Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  I made silent note of Hillaby's name, for I had taken with me to London the manuscript of Sum of Glory, deciding that a novel unread is a sorry thing; let it be published, if that was possible, let it be criticized—even adverse criticism would al­low of its existence—but let it not die in the box at the back of my wardrobe. If opportunity presented itself, I would seek Mr. Hillaby out.

  After dinner Moore favoured the company with two of his songs, "Oft i' the stilly night" and "Believe me if all those endearing young charms," dedicating his performance to Lady Brentwood, who smiled graciously in response. Though I had not taken a liking to him, I found he had a melodious voice and an unassuming style. Throughout the evening I had made an effort not to look for Darius, for wherever he was, there, too, was the Countess, though possibly the reverse was true. Involuntarily my eyes sought him out as Moore sang,

  "No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose."

  I was that sunflower, I thought, turning always towards him, yet would he never notice me as he noticed her? If not, would I remain that sunflower, never to bloom except in his presence?

  "You are too pensive. I demand to see once again that smile which would force a gooseberry bush into flower," a voice cajoled at my elbow.

  "Mr. Smith, you make it impossible not to smile when you ask it so nicely. But I fear you may no longer consider me a nice person."

  "And what gives you that idea, Miss Cox-Neville?"

  "You told me that a nice person does not spill his soup at dinner yet I contrived to spill mine and you were witness to the consternation it caused."

  "Rogers is a fussy old fool, and Moore's not much better. But I said that a nice person never knocks over wine or melted butter. Those were both in perfect order at your place, and as far as I was aware you made not the slightest noise as you consumed your soup. Though you may wish it otherwise, to me you are quite the nicest person here."

  "I do thank you for that, Mr. Smith, most earnestly I do, for I fear I have not been at my best this evening."

  "If only you could see yourself as I see you now. But I realize it is not an old clergyman like me you wish to impress." His eyes drifted lazily towards Darius as he spoke. Am I be­coming so obvious, I wondered, and went on quickly.

  "I return to Wiltshire very soon, with Lady Bladen."

  "Nevertheless, I trust that our paths cross again. Do re­member to tell that young brother of yours to look me up."

  XI

  Time passed much more rapidly in London than it had ever done in Linbury, and, just when I was beginning to feel at home in the metropolis, Lady Bladen began to talk of leaving. Margaret invited me to stay with her in Hertfordshire, but I knew that father had allowed me a month away from home, and that month was long since past.

  There was one matter, though, still unresolved. Sum of Glory rested, untouched, in my portmanteau. To carry it home after bringing it to London for the express purpose of finding a publisher was to admit failure. I remembered the publisher Mr. Smith had mentioned, Alistair Hillaby. He seemed a likely choice, but how to convey it to his establishment in Cheapside?

  Luck favoured me with a visit from Augustus Fanshawe, who had followed in his brother's path to study law at Lin­coln's Inn. He had heard from his mother of my visit to Lon­don and called at Great Stanhope Street to invite me to tour the Inns of Court, an invitation I eagerly accepted.

  Augustus had changed little. He was still pedantic and plodding, but it was pleasant to see his familiar face and to hear of his life in London. Serving under a difficult and cantankerous barrister, his seemed an onerous existence with little money to show for it and little pleasure. Nevertheless, as we toured the handsome stone buildings, passing through the old gatehouse in Chancery Lane carved with the arms of Henry VIII, the most ancient part of the Inn, which led into the Old Square and the timeworn buildings with their small, uneven windows and great twisted chimneys, calm and serene in the midst of the bustle which surrounded them, I thought how Paul would have enjoyed the life that Augustus detested.

  After we viewed the chapel, designed, like Charteris, by Inigo Jones, and examined the curious open crypt, which had once been used by barristers as a meeting place with their clients, we wandered in a desultory manner through the quiet gardens.

  "It's wonderful to see you again, Alex. Do you think you will come back to London, for it will be months before I have the chance to get home?"

  "I really don't know. I don't expect so. Since this is my last day, would you mind if we take a detour home so that I can deliver a packet to Cheapside?"

