting to me—the road, the scenery, farm workers and cottagers waving as we passed, the Pelican at Speedhamland where we spent the night. Yet most exciting of all was the change as we entered London—crowded streets, houses squeezed one against an­other, cavernous alleys through which no light seemed to pen­etrate, horses, carriages, carts, vendors, people everywhere. The noise was deafening.

  Footmen hurried to meet us as we pulled up at Great Stanhope Street. Darius's attention was immediately claimed by his secretary, who stood by in the hall, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Crumpet and his nursemaid were whisked upstairs, and Lady Bladen and I took off our travelling cloaks and settled down before a fire in the drawing room.

  "I didn't realize how tiring that journey is," she said. "Septimus and I used to make it so often, and when we were together it seemed to pass so quickly, but I suppose I am get­ting old."

  "No, it is a great distance, but I expect it passed quickly for me because I've never been away from home and every­thing was new to me."

  I looked round the room at the Adam marble fireplace and white walls decorated with light pastel colours, which set off the beautiful mahogany of the doors and window frames.

  "I see Darius has acquired some new paintings." Lady Bladen indicated two landscapes on either side of the fire­place. One was a rural scene at harvest time I judged to be a Constable, but the other was a hazy sunset in which colour had been used in a most exciting and voluptuous manner I could not place. I discovered it to be by Turner, who had adopted a standard quite his own.

  "What a pity Darius did not get Lawrence to paint Philomena," she sighed. "But perhaps he would not wish to hang it here even had he done so. I have never seen a woman so mourned. It is out of all proportion. I see no inclination on his part to remarry, but I wish he would instead of frittering his time away on women like . . . well, I suppose it is not my con
cern. He is old enough to know his own mind. At least the succession has been assured, though I wish he had more than one son just in the event, heaven forbid, that anything should happen to Crumpet. I think that eventually Darius will for­give him for being the cause of his mother's death. I know I pray for it."

  She passed her hand across her brow, and I realized then how very tired she was and how she had changed since her husband's death. Never before had she confided in me her feelings about Darius, how concerned she was about his lack of parental affection. Apart from that, though, I was transfixed by her allusion to another woman in Darius's life, no matter that he was "frittering away time" with her. In my heart I had believed, quite selfishly, that his mourning must prevent en­tanglement with any other. Yet he was a man of consequence, a handsome man, an available man; judging by myself, I knew only too well the feelings he could arouse in the female breast. Yet if he sought such company, why could it not be mine? Who was she, this woman whom Lady Bladen men­tioned?

  Lady Bladen was gazing into the fire, lost in thought. "I hope that Darius will soften in his feelings for the boy," she repeated.

  "I am sure he will. No one can be with Crumpet long without succumbing to his charms, you know that. Darius has had a great deal on his mind, and, too, he has not spent time with his son. Now that they are under the same roof things will change. He may even resent us taking him back to Char­teris with us at the end of the month."

  But I was wrong. Though Crumpet was dressed in his smartest nankeen suits, though we made sure he repeated all the new words he was learning before his father, Darius re­mained indifferent towards him until one day Crumpet got into his study and attempted to make a sailboat from an offi­cial report.

  I ran in when I heard Darius shout in exasperation, "Drat that child! At least keep him out of my rooms while he is here."

  "Crumpet didn't mean to do anything wrong, Darius, he. . ."

  "And I wish you and mother would stop calling him by that foolish name. He was baptized John."

  Crumpet had broken into tears at our raised voices, and without another word I gathered him up and took him to the nursery. When I came down I offered, though none too po­litely, to iron out the crumpled pages.

  "Never mind, I can get another copy."

  "Then if you were able to obtain another copy, why did you scream at the child just now and upset him so?"

  He looked up from his work. "I'm sorry. I'm simply not used to having a child at hand. Was I so harsh?"

  "Indeed you were. And I think it is time you became used to having a child at hand, for he is your son."

  My comment made him angry. Never before had I spo­ken to him in such a blunt manner; indeed, nobody had. His reply was stiff. "I suppose you are right."

  "How can you not love him, Darius. Sometimes I can't understand you. You are a kind, reasoning, gentle man until it comes to Cr—to John. Just because . . ." But I had no right to speak to him of his wife's death. I broke off abruptly, breaking into tears, and I made to leave the room, but before I could do so, he came over and put his arm around my shoulders.

  "I'm sorry, Alex. I realize I'm not a very good father, but I shall try."

  The words were spoken unwillingly, as though he strug­gled to say them. Angrily I shrugged his arm away.

  "Why try? Why don't you just feel, as any father should. He must not always have to pay for Philo-mena's death."

  My outburst had injured him, and I was immediately ashamed and ran from the room. Yet that angry scene was not altogether without avail, for thereafter Darius's attitude toward his son changed to an odd formality which, while it was not the parental love I felt to be Crumpet's due, neverthe­less was an improvement over his former indifference.

  IX

  London, for me, was both heaven and hell.

  It was heaven because, despite our differences over Crum­pet, I was with Darius, and for the first time I saw him in his own world, a world which until that time had only been a realm of conjecture for me, a world of political power and intrigue, a world of wit and intellect, a world of glittering, sometimes outrageous fashion.