  Augustus readily agreed. I was grateful that he asked no questions. He seemed only too glad that the journey back to Great Stanhope Street was to be prolonged.

  The establishment of Alistair Hillaby, when we reached it, was dark and forbidding. Augustus made to accompany me, but before he could question me, I jumped down and assured him I would only be a moment.

  Inside I found a clerk of advancing years bent over a heavy ledger. In response to my request to see Mr. Hillaby, he replied, without raising his eyes from his task, that he was not in.

  "I have a manuscript for him." I set the packet on his desk without further ado.

  "Who's it from?" he asked, looking up, taking in my plain attire. "Was he expecting it? If not, you'd better take it back, young lady. I'll not take responsibility for it."

  His tone was sharp and insolent. I drew myself up to my fullest height and, adopting Lady Holland's sepulchral tones, announced, "My good man, see that this manuscript reaches Mr. Hillaby without any unnecessary delay. Otherwise I can assure you that you will be held directly responsible for what, to a new publisher, must make the difference between success and failure."

  It was a vainglorious statement. I knew that as I made it, and I left him no opportunity to refute it, for without another word I swept from the room, uncomfortably aware of his beady eyes following my fast-retreating figure. Mr. Hillaby could but refuse it, I reasoned, and then I realized that I had left no address for its return. Nevertheless, I was glad to have taken it, and I chatted flippantly to Augustus all the way back. He lingered so long on our return that he was asked to dine, an invitation he readily accepted, so that our last night in London was spent with the constraint of a guest in our midst, one whom I felt Darius took to be a particular friend of mine, nor could I find a way to rid him of that idea.

  As we journeyed back to Wiltshire the following day, Lady Bladen turned to me and said, "I am glad we went, but truly London was a sad place for me without my dear Sep­timus. I doubt I'll go back. Charteris is my home from now on."

  I pressed her hand in sympathy for her loneliness, ignor­ing my own crushed hopes of ever seeing London again.

  XII

  Life was solitary indeed on my return to Linbury. Even Char­teris was unable to exercise its usual enchantment over me. Darius had returned to London immediately after accompa­nying us back, returned to the arms, I now direly supposed, of the enchanting countess. He had been, as usual, cheerful and brotherly toward me, even going so far as to tease me lightly about Augustus. There had been no return to that moment at Drury Lane. Sometimes I wondered whether I had only imag­ined the earnest tone of his voice, the pressure of his hand on mine, imagined that he had at that moment thought of me as I had for so long thought of him. Whether it had been imag­ination or not, I relived those moments and thought over all the other times we had been together. I loved him more than ever.

  I missed Lord Bladen a great deal. I saw him in all the rooms where I had grown to know him so well—they were now empty indeed. Lady Bladen must have felt much the same, for she resumed her solitary ways, staying much to her own apart­ment upstairs. Thus the visit to London had not accomplished its desired end. She had, after all, missed her husband almost as much there as in Wiltshire. I saw her daily, and though we talked, there was little that
I or anyone else could do for her. Mr. Linnell called, but she confided in me that his presence and his unctious comments irked rather than comforted her. I only wished that Mr. Smith had had his parish in Linbury.

  Crumpet remained the one bright spot in our lives.

  I had no questions from father to answer, for he was in Oxford when I returned. Paul had written to him evidencing open rebellion against taking the orders, and father had set out immediately to discipline him. That he had chosen to take Cassy with him confounded me; he usually had little desire for her company, and she would certainly be of no use in exerting force over Paul to pursue a course he deplored. Perhaps father had begun to realize Cassy's worth; their time together might serve to reveal her good qualities to him. I hoped he might return admiring and respecting her as I did.

  Seton Place seemed strangely quiet, for Thomas was also away in Derbyshire with a college friend, and Netty had dis­covered she was pretty and was forever primping and no longer rushing around, for fear of disarranging her blond curls. Mother fussed over James, her baby, fearing, perhaps, that he too might grow up overnight and leave her with an empty nest.

  My days again fell into a pattern; Charteris, Crumpet and writing.

  Since talking to Augustus Fanshawe of his reading for the bar and perusing Blackstone's commentaries in Darius's li­brary at Great Stanhope Street, I had become intrigued with the study of law. Why could a woman not follow it? Yet no woman had done so. I had discovered from Blackstone that women were, as far as the law was concerned, no different from children and morons; that a man could not legally grant anything to his wife, for to do so would suppose her to be a separate entity. Did marriage really mean complete submer­sion of the self? I thought over the women I knew—married or unmarried—yet the only one who seemed a person in her own right was the Countess of Brentwood, or perhaps Lady Hol­land, neither of whom I wanted for a heroine.

  I was occupied in trying to formulate my ideas one after­noon when I heard sounds of an arrival. I jumped up, thinking it to be Darius, and ran to the library door. It opened to admit Geoffrey Poindexter.

  "Oh, it's you." My voice must have dropped.

  "You're disappointed," he challenged, throwing aside his travelling cape. "And here all the way from London I have anticipated meeting you again. Who was it you expected, some local swain—or Bladen, perhaps? Is he your idol?"

  "I worship no idols," I replied, a trifle too quickly.

  "A good God-fearing woman; there are so few of your kind to be found in town. It's delightful to rusticate for a while and rediscover the simple virtues. And where is that little fel­low who made such a mess of my boots?"

  "Oh, Geoffrey—I mean Mr. Poindexter, how kind of you to remember Crumpet."

  "Do call me Geoffrey, I absolutely insist on it, for if you do not, I shall be forced to call you by that awful mouthful of a name of yours, when Alexandra is quite my favourite name. And on the subject of names, I think Crumpet is quite perfect for that little chap."

  I had never liked him better.

  "I'm so very glad you came," I said impulsively.

  "It is I who am delighted to see you. I've thought of you a great deal."

  His intensity suddenly embarrassed me. "Let me tell Lady Bladen you are here. And Crumpet should be finished with his nap. I'll bring him down."

  Lady Bladen, when she heard of Geoffrey's arrival, in­sisted that I stay to dine with them.

  "You young people go on out and work up appetites worthy of the dinner cook is going to prepare," she com­manded.

  Geoffrey hoisted Crumpet onto his shoulders and we set off, across the sloping expanse of the lawn, down to the willows bordering the stream. In the oak woods beyond we occasionally caught a glimpse of wild deer, while the rabbit and hare scattered at our approach. Crumpet was attracted by the bright but deadly poison berries of the woody nightshade, and we had difficulty keeping his fingers from them until we played a game of hunting for the abandoned nests of the nightingales and blackbirds.

  The sun was casting long shadows across the lawn by the time we returned, but still we were in no hurry to go inside, for the walk had been exhilarating. Geoffrey flung himself down on the grass and I sat beside him, while Crumpet, at our feet, pulled at the dandelion leaves that persisted despite the gar­dener's ongoing war against them.

  "This is a lovely place," Geoffrey said at last. "Darius is a lucky devil. He's always been lucky, though. Ever since I was a boy I've wondered why everything always came so easily to him."

  "Do you mean because of Charteris? You have inherited your father's property, though."

  "Yes, Maplethorpe's mine, and a pack of his debts with it. Mother was the one with money—she's a Wentworth, like Darius. The money was hers, and she continues to keep a healthy hold on the purse strings."

  "But eventually it will be yours."

  "Yes," he reflected. "But it wasn't just Charteris I was thinking of. It just seems that everything that cousin of mine touches turns to gold, whereas adversely I turn things into stone . . . or sand . . ."

  "Or salt?" I supplied.

  "Or lead . . . or plasticine." He laughed as he said it, taking up the game.

  "Or tin, or flint," I went on.

  "Or lava."

  I looked down at him, impatiently plucking at the grass with his slender, pale fingers. The last gleams of the sun caught in his long, fair hair as it hung across his face. Did he not realize how fortunate he really was?

  "Some of the substances we mentioned can be even more valuable than gold," I said slowly. "King Cophetua, after all, wasn't all that glad when everything that he touched turned to gold."

  "Darius is well aware of his own worth."

  "Aren't you?"

  He stared up at me, raising his eyebrows at the intensity in my voice. "Don't get that maternal look in your eye," he warned. "I hate that. Why I bring out the maternal quality in your sex I'll never know. It's a great mistake, which they dis­cover only too late."