  I attended no formal gatherings—my father's edict for­bade it—but I accompanied Lady Bladen on her round of calls and was present at the informal dinners given at Great Stan­hope Street. Lady Bladen's friends paid little heed to me, for I spoke little and my style of dress was plain and ordinary; nevertheless, I found stimulation in new faces, new conversa­tion, new outlook.

  But it was the contrast between the London of the society drawing room and the London I saw from the carriage win­dow when we shopped at Spitalfields silk merchants or Cler-kenwell drapers that pained me. The seething mass of people, their faces distorted in stupor caused by gin; children in rags, dirty and ill fed; street vendors vying raucously with one an­other for our trade as the Bladen coach passed regally and unheedingly on its way—these scenes, which refused to leave my mind, made of London a hell.

  Lady Bladen seemed unaware of any incongruity be­tween the crowded streets we passed through and the scenes of her own London of the West End. Once she remonstrated with me for throwing all the change I possessed in my reticule to a young child who pressed his face against the window when a crush of vehicles forced us to a standstill.

  "That was a silly thing to do, Alexandra. Do you think that that child will keep those coins? Far from it. They are probably already spent on gin, the child sent off to beg or steal more. Far better that we do as we have always done: support our charities, do good where we know our help will be prop­erly received and wisely spent. Casting wealth from carriage windows, I assure you, does no good at all."

  I was chastised, yet I knew Lady Bladen meant it not unkindly. She was a generous benefactor, one to whom the needy of Linbury often turned; no beggar was ever sent empty-handed from the doors of Charteris. Yet seeing the squalor, the hand-to-mouth existence of London's poor, char­ities didn't seem enough.

  "You mustn't blame mother or think her unfeeling," Darius said when I told him of the incident. "She does much in her own way, in the way she was taught, to redress the hardships of the poor. You are young and idealistic, but you must understand it is impossible for one person to save the world. The plight of the poor is more apparent to you here than in Wiltshire, though there are people around Linbury in just such straitened circumstances. There they are spread throughout the countryside, unlike London, where they are gathered together in enclaves. Throughout England many are in need; as many as the Poor Laws help, as many are left in worsened straits. It is impossible to ignore the poverty that exists; certainly anyone of any sensitivity must be aware of it."

  "But who is to help them?" I asked. "Who speaks for them?"

  "The Radicals say they do, but as often as not all they do is stir up malcontent with no positive plans for reform. I be­lieve it is the Whigs who speak for them. It is one of the reasons I espouse their cause—I am not a Whig simply because I was born into a Whig family. So far our efforts have been thwarted—remember, apart from Lord Grenville's brief hold of the reins in 1806, our party has not held power for almost four decades—but never have Whigs ceased to advocate re­form in our role as the loyal opposition. Reform is in the wind. Soon it will be impossible to ignore. I smell it coming, and though it may seem incredibly slow in your eyes, I assure you there is steady progress. I expect there will be an expansion of voting privileges before long, and with greater representation, greater equality must result. In England we want no blood­bath such as they experienced in France. That is the reason I detest Radicals like the Hunts—they incite; they do nothing more. For England it is important that change be evolution­ary, not revolutionary."

  "Within this evolution you speak of, do you envision women ever being given the franchise?"

  He smiled.

  "No, don't smile. I am perfectly serious. Why should women not vote?"

  "Indeed, there is no reason they should not, though I suspect should they do so they would vote as thei
r husbands, which would only mean doubling the count, an onerous proce­dure even now."

  "I am not at all sure that that would be the case. Besides, not all women marry. If I were allowed the means, the educa­tion so that I might make my own living, that is what I would prefer instead of relying on some man to support me for the rest of my life. I certainly think it would be unfair to grant the franchise only to married women."

  "Alexandra, now you are funning me. It is ridiculous to say you won't marry. I shall take care to remind you of that when you follow your sister to the altar. You are young yet, but a very attractive young lady, and I don't doubt that the day is not far distant when I shall be wishing you happy."

  His sincere interest, his speculations entirely those a par­tial family member might make, infuriated me.

  "I shall never marry," I vowed. "Unless . . ."

  "Unless?" Darius prompted.

  "Unless . . . unless I love. Few marriages are based on love, it seems."

  "Perhaps," he replied slowly. "But one must be able to distinguish love from infatuation. They are totally different emotions, yet all too often they give every illusion of being the same. I sometimes think that few are privileged to experience love in their lives. In that case perhaps it is well that it is not the sole basis of marriage. But you, Alexandra, as I said ear­lier, you are an idealist. I wish you may find it."

  I have, I longed to cry out, but his expression was so grave, so sad, I knew where his thoughts were.

  "Love may come more than once into your life, Darius. Because Philomena died . . ."

  "Philomena, as you insist upon reminding me, is dead. I would prefer not to discuss her," he interrupted me harshly.

  "Forgive me."

  An awkward silence ensued, a silence during which I re­proached myself for my gaucherie. I was relieved when Lady Bladen entered, bringing with her Margaret and her husband, Sir Nigel Armbruster.