  He pouted, seeming more like a little boy than ever.

  "That sounds ominous, Geoffrey," I laughed. "Really, I don't feel maternal."

  Yet even as I denied it, I knew that somehow he was right. There was a vulnerable quality about him, perhaps be­cause he was unaware of his own good fortune.

  "I couldn't feel maternal to you, anyway. You're older than I am. I was just thinking that you have so many fine qualities."

  "Such as?" He looked up at me speculatively.

  "You have a fine manner and appearance. You are a good conversationalist and have a ready wit. You are kind and compassionate."

  "Kind and compassionate!" he snorted. "I wish Darius could hear you say that."

  "Perhaps he can," I replied slowly. I had just caught sight of a tall figure striding in our direction from the house. Geof­frey followed my glance.

  "Oh, God, that's torn it. My precious coz."

  It was indeed Darius, and his arrival was as unexpected as had been that of Geoffrey earlier in the day. Their conjoint arrival was not predetermined, however, for Darius, with the briefest of nods at me, turned to his cousin to enquire most ungraciously, "And just what do you think you are doing here?"

  "I'm on my way to see good old Wilmott." Geoffrey had regained his composure After rising unhurriedly, he began brushing the grass from his bright yellow buckskins. "I de­cided to stop and see auntie. She didn't tell me you were expected."

  "I trust your stay is not a long one." It was difficult to believe that Darius could be so uncivil, particularly to his own cousin.

  "Now that you're here, coz, I don't expect it will be," Geoffrey drawled, "though I've had a perfect day. Alexandra saw to that. As a matter of fact, she was just telling me how kind and compassionate I am."

  My cheeks flushed as Darius looked over at me angrily. His cousin's use of my Christian name seemed to annoy him, as though it implied more than existed between us.

  "It is late in the afternoon. I expect that Miss Cox-Neville must re
turn to Seton Place."

  My already flushed cheeks darkened. I had never been dismissed by Darius in such a fashion. I turned on my heels, angry and hurt, and then remembered Lady Bladen's dinner invitation. I regretted having accepted it, but I had neverthe­less. I turned back to say tersely, "Your mother has asked me to dine at Charteris this evening."

  "Very well, then let us all go back to the house, shall we." His eyes fell on Crumpet, clinging to Geoffrey's boot, and he snapped, "Isn't it far too late for this child to be out? Must you drag him everywhere, Alexandra?"

  Without a word I picked up Crumpet and made for the house, half-walking, half-running. As I went I heard Geoffrey remark, "He's a charming boy, Darius."

  I glanced back to see how Darius received the compli­ment and caught the look of animosity he threw at his cousin. As I drew away from them, I could hear his voice, words indis­tinct but clearly harsh and bitter, and I wondered why Geof­frey should deserve such a tongue-lashing. We had had such a pleasant afternoon, and apart from the fact that I had enjoyed talking to him, he had been so very kind to Crumpet.

  I wished I could have gone directly home, but Lady Bladen met me as I entered, full of Darius's arrival. Though no one could ever replace her husband, with his death, Darius had assumed the central role in her affections. One look at my dress, dusty from the walk, and she suggested I change into one from the wardrobe in the room adjacent to hers; she was sure I would find there something to fit me. She seemed so much her old self, I could not spoil the evening. I went up­stairs without a word.

  The opulence of the gowns I found there took me aback. I had expected to find clothes left behind by Patience or Mar­garet, but neither of them could have owned these silks and satins with their trims of Brussels lace, exquisite embroidery, appliqué and pearls. There was even one with soft white fur around the hem. I had never seen such dresses before, and I could not resist trying them up against me, though I knew they were far too elegant for our informal dinner. Nevertheless I fixed on the least decorative amongst them, a plain chemise of parchment silk with a pleated panel at the back. Though lacking decoration, it was quite clearly the work of a master designer. I brushed my hair and stood back to survey myself in the long glass. I must confess to being charmed at the image that stared back at me: tall, slim and unusually sophisticated. A glance at the clock on the mantel showed that I had spent far longer than usual on my toilet. I hurried from the room.